“Peace be with you,” Webb says in greeting.
I recover fast. “It’s rude to eavesdrop.”
His Windex-blue eyes find my friend. “Good morning, Miss Claywell.”
“Missis outdated,” Arna Jean says. “Ms. is just fine. And we’re late for a thing.”
Next to Webb, of course, is Gertha Fudge, still in her Sunday finery. She’s half his height but looking up at us with twice the disapproval. “Not for church, certainly. I never see you Witches at service.” Her gaze rakes over Arna Jean’s piercings, which run the length of both her ears. Then the hoodie. Peeved wrinkles crack her sneer.
“I reckon you won’t see us there next week, either,” I say.
Webb grins but the mirth doesn’t spread past his mouth. “Come now. One can’t be too busy for the Lord.”
“Amen,” Ms. Fudge mutters.
“Excuse the interruption,” Webb continues. “Open ears, open heart, yes? I listen for those asking for help.”
“And what, pray tell, do you believe we’re missing?” I don’tnottrust the minimal information the Warlock has shared with me, but I also know to compare sources. My mom didn’t raise a blind-faith Witch.
Webb’s head tilts just so. “You’re trying to find fault with one Warlock, one man. That will only get you so far. The true heart of the corruption is magic itself.”
Arna Jean steps closer to me, closing rank. “So says the man without any magic himself.”
“Mymagic keeps your congregation feeling well enough to attend church,” I say. “I doubt you’d like to lose your generous collection-plate donations.”
Webb smiles. “Do we even need a Farewitch if we trust in the healing power of faith?”
My annoyance quickly blends with bitter anger. “The Holler’s last mayor never had any magic. Was his early death just a sign he wasn’t deserving of that same grace?”
“Does it matter? The previous Farewitch couldn’t heal him. Ewing Summer tolerated Witches and magic, and it did him no favors. We need a hierarchy of authority in Foxe Holler, and I intend to deliver it.”
“Is that why you’re trying to postpone Beltane this year?” I snap.
Webb moves his bag of apples to one shoulder, then divides his stack of paper between a few of the folks who look like they came with him from church. “Not trying. Succeeding,” he says as he and his followers begin passing out what I can now see are flyers.
“Succeeding?” Arna Jean asks.
Webb nods. “If you came to service, you would’ve heard. Justthis morning, the town council agreed to cancel the annual bonfire.”
Arna Jean and I snatch a few of the flyers. I blanch. They’re bare-bones and to the point:
Can’t Spell Warlock Without War
Farmers Against Fare-Weather Fare-Witches
Below each slogan is the same invitation to a candlelight vigil tonight instead, for all the partners and husbands the Widow Witch has disappeared. Held at the church, of course.
Sure enough, when I check my phone, there’s a voicemail from Silas. I don’t need to listen to it to know how the town council meeting went.
My eyes flick back to a third flyer:Where Is Our Mayor?
Before we can even ask how, Webb is already explaining.
“Folks were eager for a change. Someone merely suggested that perhaps these particular traditions could attract the Widow Witch. After all, each year you Witches celebrate Beltane, the Widow Witch comes. And the fire department is always eager for an early burn ban.”
“Aren’tyouon the town council?” Arna Jean asks. “Why does the church get to have a voting representative when the mayor’s office doesn’t?”
A crowd has formed now, folks more interested in entertainment than groceries. With deliberate unhurried movements, Webb shakes a few hands around him as he answers.
