“An altruistic effort,” Webb adds. “But your neighbors are worried for your safety.”
I wonder if that includes him. Is that why Webb is letting Gertha Fudge take the lead here? Does he think I’ll be more likely to listen to grandmotherly church ladies? “Don’t worry, our neighbors have made their concern clear.”
“Then you’ll understand why we ask you to reconsider your choice. Warlocks invite powerful enemies. Don’t become another victim of a fairy tale.”
They’ve been here ten minutes and already assume they know everything. How can Ms. Fudge strike someone off her prayer list, a man shedoesn’tknow, with such vigor? Now that I think about it, she’s old enough to have known himbeforehe became a recluse…
But my gut says there’s simply too much guilt in the Warlock’s eyes to leave room for the bloodlust folks believe is festering under his roughness. Whatever secrets he’s hiding… they’re locked away not because they’re dangerous, but because they’re painful.
Regardless, it’s clear Foxe Holler doesn’t know much about the Warlock at all. Maybe it’s best to keep it that way. The fewer questions they ask, the better.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a prisoner,” I say. If anything, my world has always been my kitchen, and now it’s bigger than ever. “As every Witch will tell you, magic is neutral. And the sole purpose of mine is helping people.”
“Allow me to get to the point,” Webb says. “The Widow Witch hasn’t yet tithed a husband this year, and the longer she waits, the more the town grows concerned she could be planning an even greater reckoning. There’s a strong chance she could use the Witches’ upcoming holiday—Beltane, isn’t it?—as the moment for her confrontation. For safety purposes, it could behoove us to cancel the festivities your kind was planning.”
This. This is why Webb came all the way up here only to use his church ladies as his megaphone. If it’s their initiative as concerned neighbors, it doesn’t look like Webb and his dogma have too much influence.
“Take heed, Miss Frost,” Ms. Fudge says. “Wise Pastor Webb speaks truth in his sermons, which you would know if you attended service. The Warlockisa threat. Destruction always follows that kind of unchecked power. Witches are trouble, but a devious Warlock is worse. Now is not the time to be in bed with one.”
My cheeks flush. “I’m not in bed with—I’ma Witch!”
“Hmph. AFarewitch. Magic might be a plight against God’s natural order, but your magic is less threatening than a mediocre Hearthwitch’s. Should we worry ourselves over violent scones, ladies? Or donauwelle for demons?” she asks her followers.
Nervous chuckles float on the April breeze. “I don’t even make scones,” I mutter. Though, if I ever finish writing my cookbook, I’m draftingDonauwelle for Demonsnext.
“And how you can work in this dungeon…” Ms. Fudge trails off, eyes peeling back the Manor imperfection by imperfection.
“Hey!” We cleaned this dungeon. The dungeon looksnicenow. There are candles and the smell of cinnamon and the Warlock even let me clip three whole fresh flowers from his garden for the island. This ismycreepy Manor and no one insults it but me.
On cue, the glass in the front windows shivers. Threatened and threatening. The last thing I need is an old lady in the ER with concussion-by-fallen-shingle.
“So all magic is bad magic, then?” I try to find a sympathetic weak link, but no one will turn against their luncheon leader. Especially not now that I’ve drawn a line in the battlefield flour by closing my shop and allying myself with a Warlock. An outsider. Imagine, holding a grudge so tight, they stay angry at the only Farewitch they have to keep their maladies at bay.
For all their gossiping, these women haven’t even figured out their own mayor is dying as we speak. For a hot second, I want them to. I want their white eyebrows to climb high with shock. That would teach them to speculate about other people with blind prejudice.
“What in high heaven is all this commotion?” says a voice from the doorway.
Governess Zeen stops behind me, one foot still in the foyer. She collects herself quickly, donning a mask of stone when she sees Gertha Fudge.
“Why, Letha Zeen,” Ms. Fudge croons. “I wasn’t sure you were still alive up here, taking care of a Warlock. Wayward souls don’t do this Holler much good, but I’ll still pray for you.”
The record should be clear: Governess Zeen has all the frightening parts of Momaw Frost without the grandma hugs, and scares me a helluva lot more than the Warlock. Most days. But such a foul taste lands on my tongue listening to Fudge condescend Ms. Zeen on the steps of her own home. My good mood extinguishes, and I snap like a dried angel-hair noodle.
“Maybe Ms. Zeen’s kindness doesn’t depend on having an audience, Ms. Fudge.” Arms crossed, I stalk forward, making sure my clogs areobnoxiously loud. I let the sugar leak out of my voice. “I could make y’all all the sweets in the world and you’d still turn outsour.”
Jaws go slack. Ms. Zeen glances at me, her stern facade slipping like an egg over nonstick. Ms. Fudge recovers first and throws back her bony shoulders. “Careful, girl, or you won’t ever be welcome at church. Should you ever choose to attend, that is.”
“Now, Gertha,” Webb says, placing a gentle hand on Ms. Fudge’s shoulder, his other still holding his apple. But hisgentleis just slow and creepy, like a mannequin part come to life.
Ms. Zeen sniffs. “You toss people out all the time anyway, Gertha. It’s your specialty. You’re too hard on good people.”
“Why—howdareyou, Letha, after all I’ve done for you?Lifeis toohard on good people. Everyone needs to learn that.” Ms. Fudge shakes her cane at the Manor behind us. “You tell this—thisungratefulboy that I will protect my town when he inevitably crosses the line.”
I wave toward the house. “Tell him yourself. I’d be happy to go get him.”I would not. Please don’t call my bluff.
“No thank you. We don’t consort with his type.”
“His type is my type. So leave.”
