A gnarled knot of worry twists in my gut, dampening the fear.
What the Warlock of Foxe Holler doesn’t know is that I can’t heal him.
What everyoneelsedoesn’t know is that I’m a fraud.
Chapter Two
SATURDAY, APRIL 2
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Butter is a sensitive soul. It will melt under heat and pressure and soon you’ll be peeling sticky, gloppy biscuit dough off your fingers. Cold hands—and a cold heart—can keep it strong.
The next evening, after I close up the Apothakery, I head into town and deliberately bypass the courthouse on the main square, where my mom’s mayoral offices are.
Marigold Frost won’t be there.
Instead, I stroll into Foxe Holler Hospital at precisely the moment visiting hours begin. The Warlock’s letter weighs heavy in the front pocket of my overalls.
Antiseptic floods my nostrils the moment I pass through the sliding doors. I’m armed with a tray of the Frosts’ signature deviled eggs (for energy levels) and a slew of other curative baked goods to dole out to staff and families hunkered down in the waiting room, even to patients, whoever needs a pick-me-up. Before women and Farewitches could own their shops, we had a long history of operating out of tiny home kitchens or making house calls. In a small town with a small hospital, sometimes it’s easier for me to come to the customer.
A nurse with long silver-brown hair swoops in before I even make it to the front desk, kind face beaming. “Saturday already, Honey?”
“Despite my best efforts to decipher the pandemonium of my Momaw’s kitchen grimoire, there is still no spell for stopping time.” I hold up my offering. “Hope y’all like deviled eggs.”
Nurse Carolina Vázquez smiles, taking the tray. “Why do you think I let you keep visiting?” She drops her voice to a conspiratorial rasp. “I hear the Warlock passed you a note.”
I try not to give myself away by patting my pocket. The hospital is frigid, but today my cheeks are warm with guilt. I swear I can feel harsh eyes on me, like everyone in the waiting room knows I haven’t yet refused the Warlock’s offer like a good Witch should. The Warlock is rumored to be ancient, even immortal, so I was expecting the letter to dissolve into dust. Go out with a bang.
But if I really thought that, would I have kept it in my pocket the last twenty-four hours?
I don’t answer that. What would my neighbors think, knowing I’d kept a probably cursed item from a Warlock whom everyone despises?
Carolina raises a perfectly threaded, graying eyebrow. “I heard there were fireworks. Or lightning? I can never understand old Beulah; she carries on too fast.”
I snort in a way Ms. Buchanan would surely frown at. “Greedy gossips. It’s been a literalday.” Folks have made it clear I’m a poor replacement for Marigold Frost, yet my name on their tongue is their favorite flavor.
She smirks like a best friend would, even though we’re on opposite ends of the millennial spectrum. “Did he really sign his letterex-oh-ex-oh?”
“You’re terrible. All of you.”
Then her teasing expression falls like a bad soufflé. “I’m serious, though.He’sserious. He makes the Widow Witch look like a Halloween costume.”
It’s barely April, and the Holler is more anxious than ever. Eachspring, the Widow Witch earns her name and leaves behind one widow before the summer solstice. My gut says some of these vanishings are just the nastier pieces of work fleeing the altar or the old marriage bed—and town—the minute the weather turns nice and they get bored. She’s always felt like an old wives’ tale used to scare young women. I can hear the church ladies now:
The Widow Witch was once a young woman who remained unmarried and childless, so for bitter revenge, she preys on a loving couple each wedding season.
But the lore isn’t only hysterics.
One personalwaysdisappears.
Last spring, it was Sonny Cumberland. Younger than me, and newly married, too. Although gossip says he and his new wife already had words in the middle of church on account of whatever happened at his bachelor party.
“The town hasn’t seen this man’s face in twenty-five years. And to think, that big old mansion used to hold parties. With real people!”
“Maybe he likes his alone time.” It’smygo-to excuse to get out of social commitments. “Shoot, if I lived in a mansion, I wouldn’t leave, either.”
