“But you did mean to threaten my plants.” His annoyingly stoic expression doesn’t falter, so I can’t tell if that’s a joke.
To be safe, I keep my eyes on my batter. Next, I pour in the PET milk, a.k.a. evaporated milk. As I fold in the toasted coconut, the Warlock clears his throat. “You’re right. The cleaning isn’t your job.”
Outside, I shrug as I pour batter into two waiting round cake pans. Inside, I’m ecstatic. Was that a delicate littlethank-you?
“I noticed you stock my apple butter, but I’ve never seen you in the shop. Should I be complimented or insulted?”
He lowers his watering pail. “Despite his eccentricities, our postman will begrudgingly pick up and make small deliveries for me, if I leave him a note and payment. I sent him in for a few jars when I was thinking of hiring you.”
“So wedoget mail and deliveries. Good to know.” The Cumberlands’ general store made it clear I’m not welcome until I reopen the Apothakery. “I need to send out some orders while I’m here. My older customers can’t just pop over to a Farewitch in the next town over. And my younger ones with children don’t have time to make a casual half-day round trip.”
“Good luck. He doesn’t come close to the Manor. He parks at the bottom of the drive, hauls everything up and tosses it near the porch, then dashes. I’ve never seen his face.”
“Ah. Eccentricities.”
“Eccentricities.”
As I slide the cakes into the AGA, I think back. Have I seen a courier buying apple butter? I only know the Holler’s postman sticks to his routes and is kind to the church ladies—they praise his calves constantly—but he, like the Warlock, is one of the few folks I’venever formally met. Am I so wrapped up in my day-to-day tasks at the Apothakery that I never noticed him? I need to look up once in a while at the people I’m feeding.
At last, the Warlock joins me at the island, watching the dance of my hands as I gather the ingredients for frosting. “The Manor has yet to scare you, however.” His words are low, cautious. Hanging on theyou. A question.
“Not true. I’m just scared of other monsters more.” Like incurable illnesses. As I whip leftover coconut pieces into the frosting, my muscles take over, like I’m right back in the kitchen with my mom, and I unconsciously hold up a spoon of frosting to the Warlock—then catch myself and hand him the utensil instead.
I almost, disastrously, spoon-fed the Warlock of Foxe Holler.Scream.
He either doesn’t notice or ignores me, but takes the spoon. His eyes widen, but all he gives me is a hum of acknowledgment, the sound deep in his chest. Watching him lick the spoon is way more enjoyable than it should be.
I need a change of subject. Now. “Tell me about your symptoms while we wait for the cake.”
“If we must.”
“We must. How will I know if my recipes help relieve any pain if I don’t know what the pain is?”
He avoids my gaze. “Lethargy. Irritability. Constant bodily aches.”
“You might be on your period, Mr. Knight.”
That gets me eye contact. I wish I could tell if he’s laughing on the inside or about to blow a fuse.
“Does dying count as a symptom, Farewitch?”
“Ha. Funny. We’ll have to go to the farmers’ market together soon, to look over ingredients. I need to see what you’re drawn to, what you might like to eat—”
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t leave the Manor.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Manor, Ms. Frost. The grounds. Property. Call it what you like.”
I think I assumed no one in the Holler ever sees him because he just… comes out at night. Or something equally as vampiric. “You never leave. Never never.”
“Correct.”
My attention homes in on him. “Have youeverleft?”
