“You don’t even like me, and you’re five and a half feet of bottled epinephrine.”
“It’s just caffeine. And vitamin D.” I shrug. “Who knows, one day, you might even be able to go into town and buy apple butter yourself.”
He gives me a look so furious I almost don’t catch the slight shade of pink under the sun spots on his cheeks.
After supper, I stay atthe sink to wash dishes.
A shadow drapes across the sink right beside me.
The Warlock grabs a dishcloth and starts drying the clean dishes. Low bar for men, but something behind my rib cage squeals at the sight of a man doing a household chore. Witches expect Warlocks to make messes, not tidy them.
We wash and dry, dare I say it, in comfortable silence.
Eventually, he speaks first. “Ms. Zeen also believes having more… visitors to the house would be good for me.” His voice stays low, too low to reach the Governess and Lazlo at the table. “Perhaps you’re right. I could be more amicable with those who make the trek.”
Understatement of his ambiguously not-immortal life. Seems Silasandthe Governess might be on my side. “You can unclench your jaw when you say that. Our postman didn’t even flee in terror the last time.”
When he doesn’t reply, something else he said resurfaces, and I can’t contain the troublesome Frost curiosity any longer. “Why does it matter?” I blurt.
“Why does what matter?”
“That I got flowers. That they could be from someone.”
One eyebrow goes up. “Are they?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then there’s no point in discussing it,” he says. “Ask me the question again when it becomes relevant.”
Thenerve. “But why would it matter?”
“Why wouldwhatmatter, Ms. Frost? You are frustratingly vague.”
“If I were seeing someone. Can I not date in my free time, while I stay here?”
To his credit, he doesn’t immediately laugh at the idea I could have this thing calledfree time. He wrings the dish towel into a twist.A tight twist. “That’s not my decision to make. As long as you don’t allow distractions to pull you away from your work.”
“I don’t think we’re at risk of that.” At this point, I should probably check the expiration date on my sex life.
He accepts a dripping mixing bowl from me. “Good.”
“Right. Good.” I look back to the dishes, trying to ignore the Warlock’s elbow, which has somehow gottenreallyclose to mine.
Then, without warning, he deposits the last clean dish on the counter next to me and evacuates the room like management’s sprung a fire drill.
Every Warlock for himself, apparently.
Chapter Twelve
FRIDAY, APRIL 29
53 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Remember to remove the skins and seeds of your scuppernongs; the inherent bitterness will make everything else sour.
