After a hearty swig of bourbon and coffee, I slam my mug on the island. “I have an idea.”
Chapter Sixteen
SUNDAY, MAY 8
44 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Ancestral blood bestows the Witch,
therein becomes the seed of power.
Rare and scarce is a Warlock’s gift,
the starving never last the hour.
—The Witches’ Book of Wisdom
An ungodly number of children crowd the kitchen of Knight Manor.
Momaw Frost always said, when everything’s going wrong, bake cookies. But inviting folks to a full-blown Mother’s Day cookie bake might not be what she meant.MaybeI didn’t have to make an irresponsible amount of cookie dough and tell everyone to bring their favorite maternal or parental representative (and cookie cutter).MaybeI didn’t have to serve banana Fluffernutter sandwiches and Shirley Temples.
Invitedmight be the wrong verb… Preyed on shameless curiosity?
Today, the gossip network of Foxe Holler is working in my favor. With help from the Kentucky fried coven group chat—and Ms. Buchanan, the chatterbox—we’ve successfully inveigled parents to bring their kids to a cookie bake. Turns out, if the food is free andthe mess happens elsewhere, folks become less wary of a definitely-not-haunted farmhouse and the spooky neighbor they’ve never met before, no matter what Pastor Webb is preaching.
It’s time the Warlock of Foxe Holler make his debut at a community event. Then, a certain boy can actually make friends that aren’t poodles.
This is how we ended up with a rugby team of kids at Knight Manor.
“When you said we’d host a handful of neighbors…” Warlock Knight frowns at me over the full kitchen table. Between us, kids roll and poke and strangle mountains of cookie dough. Everyone is most definitely eating more than they’re shaping. Especially Lazlo.
“I meant a Southern handful,” I say, placing doughy stars onto a baking sheet.
“Clearly,” Ms. Zeen crows over the buzz.
“If I had been honest about the number, you would’ve said no.”
His frown deepens. “Correct assumption, Ms. Frost.”
“Honey’s a baker, Mr. Knight,” Carolina says as she helps one child form an octopus. “Bakers have an entire concept based on calling thirteen a dozen.” For once, Carolina’s free of her scrubs, though she could’ve used them in this demolition zone of a cookie operating room. She’s here with an entire trunk of the Vázquez family tree. Ms. Marrow would’ve been here, but she’s visiting her daughter out of state.
Arna Jean looks up from coaching a girl on how to frost glasses onto her gingerbread person. Today’s hoodie declares, in a rainbow spectrum,SCRYING IN THE CLUB. “Which is why I audited the shop’s books each summer.”
“I’ll be offended by that later.” I’m too busy sprinkling flour onto sticky dough. No meltdowns over torn cookies, please and thank you.
A child screams.
Warlock Knight finds the missing dragon cookie cutter just before the tears can start.
I restrain a grin. As with Lazlo, the Warlock’s gruff moods that rub against my nerves like steel wool fade into mildly scratchy sandpaper around children.
A few parents look over at the scream, but it’s only out of habit now. When they witnessed Witches strolling into the Manor without fear, they seemed satisfied the magical beast of Holler legend wasn’t hungry for children. Sure, folks were on edge at first, eyeing the gargantuan ferns and palms like they could sense the flora is teething. But after some food and a lack of any murder, everyone relaxed. Their doubt is dwindling with our supply of cookie dough.
My plan might actually be working.
