“Because I can’t resist a challenge.” She winks.
“Warlock Knight is…” As inflexible as cooling caramelized sugar. “… a challenge, all right,” I mutter.
Arna Jean tilts her head. “Who?” she asks. Like in the span of thirty seconds, she completely forgot why I’m asking her to manage the shop in the first place.
“The Warlock,” I repeat, words slow like the unease creeping across my neck.
“Right.” Arna Jean shakes her head, like nothing’s amiss. “Oh, your kid is gone. We should probably find him.”
Lazlo is not, thank Jesus, gone.
He’s just gotten bored and run back into the market. We easily catch up and stay a healthy distance behind him so he can explore. This kid could marathon the Dollar General a few or fifty times and still have energy. So far, no one’s broken anything, glass or limb, and no one has food poisoning. A triumph, in my book.
Arna Jean lets her gaze wander across the stalls as we walk, no doubt keeping a lookout for the best ROI in produce. “Did you ask Mr. Knight if it was okay to bring the kid?”
“Of course,” I huff.
“Did he agree?”
“Of course not.” In fact, he expressly forbid it. But I brought Lazlo anyway. Maybebecausethe Warlock forbid it. Ms. Zeen white-knuckled the kettle at hearing my idea but agreed to keep my plan secret. Even she knows the boy needs some long-overdue social interaction. “If you can’t be good—”
A wicked gleam appears in her eyes. “Be good at it.”
“I’ll make sure the kid doesn’t witness any R-rated situations.”
For Witches, May 1 is also Beltane, a celebration of the oncoming sunshine of longer days and the warm results: sun-ripened fruits and vegetables all summer long. Beltane is flavor forged in heat, and thus an especially good holiday for Farewitches.
This year, though, Beltane just reminds me I’ve blown through three weeks like a bucket of movie-theater popcorn. The calendar on the wall of my bedroom now counts down toward the solstice, the Warlock’s supposed End of Times. Fifty-one days. Fifty-one chances for the right recipe.
Arna Jean shrugs. “The sexy bonfires don’t happen until the sun sets, anyway.”
Beltane is also a celebration of growth—and fertility.
“That’s exactly what I told his Governess butshedidn’t laugh.”
Foxe Holler’s bonfires aren’t very sexy or fertility forward since many of the town’s young Witches move away to put down roots in larger towns and cities. It’s a miracle Arna Jean came back. These days, our celebrations are often organized by whichever older Witch is craving tradition. Carolina’s had the last few, though I’m usually too busy with the shop to attend.
“Everyone is mad at us,” says a small voice.
My eyes drop, along with my gut. Lazlo’s reappeared at our side, looking much less excited than before. I follow his gaze.
At their stall, Farmer Kelsey and his missus are scowling at us over their okra and pole beans. Guess he won’t be throwing his nephew at me anymore. Praise be. But I did want some of his tomatoes. It’sfried. Green. Tomato. Season. And old Sam the beekeeper—who always gives me free clover honey like I’m a kitchen fairy in need of an offering—didn’t even wave earlier. The Widow Witch took his son-in-law a few years back, but everyone in town knows Sam never cared much for the arrogant fellow’s gambling problem.
The flame of my good mood sputters. I can’t show Lazlo the wonderful parts of Foxe Hollerandhide him from the whispers and stares that come with the bad parts.
This is a problem. But lately, what isn’t?
Some folks get their gossip at church, but I get mine here at the market. That is, I used to. Now I can’t very well get gossip from a town that’s too busy gossiping aboutme.
But Lazlo is a clever nine-year-old… I’ve been trying to drag answers out of the Warlock when I should be asking the person who’s had a front-row seat to his guardian’s problems for almost a year. Any details about the man’s past could help clue me in to his illness.
“Lazlo,” I begin carefully, “has Mr. Knight ever—”
“Murderedanyone?” Arna Jean butts in. She shrugs off my glare. “What? The Holler doesn’t know any version of your Warlock beyond”—air quotes—“primeval monster.”
“He’s notmyWarlock.”
“What doespri-mee-vulmean?” Lazlo asks.
