Instant relief caffeinates my veins. Even though my favorite Bookwitch looks to be at war with Mr. Earl over Granny Smiths.
Lazlo and I hustle over before things get messy.
Mr. Earl crosses his arms, watching us approach. “It’s five now. For youandyour friends.”
The younger Claywell whirls around, her long braids spinning with her. Her eyes flash behind golden octagonal glasses that glimmer against her dark skin. Like her older brother, what she lacks in good eyesight she makes up for in lanky limbs.
“Honeydew! One sec.” She turns back to face her victim. “What the hell kind of underhanded malarky is that?”
Lazlo gives a wicked little chuckle at her vocabulary.
Mr. Earl sneers. “What, can the Witches and magic among us not conjure up enough money to support your local farmers? Look here—that Warlock even has a Farewitch babysitting.”
“No—I’mbabysittingher,” Lazlo says, tugging at my hand.
My confidence resurfaces. “Mr. Earl, I’ve bought apples from you for how many years?” And I’m the sole supplier of the honey bourbon bread pudding for his insomnia. The man doesn’t want me baking in some revenge espresso.
He looks away. “That’s when you ran the Apothakery for your neighbors. Now you’re the Warlock’s Farewitch. Not mine.”
Heat wraps my neck. “I’m nothisFarewitch. I’m everyone’s. I’m simply trying to help someone who has not asked for help before. Perhaps you can be generous and allow me to usemytime as I choose.”
But—is it really mine? Or does a Farewitch’s time belong to her patients and customers and neighbors first?
Arna Jean pushes her frames onto her head like sunglasses, but they drop right back onto her nose. “And we won’t be up-charged for mediocre apples withworm spots—”
“Have a pleasant day,” I tell Mr. Earl, ushering both Arna Jean and Lazlo from the stall before apples become projectiles. I’m not going to let this ruin my morning, but that doesn’t mean a girl can’t hope his fruit rots.
“Apples aren’t even in season!” Arna Jean calls over her shoulder.
When we’re alone between stalls, she adjusts her hoodie. It’ssleeveless, with a Technicolor galaxy framing a massive flipped middle finger. It reads:Cosmic Bitch.
“The minute I mentioned I was going to help run the Apothakery while you’re away—well. Forget apples, that man should grow some manners.”
“The Apothakery missed you,” I say by way of a greeting.
My friend rolls her eyes, making apssshsound. “Youmissed me.”
“Nonsense. Millennials don’t miss Gen Z. Those are the rules.”
My idea to have Arna Jean reopen the shop while I’m still at the Manor won’t fix everything, but it might assuage my regulars. It’s a start.
She’s only six years younger than me, but with her innate magical finesse, social media fluency, and genius—double major in economics and math, minor in marketing and two or three languages—not to mention her scary-accurate vision boards, it all makes me look like a jaded old crone. Not unlike how I see the Warlock, I suppose. If he’d had an Arna Jean all these years, someone younger to keep him on his toes, he might be an entirely different person.
Or still just a cranky grump.
“Also, how did I never hear your brother got the postman job?” I’m notthatobsessed with my day-to-day grind. Am I?
She waves a manicured hand. “No one knows. That’s how quiet he is. Foxe Holler will have a library before you find Rett out on the town, or out of his uniform. He has not a single dating app. A square so square his only hope is to multiply by himself.”
“Was that amath joke?”
“Are thoseclogs?”
I look down. “They’re practical for standing on—”
“Andfarmeralls? I was gone way too long. When’s the last time you did a fit check?”
“A what?”
