Because I was peppering him with questions. Crap. Warding for a Farewitch isn’t really a conscious thought; it’s more just an intrinsic guarantee since our shops absorb magic across generations. I assumed warding worked the same for Warlocks, but they don’t have those deep generational roots of inherited power and protection, do they? If Warlock Knight has to spend all his focus and energy on warding, watching for peril, no wonder he’s so withdrawn.
Ms. Zeen’s expression grows puzzled as she surveys the damage. “That’s the strongest storm from her yet. It should have floored the house. Something besides the usual wards stopped her today.”
“Odd,” the Warlock mutters. “She’s only interested in correcting imbalances of magic. And if there’s unbalanced magic, her power is usually weaker. It’swhyshe always collects on her deals in the first place.”
I squirrel away that clue, and another rumor begins to unravel: Maybe the Warlock isn’t responsible for destroying crops. Maybe the Widow Witch just follows him, her magic affecting the environment as she tries to balance some debt of his. But what debt has the Warlock accrued?
The Warlock turns to me with a hard stare. “We should be lickingour wounds.” Then he’s stalking toward me, broom in hand, like I’m a mess he’s going to tackle. “Youhave a protection spell stuck to you. I could smell it on you the moment you moved in.”
My neck tingles. He smelled me? Oh!Carolina’s spell. I owe her a massive thank-you. “My friend is a Hearthwitch, and she crafted it for me. But I didn’t ask her to.” For some reason, it’s important he knows I didn’t come here expecting the worst of him.
“The spell has impressive range. I suppose not every resident of Foxe Holler is extraneous.”
“Like how every Warlock isn’t his worst rumor?” I shoot back.
One of his thick black eyebrows goes up. I’ve noticed they stay untouched by time even though his hair is peppery gray at the temples. His eyes flick over me. “It’s not just that spell.”
Iknowhe’s studying me like a magical puzzle, not checking me out. But I still feel naked under his scrutiny. “Uh—well, Farewitch magic bakes into a space over generations. The protective and healing qualities of our spellwork can flavor a house, like a cast-iron skillet. Maybe my magic has settled into this kitchen a little and helped.”
If that’s the case, I’ve never seen it work on someone else’s kitchen so quickly. I don’t even sound convincing to myself. This man’s sharp attention makes me ramble. The Warlock reaches around me, close, to lean the broom against the island. That thyme smell overwhelms my nostrils. My breath hitches, like my lungs are greedy for it.
“Whatever magic you have, Ms. Frost, it isn’t little,” he says, the words soft. I don’t see his expression before he moves away. “The sooner we clean this up, the sooner you and I can both get back to work.”
I respect the skill at compartmentalizing, butstill. This is the Widow Witch, not a carpenter ant infestation. The Holler expects her once a year—how often does she terrorize the Manor? But they’re already cleaning, and after my earlier blustering, I refuse to be caught as the only person sitting on my hands.
Ms. Zeen continues tidying up the aftermath while the Warlockbrings traumatized plants to the farmhouse sink. He refills them with loose soil, and I join him to wash the dishes I’d used for the coconut cake.
If we’re all going to just carry on as normal, I’ve got questions.
“Tell me about your magic,” I say, ignoring his immediate apprehensive frown. “I need to know more to find the right recipe, or craft one from the skillet up. You have to give me something to work with.”
Could be it’s because we’re shoulder to shoulder, not eye to eye, at the sink—he allows the interrogation. “It’s a higher magic called the Language of Small Wishes.”
“Wishmagic?”
The lore around the more mysterious higher magics, those older powers rare even for Warlocks, has always intrigued me. For all their lessons on magic as I was growing up, Momaw and my mom never bothered much with the topic of Warlocks (Waste of your time, girl, you won’t ever meet one). No wonder the rumors about him never got specific enough to mention the actual classification of his magic.
He nods. “Narrow, limited wish magic. I can’t conjure wealth or send someone to the moon. Small Wishes, asked for in small ways. It’s a word puzzle of sorts, language you have to play with more than a firm set of rules. I can grant my own wishes, but only simple, mundane tasks. And I can’t grant the wishes of the people whom I, well, live with. Or have, for a long time. Family, whether by blood or bond. Like Lazlo and Ms. Zeen.”
Immediately I think of my mom. I can’t help it. Could there be some tiny, perfect way of phrasing a wish that could save—?
“Before you ask, no, I can’t cure someone of anything. Disease is complicated. Otherwise, I would have figured out my own malaise a long time ago.”
Makes sense. Power needs checks and balances. Witch or Warlock, magic can’t create life from nothing. I try not to show my disappointment. What’s one more closed door? I’ve knocked on so manysince my mom became sick. And the Warlock doesn’t need to know about my mom. I don’t want him to feel I’m just here for her… even if that’s why I came here originally. Like any good Farewitch, Idowant to find him a cure.
“And the gardening? Do you make the plants grow?”
“That’s a balance of both the manual and magic. Like a Farewitch, I have to begin with something concrete—seeds, planting, watering—do the work myself. But along the way, I can give my plants a bit of help. Make them stronger, immune to pests, withstand a frost. I can grow herbs and flora you won’t find native to the area. Or have tomatoes all year long. Make colossal strawberries.” A twitch of his lips. “I like to be outside, to use my hands. I’d work in the dirt even if my magic were limitless.”
As he talks, he moves his traumatized yet freshly watered plants and their pots from the sink to the counter.
“You know, if I had Wi-Fi here, I could look up some of this stuff about Warlocks.” I’m just thrilled he’s talking, even if hisopening upinvolves rusted hinges that scream and resist.
“That cell phone of yours isn’t all-powerful?”
“Not this far out. Think about it. So many questions you wouldn’t have to answer.”
His voice drops so low, I almost don’t catch his next words. “But then who would I have to aggravate and pester me?”
