“ClaywellClaywell?”
“No,RettClaywell—”
“You’re Arna Jean’s older brother!” I didn’t recognize him in the heat of pursuit, but now I see the family resemblance: great cheekbones, lanky limbs, and terrible eyesight.
“You’rethe baker RJ talks about?” His incredulous voice makes me feel much,muchworse about tackling the poor guy. “The overalls give you away,” he clarifies.
Arna Jean Claywell and I met when she appeared at the Apothakery insisting on a summer internship (that didn’t exist) while she was home from Howard University. She came back every summer after that. No idea why this genius of a Bookwitch picked my shop to learn about managing a small business, but whenever running the Apothakery felt like trial by fire, she made the oven heat tolerable. We’d daydream travel plans together, but the shop kept me too busy to go with her. Eventually, she graduated, we said our goodbyes, and I lost my intern.
My corn muffins were bland with despair for a week.
But I had no idea her older brother was the postman I was looking for. Things are looking up after face-planting in the dirt.
“Rett, first of all, sorry I tackled you.” Get that out of the way. “And I appreciate your effort to deliver here even though it’s clear you’re not comfortable with Knight Manor.”
His chest puffs out a smidge. “I always deliver my packages.Always. Folks deserve mail that isn’t just bills all the time.”
“But you know you don’t have to drop things and run, right?”
“It’s self-preservation. When you look like me, you don’t approach an eccentric old loner’s house. Even in the daylight. And in a uniform. Especially a uniform.”
Okay, point taken. “He’s not that old… Never mind. You don’t have to worry about any nefarious magic, or—or… Whyareyou afraid of the farmhouse, exactly?”
He swipes a layer of sweat off his scrunched forehead. “Whyaren’tyou?”
The Warlock asked me the same thing. Why do men always think it’s strange when a woman isn’t afraid of whatthey’reafraid of? “Because the Warlock employs me to be here. It’s my job. You get that. You deliver the Holler’s mail, I… bake.”
Not as strong a finish. But I don’t have the bandwidth or time to be afraid of more than one thing at a time, and right now, the honor goes tomysterious illness draining the life of my mom, thenWidow Witch, thenGoverness Zeen.
Then, maybe, Knight Manor and its grumpy Warlock.
Rett eyes me with lens-magnified distress. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but I think you might be under a spell.”
“I assure you, I am not.”
“You’re not being held against your will?”
“No.”
“You’re not the victim of a magical curse?”
“No.”
“You’re not being forced to bargain for your ransomed soul?”
“What—no—Mr. Knight is a man who just also happens to be a Warlock. He’s our neighbor, not a serial killer.”
“Did he tell you that?” His eyes narrow. “Convenient.”
Oh, for the love of— “Would I be asking you about kitchen appliances if my life were in danger?”
This stumps him. He extends the package to me. Despite the impromptu rugby, it’s intact. “Heard. Even a haunted house deservesmail. But just so it’s clear, I’ll know if the Warlock ever delivers something… evil.”
“Via the postal service?”
“You never know.” He’s absolutely deadpan.
I tuck the goods under my armpit. “Come on in for a bit. For iced tea? It’s humid, and I tackled you. It’s the least I can do.”
