“If our mayor is in absentia and not available to make decisions, to do what’s best for the Holler, then that responsibility falls to the town council.”
Agreement and curious murmurs hum in the air.
“Whereisyour mother, Miss Frost?” Webb adds, speaking more to the crowd now than to me. “It seems odd our mayor so rarely shows her face to the folks she claims to serve.”
The expressions around me turn concerned and suspicious. Not for the first time, I wonder why my mother insists on keeping her illness hidden. Sometimes it feels like the two of us will suffocate underneath the need to look like we’redoing just fine.
Then Webb’s cleaner-fluid stare narrows on something past me.
Lazlo.
Alarms go off in my head. My instincts tell me to grab the kid and leave. Now. But I also don’t want Lazlo to think something is wrong, or that he’s not welcome in his own town.
“Is it true the Warlock has a young ward now?” Webb asks.
“He doesn’t have any magic,” I blurt. No way am I letting Lazlo get caught in the middle of this mess. Webb smiles, and a beat too late to do any good, I realize that’s exactly the answer he wanted.
Ms. Fudge, who’s been fanning herself with a flyer, perks up. “No magic? That boy should be in a home free from the threat of it, then.”
“I doubt he’d feel comfortable anywhere else, since he’s seen how you all treat neighbors,” Arna Jean huffs. “A girl can’t even buy apples anymore.”
“Insolent Witches. There are plenty of decent, good country folk in this Holler, and we’ve got half a mind to—well, to report you.”
Half a mind, I agree. “Towhom, exactly?” My mother? Sheriff Fowler?
“Your board of magic, that’s who,” Fudge sputters.
“The Eldercraft,” Webb says.
The what? Last I checked, Witches have covens, not bureaucracies. Local community instead of formal authority is our whole thing. At my confused look, Arna Jean leans over to me.
“The Eldercraft supervise higher magic. They’re the main governing body for Warlocks. They’re usually some of the oldest Warlocks, I think. With the most seniority and power.”
Now I remember. My mom once mentioned they visited theHoller when the library burned and the investigation couldn’t reveal if it was Warlock or Witch magic.
My friend turns back to Fudge. “But only Warlocks. The Eldercraft don’t oversee Witches. So report as many of our magical misdemeanors as you like. They won’t care. They don’t even bother with the Widow Witch.”
Fudge slams her cane into the ground, but the earth is damp from recent rain, so it’s more of a squelch, like a blade in a bloody, gurgling throat. “You know, a Bookwitch seems awfully useless without a library. Just like your piercings, girl. Pointless and trashy.”
Arna Jean leans forward, her voice a threatening whisper. “You should see my tattoos.”
The old woman balks, puffing air so hard she could be mistaken for a grounded zeppelin.
Nevertheless, Fudge will have some Dickensian story about the little neglected orphan in a haunted house spreading through the Holler by tomorrow. Just what we need.
Sure enough, as I glance over at Lazlo, a woman behind the stall refuses the cash. Lazlo starts back our way, carrying a heavy expression of disappointment.
Any of my unease suffocates in the heat of my anger.
It’s only then do I register the woman’s face—that’s Sonny Cumberland’s wife. Or she was. Ellie’s not a Cumberland by blood, but she helps her mother-in-law at their general store. She’s the one who told me I was no longer welcome to shop there. Recognizing her doesn’t make me any less mad, but it does keep me from walloping her with a bag of her own dog biscuits.
Maybe the market wasnotthe best place to introduce Lazlo to the town.
Before Lazlo is back within listening distance, I step toward Webb and Fudge. “Lazlo is well taken care of. Your concern is unnecessary.”I’ve never had a dad, but Mr. Knight seems to have all the makings of a good father figure. Iknowhe’d do anything for the kid.
But what if someone does start asking questions, poking around the Warlock’s business? What happens if this Eldercraft does get involved?
Webb presses his palms together, as if in prayer. The crowd hushes, like they never left the church’s sanctuary that morning.
