“You should not roam the halls, especially at night, lest you find yourself an irresistible meal for whatever might be hungry.” His raspy voice claws across the distance between us. “Young Witches should be asleep at this hour, so go to bed before I put you to bed.”
My breath hitches and my mouth snaps shut.
He turns, heading back the way he came. With immeasurable dignity, I stick out my tongue in the direction of his retreating back.
Attawitch, Momaw’s voice whispers.
The minute I get back to my room, I text Arna Jean.
What would you say to a more permanent internship?
Arna Jean Claywell
Benefits? Health insurance?
free snacks…
Arna Jean Claywell
listening
Chapter Thirteen
SUNDAY, MAY 1
51 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Apple seeds and cherry pits contain cyanide. Cures and poisons are just a matter of dosage.
Sex is fun, but farmers’ markets are better than any I’ve had in my thirty-one years.
Especially on the first morning of May, when the world is blooming and the sun glows with near-summer energy, no sign of clucking church ladies or Widow Witches.
Farmers’ markets in Foxe Holler are an institution, filling the town square in front of our small courthouse every weekend. A rural holler might not have a Starbucks, but we’re lousy with farms. Jeweled beets, lacy collard greens, strawberries red and glossy, dried lavender, handsewn quilts, jars of preserves with no labels because they came directly from someone’s kitchen.
The market is extra rosy this morning because I’m seeing it through new, wide eyes.
On cue, Lazlo gives my hand an excited—and sticky—squeeze as he absorbs the buzz of activity. “Do you think Beauregard and Ms. Buchanan are here, too?”
“Here or church.” I return his squeeze and forgo asking how his hand is already glutinous.
The kid’s fidgety brain is often distracted or five thoughts ahead. Fresh air helps, just another reason I’ve made it my mission to take him into town.
We stop at the Cumberland family’s stall, where they sell extra goods from their general store. Today it’s spiced mushroom scones so dense, I can smell the butter. When I pay, the middle-aged woman—one of the Cumberland triplets, I’m not sure which—who takes my cash gives me the meanest mug, like I’ve sullied her ancestors. Then I remember—it washerson who disappeared just last year. Sonny Cumberland. We’re around the anniversary of when the Widow Witch took him. Pitifully poor timing on my part.
My good mood flickers like a weak pilot light, my usual confidence at the market shaken. Even my friendliest neighbors no longer seem willing to be polite and hide their anger over my decision to help the Warlock. Or maybe, with Pastor Webb challenging the presence of magic, the folks who never liked magic to begin with finally feel free to be vocal about it.
Thankfully, Lazlo’s too busy stuffing my half of our shared scone into his cheeks to notice the chilly treatment. “Yooh ge todu diss evur wookend?”
“Wecan do this every weekend.” Momaw Frost took me to my very first market, and I’ll chase that high forever. Being able to share this with Lazlo, the buzzyhellos and handshakes—
“You charged me three dollars a pound two weeks ago, Earl. Not five. Three! Do I look like a tourist who took a wrong turn at Mammoth Cave?”
Ah, right on time. I quickly locate who we came to meet.
