“Shall we speak of foes now, sir?” Ms. Zeen retorts. There’s an undercurrent of a bite, evidence of a long-standing conversation between the two of them. Or argument.
He turns back to his catfish, silent.
A smidge of the kitchen’s warmth dissipates. Warlock Knight is a man with history. Real enemies. What if the Widow Witch gets to him before I can cure him, before he can build his full strength back up? The bananas I’m slicing take on a sickly sweet overripe smell as I fret.
Jesus, I’m being silly. He’s survived this long, right? This is probably how Ms. Zeen got caught working here. Somehow, the Warlock encourages strange fits of sympathy.
Brain buzzing with questions and nervous energy, I focus on beheading a row of peeled bananas. One thing at a time. Banana pudding, I can handle.
With the sunset turning the kitchen gold, the chorus of ovens, the smell of real vanilla—this is my orchestra, my science lab, my artist’s studio. My good mood is impervious. Sundays are for warmcornbread and warmer conversation to fend off the Monday blues. I’m determined to give Lazlo, and the Warlock and Governess, this tradition of time together. Maybe they’ll even keep it up when I’m gone.
As our supper at last cooks in the oven, I unveil my newest treasure from the pantry for those of us who are still single digits.
“Animal crackers!” Lazlo cries with delight.
“My secret ingredient,” I mock-whisper. “Vanilla wafers get too soggy. Animal crackers hold their shape and crunch. They work much better with the soft pudding.”
The Warlock sneaks a glance at us as I pour the cookies onto a cutting board and hand Lazlo a rolling pin.
“No dogs, right?”
“Nope. Just”—glance—“circus animals. Think you can smash these for me?”
“I’m no amateur at smashing, Ms. Honey.”CRUNCH.
“Onlysome, we need half in pieces to mix in, and half kept whole—”
CRUSH. “Like this?”
I step back for safety.
He doubles down with the rolling pin and proceeds to beat the living crap out of the poor animal crackers. But only half. Heislistening. I make a note to take this kid into town soon for some regular, normal human interaction.
I’ve overheard him talking to himself as he wanders outside, and he navigates the halls without looking up, having already explored the farmhouse down to its tiniest nook. He seems young for nine but at the same time like an impossibly old soul. Despite the care from Ms. Zeen and the Warlock, the truth appears in the quiet moments: Lazlo is lonely.
Now I understand why the Warlock always looks distressed around the kid. A melancholy Lazlo is like a hot brown on a day warmer than sixty. I can’t stomach it.
Pleased with his pulverizing efforts, Lazlo gives a cookie to Ms. Zeen. She eats it with as much poise as one can eat a miniature mammal. He drops another in the bowl he’s taken to leaving out for Beauregard.
Much to the Warlock’s displeasure, Ms. Buchanan now visits the Manor whenever she wants to pick up jam cake, her pooch always riding shotgun. I should probably check if dogs can eat these clumps of corn syrup and soy lecithin.
Lazlo hands two cookies to the Warlock. For once, the Warlock isn’t looking at his ward with guilt, and it feels… nicer than I thought to see that regret missing, even if it’s temporary. The man swallows the cookie in one bite, like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Lazlo beams. Then the Warlock offers me the extra cookie.
Distracted by the pure joy on Lazlo’s face, I lean right over and inhale the cookie, no hands. My lips brush the Warlock’s gloved fingers.
I chew exactly once before I realize my catastrophic mistake.
The Warlock’s outstretched hand hovers, frozen, his eyes stuck on where my lips would have met his skin. For the first time, I’m grateful he insists on wearing those gloves.
The oven timer ticks in the background.
My voice fails, making the odd silence worse and my blush worse and just the entire situationmuch, much worse. The sharp cookie is lodged in my cheek, but chomping down will confirm the actions of my double-crossing mouth. They really do stay crunchy, stupid things.
Lazlo, bless him, doesn’t notice the sudden awkwardness. Ms. Zeen sure does, though. No wonder Silas hates public dinner dates in this town.
Just then, my phone rings.
Thank.God.
