I won’t argue with him, not after seeing that behavior firsthand at the market.
Baby steps. “I don’t know what his life was like before he camehere, but he lost his parents, and he’ll need interaction with other kids, somehow.”
“Believe me, I wish the situation were different. But the fewer opportunities the town has to scrutinize him, the better. Certain people could… They would use him against me.”
“The Widow Witch.”
“Among others.”
We finally reach the stairs to the second floor, and stand near the first step at an impasse. Almost like he doesn’t want to go up to our rooms yet. Probably the insomnia.
As I move for the stairs, he says, “You were quiet at dinner. And you didn’t eat.”
“Oh—ah.” I didn’t expect anyone to notice. That he did does a weird thing to my chest. Hopefully the foyer is dark enough to hide my cheeks. “Just puzzling some things out. My brain gets a bit loud sometimes.”
Between handing the Apothakery to Arna Jean, then Webb and Fudge, thatsometimesis turning intoall the time. And my recipe earlier this week—blueberry buckwheat pancake bread with whipped ricotta lemon frosting—did nothing for my mom’s condition. Every day I spend with her in that fluorescent box of a hospital room, the shrill sounds of beeping instead of the soft hum of an oven, guilt clings to me like wet dough.
Going to bed right now means I’ll have to be alone with all those worries.
Abruptly, I turn my back on the stairs.
“Would you like to have a drink?” I ask the Warlock.
Chapter Fifteen
MONDAY, MAY 2
50 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Make sure to gradually warm up your honey if you’re going to introduce it to something else; otherwise, it will seize and become rigid and uncooperative. A little bourbon doesn’t hurt, either.
In the kitchen, a single lamp glows between me and the Warlock.
The warm light melts over the island counter, like butter in a perfectly hot skillet. The drink I have in mind requires rich coffee, so I leave some brewing in a French press and prep my other ingredients. The multitasking is such an automatic response for my hands, I don’t think my brain is ever set on any other mode.
As I work, the Manor is extra silent, even for a forlorn skeleton of a house.
The Warlock’s expression is unreadable—impressively more so than usual—as he leans against the island. Though the lean looks a few steps shy of collapse. Now that I’ve got light, I can see how rough he looks. Hair tousled, shoulders bent, eyes matte. He’s exhausted. Saving me from those plants took more out of him than I thought.
“Would you like to sit?” I ask. “The coffee’ll take a minute. Don’t worry, you can still flee the room from a seated position.” I try tocalm my rambling jitters in his calculating silence, but the man is an intimidating hoverer.
“You’re not sitting.”
“I never sit.”
“I’ve noticed.” His eyes study the ingredients. “Did you invite me only because it’s ill-advised to drink alone?”
“Ha. The Frost women don’t believe that.Never drink without food. That’s our rule.”
“So youarecapable of following rules.”
He came for drinks and snark, apparently.
Best get this over with. “I’m sorry,” I blurt.
