His eyes widen as he stares up at the looming farmhouse. “Insidethe Manor?”
I play my last ace, giving a casual shrug. “Arna Jean never believed any of that Holler gossip. Especially if Gertha Fudge was spreading it.”
Rett’s concern falters, gaze sharpening.There’sthat competitive streak I know so well in his sister. A Claywell right down to his willowy bones. Got him.
He adjusts his tie and knee-high socks. “Oneglass.”
Ten minutes later, I’m serving the postman sweet iced tea in Knight Manor.
At first, the cabinet doors open on their own, like an oversized Advent calendar having a fret. Agitated little things. I’m guessing Rett only slipped through the Warlock’s wards because I officially invited him in? Vampires would thrive in the polite South.
What in the Julia Child is going on with this house?
“Play nice!” I shout to the kitchen, confusing the hell out of Rett. But the kitchen calms down. It’s been somewhat civil ever since I helped fend off the Widow Witch.
Bright side is, I think I’m beginning to understand this place. Rett is a brand-new person, untested. I, too, would be cautious of a stranger crawling around my insides. Ew.
As Rett takes a tentative seat on a stool, I open the delivery. My Weisenberger grits—excellent. I’m trying a Frost classic for the Warlock next. Truffle and goat cheese grits. Grits bolster a meager immune system.
As Rett sips tea, his wary eyes wander, cautious but curious,around the room. The kitchen behaves. “I feel oddly better than I expected to.”
“Sweet tea. Good for the head.”
“And bruised kneecaps?”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll forgive you if you give me the Wi-Fi password.” He pulls out his phone. “And yes, I can deliver a microwave. This isn’t amateur hour.”
“We don’t have Wi-Fi here. Yet. It’s a whole thing.”
“Doesn’t Wi-Fi come with, like, the heat and hot water these days?” Zero sarcasm.
“You’re very serious, you know. For someone our age.”
“I’m a United States Postal Serviceman. I have to be.”
Again, total deadpan. I like him. “I’d like to send orders to a few customers while I’m here.” Two weeks left. Don’t panic. “Some of my older folks need repeated remedies but aren’t very mobile.”
“My routes are structured. I can’t just make extra stops for informal nonessentials. It’s unprofessional.”
“So you’ll bring mail to the haunted house you’re avoiding at all costs, to the point you’d rather toss packages at the flower beds and make a run for it than ring the doorbell. But youwon’tdeliver cookies to the old folks’ home. Have I got that right?”
“Yes, that sounds right.”
“I see.” I might let the cabinets have him next time. “I see that you’reridiculous.”
He pokes the counter. “I’m trying to be the best postman I can be, which means ensuring everyone gets access to the postal service. But Pastor Webb’s stopped Communion service for houses too far out, and he’s got his followers thinking the post office should follow. The Marrow family is the latest to be too independent for his taste.Conserve resources for the heart of the community, he says. His church doesn’t even pay taxes!”
I pause. Since when did Webb’s interest in keeping an eye onfolks expand beyond his churchgoing crowd? The Marrow name rings a bell. They’re Witches—Greenwitches, I think. The Marrows have always kept to themselves, not unlike a certain Warlock. After witnessing Webb’s fervor firsthand, I’m not convinced he’ll stop with just families on the outskirts of town. Hell, everything and everyone in a holler like this could beoutskirts.
“AndI’mtrying to be a somewhat competent Farewitch,” I say. “Everyone deserves their packages. Everyone deserves their medications. Right? Or does Pastor Webb run the USPS?”
“He doesnot.” His posture slips. “Touché.” His glance goes sideways, a little too casual to be casual. “Mayor Frost is your mom, so you must know Silas Key.”
“… Vaguely.” I’m not sure where this is going.
“I’ve been trying to get a meeting with him for a while. To talk about my route concerns and Pastor Webb.”
