“So they’re excellent swimmers. Oh, and did you know—”
“Hey, kid.”
“Yeah?”
“Ms. Zeen only let you come cook with me because I told her we’d work on fractions.” I push a battalion of measuring cups toward him. “Help a lady out.”
He heaves a sigh. “Math?” He shrinks down, chin on the counter. “But it’s theweekend. And I’m not that bad at fractions.”
According to Ms. Zeen, the kid is, tragically, that bad at fractions. Which is where I come in. Measuring cups are a three-dimensional lesson in portions. And I’m happier than I thought I would be with a little sous-chef in the kitchen. Relinquishingsomecontrol can be fun.
Even if said sous-chef keeps drinking the milk he measures and is easily distracted by canine facts.
“Mr. Knight would want you to try.” The boy idolizes the man.
“I’ll just be a gardener, like him.”
“While a noble pursuit, there’s still math in gardening.” With a grunt, I drop a sack of yellow cornmeal in front him. “We’re making corn pudding and cornbread. Both Southern staples, but baking is more precise than cooking. Measuring accurately will be crucial.”
“Cru-shul?”
“Really important. You can’t mess around with the measurements for cakes and cookies and breads. Baking is chemistry, but in the oven.”
A groan. “I thought this was math.”
“Here’s our recipe. See these numbers? We’ve got to double everything since we’re making two batches of everything.”
We collect the ingredients together, and as I show Lazlo how to spoon the cornmeal into a measuring cup instead of scooping, he says, “Did you know a man tried to run the Iditarod race with poodles as sled dogs?”
The kid knowsIditarodbut notcrucial? “That sounds… bold.”
He nods solemnly. “It did not go well.” Shrugs. “It was the eighties.”
“How do you know all this?” I pass him a small cheese grater and a block of cheddar for the cornbread.
“Books.” To his credit, he attacks the cheddar with gusto… and then stuffs a hunk into his cheek when he thinks I’m not looking. “I would know a lot more if I could Google.”
Shuffling sounds come from the door. “Mr. Knight, it would behoove you not to stand in the doorway. This is tornado country, not earthquake.”
Glancing up, I see the Warlock stepping aside so Governess Zeen can march into the kitchen. “I didn’t want to interrupt such a pertinent conversation, Ms. Zeen.”
I ignore the sarcastic jab and choose peace today, waving him over. At least he’s showing up now instead of brooding. “Perfect timing. I need help chopping squash.” Lazlo isn’tknife-handlingcertified yet. “Oh, and welcome to Sunday supper.”
Stoic as ever, he stalks toward me. Now that I’ve seen his magic, I’m less afraid of him. Knowing how exactly someone could possibly kill me in my sleep, well, it’s kind of freeing.
Pastor Webb’s warning simmers on a back burner in my mind. Is that why the Warlock doesn’t—can’t?—leave his Manor? He’s worried people like Oris Webb and Gertha Fudge will start asking too many questions? That can’t be it entirely. The Warlock’s stayed isolated for decades, yet Lazlo has only lived here a year. Although, the kid doesn’tattend school in town and—that’s not my job. I’m the Farewitch, not the boy’s guardian, and I’m definitely no Governess Zeen.
I need to focus on the rhythm of the kitchen. Keeping the hands busy does wonders to chase away anxious thoughts.
When the Warlock reaches the island, I hold up a hand. “Wait—you can’t wear those gloves while you cook.” Honestly, this man. “You’ve got dirt… everywhere.”
“I pulled this squash out of my garden with these gloves yesterday. I don’t think mydirtis going to harm you.”
I stick out a hip, which is less commanding when you’re wearing an apron and said apron hides your lack of hips. But I can’t come up with a good counter.
“Fine. We’re making butternut squash corn pudding.” The sweetness of the squash and corn work well together, and we’ve got leeks for subtlety and serrano peppers instead of jalapeño. “Farewitches make corn pudding to help with inflammation, which is the cause of many a problem. Though the squash is good for your spleen, magic or no magic.”
He stares at my piles of ingredients. Judging? Displeased?
