What the hell is in that book?
That question is how I end up right outside the Warlock’s bedroom door at midnight.
I raise a fist. Lower it. Raise it a second time.Woman up, Frost. I switch hands, which helps, and knock.
No answer. I give him a minute in case he’s sleeping. Do Warlocks sleep? They must, that’s why he’s not answering. He has lots of… subconscious spellcasting and omens to decipher.
Another knock.
This is getting ridiculous. He can’t avoid me forever.
My third knock echoes with disappointment. I thought he must be up at all hours, like me. Kindred night owls. Heseemslike a personification of a brooding nocturnal strigiform.
Fine. So be it. I’ve haunted his house this long without any success; he probably thinks I’m a lousy Farewitch. But no one can tell me I don’t give my all learning to be better. The bitterness in my throat tastes like the sour seeds of a scuppernong. Why do I even care if I don’t see him on my last night? I don’t need to say goodbye.
I know what Idoneed, though.
Ten minutes later in my bathroom down the hall, I sink into the perfect warm bath.
My sigh reverberates off the green tile. Bubbles tickle my arm hair that I swore burned off in the library. The warmth loosens a knot behind my navel. This must be what pasta feels like, steeping in its own juices, limp with leisure. No wonder it tastes so wholesome.
But my mind soon slips back to worrying. The Warlock willbecome just another person I can’t cure. Even if I were riding high on a full night’s sleep and spent half my time between here and the Apothakery, could I really make this double life here at the Manor work for much longer? On top of helping my mom? I’m used to life yanking me in different directions, but this time, I don’t feel the satisfaction of overachievement. Only overwhelmed, like I’ve got two cakes baking at the same time, except the catch is the ovens are on opposite sides of town.
The spiraling thoughts churn with heat under my skin, and sweat pools in my pores.
The Frosts aren’t ones forSmall Wishes. Only big moves, big confidence, big intention. Since I’m the only heir to the Frost legacy, expectations have always been high. I know that.So well. But it means that over the years, a single step forward feels akin to failure. What Farewitch can’t handle her own Apothakery?
My cheeks flush, the bathwater almost too warm now. Anxious heat pumps through my veins.Jesus, it’s warm. Typical Frost, turning a relaxing soak into a stressful self-interrogation. How long have I been in the tub? Shouldn’t the water be cooling, not getting hotter?
In half a second, the uncomfortable warmth turns from stinging to a white-hot pain. My skin is on fire. Half faint, ears buzzing, I realize the water isn’t just hot. It’s nearlyboiling.
I’m five seconds from passing out, but with my last ounce of energy, I flop over the side of the tub and onto the bath mat with a wet and undignifiedSLAP.
The relief is glorious and instant, like I’ve been dunked in an ice bath.
My skin cools, lungs open. The searing adrenaline dissipates, my pulse slows. Splayed on the bath mat, I’m a brand-new piglet, skin rosy like I got run over by a pink highlighter.
When I dare to peer back into the tub, there’s no steam, no bubbles. No waves of heat. I dip a finger in the sudsy water. Tepid.
What. The. Hell.
Just like the metal bars in the library. It’s like I’ve conjured the danger out of nothing, my imagination my worst enemy. The house is still playing tricks on me.
Antagonizing a maybe-sentient house is not a smart move in the middle of the night, so I throw a towel around myself and make a beeline for my bedroom. Not today, house. In the drafty corridor, my misty skin goes taut in the chill. I barely register my steps, brain on auto. Maybe the Warlock’s illness appears as a loss of control? What does it look like when wish-granting magic goes haywire—
SMACK.
I swerve around a corner and run right into a wall that did not exist before.
Not a wall. A man. The hard chest of a man.
“You’rehere,” Warlock Knight mutters at the exact same time I blurt, “Good Lord, I thought you were a murderer.”
As my pulse slows with relief, I notice he’s looking at me with an expression verging on surprise. Or disappointment. “Careful, sir, someone might think you’re relieved.” Evidently, he was hoping I’d quit.
“Our three weeks are up, are they not? I assumed you left for good.”
“You clearly don’t know Witches very well, sir. Or me. We keep our promises to help.”
