Arna Jean adjusts her beanie on his head. She gave it to him earlier, saying he looked like an old woman had dressed him (Ms. Zeen had). “Antique. Old. Ancient.”
The boy beams under her fussing. “He’s super old.”
I lean in. “How old, exactly?”
“Forty,” Arna Jean guesses.
I cross my arms. “You’ve never even seen him!”
“Yes, but when I picture your Warlock, I’m getting a strong sense of handsome in a tortured-Austen-hero type of way. So yeah, forty.”
“He’s not my Warlock.” I look back to Lazlo. I try again. “Do youremember what you liked to do before you came to live with Mr. Knight?”
His eyebrows pull together in a flustered line. “I don’t know.”
My stomach sinks like a janky elevator. This is a scab my brain can’t stop picking.
I don’t like to use my memory affinity on kids. If they’re too young, they don’t fully understand how my magic works in tandem with their memories, and that feels invasive. But with Lazlo, I might need a glimpse of his memory for any real answers. He’s already an orphan, so he doesn’t have a rosy past, but what if I find something even scarier? A big black hole, no evidence of the Warlock at all, just like the rest of the Holler?
“Can you try to remember for me? Even something small?” I urge.
His face scrunches. “I played outside a lot. I was good at hunting for bugs. Went to school. Um…” More scrunching. “Dad read to me a lot. They used to… My mom cooked! She’d make lots of… I can’t remember—oh my goodness.”
Our heads swivel at his shout, geriatric necks cracking.
Pointing to a stand up ahead, he’s full bounce now. “Dogtreats!”
My snooping into the Warlock’s past will have to wait. I hand the kid some cash from my overalls. “Go for it.”
He hesitates. “Alone?”
Good point. What if folks start giving him more than just unkind glances? I’m not sure I could be responsible for my actions then.
Arna Jean gives me a reassuring look.He can handle it. “Come get us if you need anything, kid.”
Lazlo throws back his shoulders and sprints ahead. Anything for Beauregard.
I watch him, trying to feed off his bravery. “If we ask him to carry our groceries, is that considered child labor?”
“Nah, builds character.” Arna Jean holds up her tote of our slim produce pickings. “He’s a strange little guy, isn’t he?”
“He and Mr. Knight are on the same family tree, that’s for sure.”
But how did Lazlo’s next of kin just so happen to be a powerful Warlock he’d never met before? Arna Jean’s instinct isn’t wrong, though. I’m chewing on what concrete facts we have, and if the town thinks the Warlock is murderous and merciless, where is the actualproof?
“What do the older folks know that we don’t?” I think aloud. “Everyone’s looking at us like we defaced the Jesus billboard at the town line.”
“Heaven Sent, Repent?Hell Is Real, Are You?That’s my favorite.”
I nibble my bottom lip. “We’re missing something.”
“I’d say you’re missing quite a lot, Miss Frost.”
Reluctantlyis an understatement for how we turn around.
Pastor Oris Webb stands behind us. The beige-ness of him, from his washed-out skin to his khaki ensemble, is out of place against the vibrant market produce. In one hand, he’s carrying a bag full of yellow apples. In the other, a stack of paper. Henevertakes an interest in the market, and he picks today of all days to show up, the one time I take Lazlo into town?
Not good.
