“No one likes themselves that much. You can’t be a recluse in a reclusive town. They cancel each other out. That just makes him suspicious.”
I lower my voice. “He’s only asked for a Farewitch, like any other customer.” So why am I sticking up for him so quickly? “Can anyone tell me exactly what is so terrible about this man? Give me a list of his crimes?”
“He’s a Warlock. That’s everything you need to know. They spread plagues, conjure storms, ruin crops—”
“Mess with hen egg-laying patterns?”
“Exactly! You and I know better than anyone they’re just elitist hoarders of powerful magic.” Her eyes catch me with memories weshare of my mom’s futile hunt to cure Momaw’s fatal illness with all the magic and money we had. Where was the Warlock of Foxe Holler, this Mr. Knight, fifteen years ago when his town’s Farewitch was dying?
I intend to find out. Given I’m here and not at the shop preparing tomorrow’s dough, it’s obvious I could do with a bit ofelite powerful magic.
“Warlock or not, he’s a resident of this Holler. Which means he’s entitled to the help of the Farewitch.”
The nurse’s face softens. “What are you going to do?”
That’s the headline of the day, isn’t it?
FAREWITCH FROST FACES FIASCO OR FATE?
Another odd thought takes over. A silly one, really. If no one has seen this Warlock in decades… how old is he, exactly?
“Does anyoneactuallyknow what the Warlock did twenty-five years ago that sent him into isolation? Beyond speculation and making him the devil in every farmer’s almanac?”
Carolina shrugs. Her dark eyes gloss over for a second, then refocus. “Something terrible.” She shakes her head. “I’ll take you down the hall.”
Like every other Saturday, I follow Carolina down a hallway that reminds me of egg whites. The chemical smell, abrasive overhead fluorescent lighting, and the fridge-cold air are all a well-known ritual at this point, but that doesn’t make this comfortable. Though I’m partial to rituals. What’s a recipe if not a brief, previous ritual?
This is our ritual. And it’s a lie.
Well, apartiallie. More a half-truth? Mom always told me I should’ve studied law.
Idovisit to be friendly, to make sure the evening staff don’t run out of snacks because the day staff get first dibs on the treats folksbring in. It’s not odd to see a Farewitch visit a hospital so often, but the patients here are mostly dealing with severe illnesses I can’t cure. Cancer, lupus, Alzheimer’s… I respect a Farewitch’s limits. All magic has its ceiling.
No Witch or Warlock can create life or conjure extra time where there is none.
The Frosts have always worked alongside modern medicine. A chamomile and lavender cookie can brighten someone’s day, but with a Farewitch’s spell, it can literally help a patient get some calm rest to help their recovery. Lemon and olive oil cake distracts a fussy baby whose tired parents have been up all night, but with one of my sigils baked into the bottom, it can deliver a little boost of anxiety-fighting goodness.
Other types of Witches do spellwork, too. As a Hearthwitch, Carolina is leagues better than me at serious defensive warding. Even someone without any magic can craft medicinal tinctures and homeopathic cures. But without the inherited Farewitch magic, the intention and family affinities, those cures are just like any other over-the-counter fix at a drugstore.
Exhibit A: the truth. I do provide the magical sustenance.
But Nurse Carolina provides the discretion. When we reach the wing for longer-term residents, we stop outside the usual room. No name on this door.
Exhibit B: the lie.
Carolina nods at the door. “You should get in there. Rough day for her.”
Then I’m alone, one hand pressed against my overalls pocket with the letter, the other on the doorknob.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for Carolina keeping an eye on things. The emotional debt I owe rivals the hospital bills. She took care of Momaw Frost those last few months and understood the grim situation then, just as she understands the same… sensitivesituation we’re in now. Maybe it makes me ungrateful, but a delicate tablespoon-of-vanilla-sized part of me wishes I never needed to get to know her in the first place.
The Warlock’s invitation—demand?—gnaws at the back of my brain matter. What could plague a Warlock that he can’t cure himself? Especially if the rumors are true about his archives and he has endless magical texts and spell books at his disposal. I’m not sure whether to be highly suspicious and afraid… or intrigued. Or all three.
A voice comes through the door. “I know you’re out there. Stop overthinking and come in already.”
I sigh. Caught. When I enter the room, a middle-aged version of me sits up in her hospital bed.
“Hi, Mom.”
