“Why are we here again? Oh yes. We’re storming the castle.” Ms. Buchanan rolls her eyes at the other ladies, who are still stiff with apprehension.
“We’re here to see to your well-being, Miss Frost.” Gertha Fudge uses her cane to smack down the ragged doormat buckling around her feet. “Don’t touch anything, ladies. This place reeks of rotten magic. Y’all are afraid the Widow Witch will disappear your men, but this Warlock will corrupt you so fast, not even the Lord can help you outrun the sin.”
The women mumble their agreement, their chatter growing.
“And don’t stare into any windows. That’s how the Warlock steals your soul.”
“That’smirrors, Kitty.”
“I will say, I bet you the acoustics in there would be something else.”
“Oh hush, Blanche, you got plenty of space in the church.”
“Well, my mama’s great-aunt says the library isn’t the only thing in the Holler he’s burned down over the years. He’ll come for the church one of these days…”
Despite an oncoming headache from the perfume, I try to listen. A homegrown network of chitchat can reveal gems. These ladies have beenaround, and I need all the information I can get about the Warlock before his isolation. But I’m realizing their gossip is unhelpfully biased, like they’re only familiar with the lore of a different, monster of a Warlock in their minds.
They’re vexed, though it sure as hell isn’t about my well-being.
“Ladies, let Pastor Webb say his piece.”
A man stands behind the church ladies and only now steps forward. He’s wearing a polo shirt and slacks that must be the Pantone colorInternal Revenue Service, and his round beige cheeks make him look ageless, a computer-generated profile. His short hair is a dusty oatmeal, from gray or balding genes, I’m not sure. His genes didn’t give him any magic, that I do know.
Pastor Oris Webb.
That headache finally surfaces.
His eyes, cold and artificially bright as lab-made blue raspberry, land right on me. “Peace be with you, Miss Frost.”
Now I see why the church ladies are so brave today.
“The town is disheartened you have placed yourself in the employ of the Warlock, Miss Frost, especially given that your actions reflect on our mayor.” As Webb speaks, he tosses a small golden apple from hand to hand. “Not to mention your own grandmother succumbed to an illness even hazardous magic from greedy Warlocks could not cure.”
I squint against the morning sun but can’t feel any warmth. The Warlock’s magic leaves something behind, thyme on my tongue. The preacher man’s presence does the opposite: The air between us goes thin, and he sucks any warmth right into his bubble of cold, dead air. I notice his slacks have no pockets and it’s more disconcerting than everything else. Do servants of the Lord not need to carry a wallet?
“I’m the Farewitch. Everyone in the Holler has a right to my help.” But I’m glad that, like Gertha, Webb never visits my shop.
Ms. Fudge points a wrinkled finger at me. “Yourrealjob is as Foxe Holler’s Farewitch. This whole charade is unacceptable. Deplorable. Improper. Reprehensible—”
I lean against the doorframe. There are plenty of synonyms forunacceptable. We could be here a while.
“Get to the point, Gertha,” Ms. Buchanan drawls, winking at me.
“Mind yourself, Beulah!” Ms. Fudge slams her cane on the porch once more, like a gavel. The other ladies hush, eyes darting everywhere. “Being on the books of a Warlock is one thing. But abandoning the Apothakery to do so is quite another.”
“I’m not abandoning anything. I closed the shop for three weeks.Three.”
And I’m already down one. While the rest of the Holler is praying for the wedding season and the Widow Witch to hurry up, I wish time would juststopso I can catch up. With the Warlock’s casual mention of dying, that window of time I gave myself seems silly.
In his library, I’ve already dug up handwritten recipe books, diaries, betting logs, financial records, grimoires, farmers’ almanacs. Any kind of written text, his archives have it squirreled away. It’s exactly what I hoped for. All that possibility. Wonderful… and overwhelming. Now, the ten—nine!—weeks until the solstice seem much too short.
“Three weeks, three years. It matters not to us. You are the Farewitch of this Holler, if a young and green one. After six years on the job, you should know better.” Fudge shakes her head. “Especially after what poor Ambrosia went through. She would be the first to remind you of your responsibility to serve yourrealcommunity.”
My ears run hotter than spellfire. I push down the rage simmering in my core. How dare she use Momaw to guilt me? Vultures, all of them. Thriving off heresy and wrinkle cream.
“My grandmother would tell me to treat everyone seeking help fairly.”
No fewer than four church ladies harrumph.
