Another good point.
“Like I said, I’m hereunofficially. No paper trail. Believe it or not, you and I are on the same side. But the mayor’s team can’t be seen playing favorites when it comes to the church and theWitches in the Holler.” He sighs and, for a moment, even looks stressed. “Oh, I’ve also been instructed to tell you to call your mother more often.”
Ha, there it is. His ulterior motive for visiting. “Sneaky. At least she feels well enough to pester.”
“When she calls, just expect your typical fear of Warlocks and higher magic. But stand firm, don’t internalize that nonsense. We both know you can’t afford therapy.”
I’m about to stumble over a very unwitty comeback when I notice what’s stuffed into his tote bag. “Flowers?” He’s brought bright yellow marigolds. To visit me. At my mom’s request. “Are yousuremy mother knows you’re gay?”
He rolls his eyes. “She told me to convince you it’s an early gift to mark Beltane.”
I snort. Sending flowers is her way of showing me she’s watching, snooping from afar.
My mom’s scheming reminds me I promised our postman I’d introduce him to Silas. Icouldinvite Silas in for dinner. Feed him well before I drop the need-a-favor bomb. Any respectable Southerner would.
Before I decide, Silas takes a gruff call on his phone, which ends too quickly to be anything good.
“Connection dropped,” he says, wincing. “Apparently, Webb is trying to call a town council meeting about canceling the Witches’ Beltane celebration. Something aboutpagan Hearthwitch ritualsattracting the Widow Witch. If the council meets, I’ll have to be there as your mom’s stand-in, but I won’t be able to interfere or anything. Only the elected members can—Jesus, listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll update you later. Take the flowers.”
He shoves them at me. “Remember, call your mother, or I’ll have to hear about it. Her rants, I swear.Sheneeds a therapist.”
“I know.” Just add it to my growing to-do list.
“I mean it: Do not avoid her. Neither of us wants her jailbreaking from the hospital to—”
“I’m hanging up now, Silas.”
“We’re not even on the phone—”
I close the door but stall in the foyer, thinking. Worrying. If this conversation between the church and the town council escalates, folks are going to start asking more questions about their missing mayor. Even if the position is more ceremonial than democratically elected, Silas can’t help Mom dodge her constituents forever. He might be on my side, but time isn’t.
Cradling the marigolds, I return to the kitchen just as Lazlo says, “What does that mean, Ms. Zeen?”
“What does what mean?” I ask Lazlo, moving to the large farmhouse sink to put the flowers in water.
“In-fa-chew-aysh—”
“No schoolwork during dinner, Lazlo,” Warlock Knight says before the kid can finish. Then his gaze moves from me to the flowers. And stays. The air shifts, like the Widow Witch has blown in a brand-new kind of storm. “Flowers?” he says, exactly the way I said it on the porch.
Ms. Zeen coughs.
“Early Beltane gift, from a friend.” I don’t mention my mom. Tonight, the thought of lying to the Warlock makes me feel like rancid oil for some reason I won’t be examining, so I go with good ole omission.
The Warlock pulls at his gloves. Like they aren’t already tight enough. “My garden has plenty of flowers already.”
“That no one gets to see.” I drop the marigolds into a vase with more force than necessary.
Okay, maybe my mood is pervious when it comes to hearing about Oris Webb and Gertha Fudge and their disdain for magic.
The oven timer dings.
We plate the food and set the table.
As we sit, Lazlo picks the spot next to me. On the other side of the table, Ms. Zeen is across from Lazlo and the Warlock is across from me. I notice the Warlock distinctly avoids sitting at the head of the table.
We eat.
The Warlock surprises me again by being the first to interrupt the clanging of utensils. “I’ll regret asking, butwhydo we need Wi-Fi?”
