“I wish I could have a picnic in the gardens today. Where I can nap in the sun.”
The Warlock smirks, and I can’t tell if that one gesture is comforting or terrifying. He turns toward the ceiling, holds up a gloved hand, andsnaps.
Light bursts into the kitchen.
The shadows disperse. The shaking quiets. The storm outside shivers to nothing.
In minutes, the early-evening sky looks exactly like it did moments ago. Whatever was wreaking havoc on the farmhouse is gone. Not just gone.Expelled.
The only lingering sign of the Warlock’s magic as it vanishes from the air is the faintest taste of… thyme, dissolving on my tongue.
Powerful magic, indeed. I’m beginning to understand these fear-soaked rumors about the Warlock and his history.
In the following stillness, Ms. Zeen rights overturned pots while the Warlock sweeps scattered soil. He moves slowly, like he’s waking from a nap. His cheekbones stand out and I think he’s paler, the color of an onion. A tired onion.
With the danger gone, Lazlo releases my hand. He steals some shredded coconut scraps on the counter and escapes back to his room. Like everything is just fine.
I finally break free of my paralysis to sputter, “What the hell wasthat?”
The Warlock and Ms. Zeen answer at the same time.
“The Widow Witch.”
Now I know they’re off their rockers. “TheWidow Witch?” Giving my voice wrinkles, I recite the church ladies’ favorite bit of story:“The Hedgewitch notorious for leaving a single widow in her licentious wake each spring.”
Ms. Zeen harrumphs at me. “Is that your best impression of an old woman?”
The Warlock looks her way. “You do use words likelicentious.”
“Hush.”
My hands land on my hips. A real Witch, sure, she is. Missing husbands, sure, there are. But… “No one here is even married. What could she possibly want with us? Why would she risk hurting Lazlo?” He’s a literal child!
I don’t get an answer because just then the Governess suddenly points to a corner of the kitchen where dirt cakes the tile. “Mr. Knight, look.”
No, not dirt. Scorches. But not just any normal fire damage.
Seared into the tile floor is a streak of still-burning letters. A message.
YOUR TIME IS MINE.
“What doesthatmean?” I ask, glad the Warlock chose to send me an old-fashioned letter earlier this month. The Apothakery’s old floors would not hold up against fire and brimstone.
Ms. Zeen and the Warlock exchange a knowing glance.
“It just means I need another rug for the kitchen,” he grinds out. “It’s nothing, drivel. The Widow Witch delights in wreaking havoc. Likely just so there’s a need for her chaotic sense of balance and order.”
My fingers go cold, the tips white and numb. Staring at my humble Farewitch hands, I see burns from fights with the oven, but never a real brawl. If the Widow Witch’s body count is accurate… I am woefully out of my league here.
“But why you?” I ask. He doesn’t answer, and that tells meeverything I need to know. “What didyoudo to piss off the Widow Witch?”
“I might have upset her a time or two over the years,” he sighs. “Warlock magic can sometimes leave things… messy. Unbalanced. And the old bat is petty.”
Fine, keep the sordid details. “Does she ever manage to get inside?”
“She very well might have today.” Ms. Zeen pins the Warlock with a stare.
He coughs, focusing hard on rehanging a vine over the kitchen table. “I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should. My wards flickered.”
