SATURDAY, APRIL 16
66 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
When sourcing an ingredient you want, be willing to substitute. When sourcing an ingredient you need, be willing to trade.
Let it be known that the Farewitch of Foxe Holler is not a runner.
The baking life doesn’t leave many opportunities for sprinting, and it’s especially hard to run in chef’s clogs.
And yet, this morning, I’m chasing a ghost.
When the blue blur flashes by out the window, sweeping past the edge of my vision, I vault into action, nearly breaking an ankle on the porch steps.
The fellow isn’t getting away this time.
Truly, innocently, Imeanto cut him off at the big willow tree to the north of the house, but the surprise attack proves too effective and I accidentally plow right into our postman.
We both go down, hard, into the dewy April grass.
I gather myself quickly, before he can flee again. “Why”—pant—“are”—pant—“you”—sneeze—“running?”
Foxe Holler’s postman is lanky, about my age, and as he pushes himself off the ground, his dark skin shines with sweat. With muchaggressive flustering, he shoves a pair of chunky black-framed glasses back onto his face. “Why are youchasingme, lady?”
“Because you’re running!”
When I told the Warlock I’d catch our postman in action, swear on my mother’s grimoire, he only said,I think you’ve inhaled too much gas from the stove.
I straighten my apron. First impressions, after all. “I need to order a microwave.”
“Try that again?” The postman runs an exasperated hand over his closely cropped head.
Right. I am not losing my mind, heaven mark this fact. Even if I’m just staying a few short weeks, Ineedthat harmless radiation power. The house will thank me when I’m gone.
“Hello, my name is Honey Frost and I’m the Farewitch. Pleasure to meet you. I need to order a microwave here to Knight Manor. Will you be able to deliver it? The bottom of the drive is fine. I can come down with my truck.”
He gapes at me, adjusting his glasses. “You live here?”
“For now. Just moved in.”
“Willingly?”
Okay… “I’m working for the Warlock.”
He inches back. “Willingly?”
I don’t have time for this. It doesn’t make sense for the Holler to be so afraid of Warlock Knight when there are actually dangerous forces like the Widow Witch lurking about. We got lucky a few days ago, but if the house’s wards are weakening, what damage could she do now?
Pastor Webb was right about one thing: The longer the Widow Witch waits to take someone, the more frenzied the town will become. Her victims are neverjusthusbands, but brothers and nephews, fathers and sons, neighbors.
Maybe I need to expand my Farewitch repertoire from snickerdoodles to shields.
“Listen—what’s your name?” He looks familiar, but everyone in a small town is familiar.
He throws back his shoulders, showing off his blue postal uniform. His shorts are a little too short on his long legs but he still gives the outfit dignity. He clutches a package in his arms like a newborn baby. “Rett Claywell. Postman of Foxe Holler.”
