Frustration overtakes his voice. “That’s not…”
Then he does a double take, from my toes to my wet blonde hair.
My cheeks warm, my left hand keeping my towel in place. I probably look like a drowned dog, and feel just as ridiculous. Until I see he’s still wearing his gardening clothes. Even the gloves. What, was he gardening at midnight?
Then I remember I’ve got my bangs rolled around one of Momaw’s old mesh hair curlers, my secret to keeping them bouncy enough to stay out of my eyes while I cook. So I probably look like a drowned grandma-dog. Grandmutt energy for sure.
But he’s not looking at my hair, bless him. His gaze sticks on my bare shoulders, then his mouth tightens and now he’s looking anywherebutat me. Which mostly leaves fussy wallpaper to stare at. He moves to push past me, so I brace my free hand against his chest, pushing back.
“Are you avoiding me?” All my patience evaporated in the bathroom.
“We live under the same roof, Ms. Frost. That would be difficult.” His gloved hand absently rubs his chest where my palm was a second ago, right over my damp fingerprints. “Where did you go on Saturday evening?” he asks, out of nowhere.
Whiplash. “Excuse me?”
“Before Sunday’s meal.”
I rub my temple. And the night started out so peaceful. Before Sunday…Before the flowers. Is that what this is about? Surely not. “I spend Saturday evenings with my mom.”
“Why the same day?”
I keep my answer vague. “She, uh, likes the routine.”
“And she will not visit you here? The rest of the Holler has no problem doing so.”
Touché. “It’s easier for me to visit her. She’s busy… being mayor.” I want to be intimidating and cross my arms, but can’t risk letting my towel fall.
“Why do I feel like you’re not telling me the whole truth, Ms. Frost?”
“Why do you have books locked up in the library, Mr. Knight?”
He finally looks at me, intense hazel irises peeking out from dark lashes. “That is beyond the realm of your concern.”
He steps back, so I take a step forward. He doesn’t just get to flee like some spooked armadillo. A spooked, grumpy armadillo. “All of thisconcerns me. You, the Manor, the locked doors—for chrissakes, the house just tried to make me into gumbo!”
Not the clearest explanation of what happened, but I don’t miss how his gaze roams over me, searching. For proof of injury? “Don’t worry. The house doesn’t eatstubborn.”
Good Lord. Whatdoesit eat? “My point is, the house is upset whenyou’reupset. The kitchen hides my thermometers, the clocks never keep the same time, and I can’t keep a candle lit to save my life. The more you brood—”
“I don’t brood.”
“—the more negative energy builds. I can’t do my job if I can’t trust where I sleep.”
“Then leave,” he says, a vicious edge to his voice. “You’ve given me enough of your time already.”
We’re still uncomfortably close, but after the illusions, I’m glad he’s here, solid and real and smelling of summer rain. Yet the house’s illusions are made of heat and burning and death. Strange. Doubly strange is how the fear of something else mutes whatever fear’s still stirring in my chest for him. It’s not gone, but it’s diluted.
“My timeline of three weeks was based on finding a cure. I haven’t found one yet, so I stay.” For himandmy mom. I don’t realize I’ve made the decision until I say it. Already, an idea for reopening the shop while I’m here is forming in my head.
“How long?”
“As long as it takes.” At that, an odd look passes across his face, one I don’t know what to do with. “You asked me to be here, Mr. Knight. A Farewitch. To help you. Remember?”
“Perhaps I’m delaying the inevitable and don’t deserve the help.”
I can’t be any more exposed than I am now, so I take a steadying breath and a leap of faith, and hope I come out unburned. Again. “Why? Are all the rumors about you in town true?”
He clasps his gloved hands behind his back. “That depends. What are they this year?”
