I release a breath, ruffling my bangs. Like the undercooked center of a cake, there’s no avoiding this. Eventually we’d eat our way here. “He said I’d be compensatedhandsomely.”
“Ha! Lies. That Warlock’s been hoarding money and magic in that decrepit old mansion for decades. Centuries, who knows. Doesn’t spend a single wheat penny.”
“If he really is as old and powerful as everyone says, what’s the harm in a quick checkup?”
“Ignoring the fact he’s been a blight on this Holler for as long as anyone can remember?”
“Canthey remember?” The Holler has a growing population of old women whose memories are selective. “He might be familiar with cures, or magic we’ve never seen before. Combined with our recipes, it might make a difference…”
“And what’s the isolation done to his mind? He could be eating cute young blondes for dinner. He certainly isn’t going to the Piggly Wiggly for groceries.”
This is getting ridiculous. We don’t evenhavea Piggly Wiggly.
But logic doesn’t matter here. Because for as long as Witches have been butting heads in this town with anti-magic zealots like Gertha Fudge, they’ve liked Warlocks even less.
Small towns might warm up to grassroots magic and neighborhood Witches, but powerful beings like Warlocks don’t usually settle in one place, where their magic wouldn’t have room to expand and consume. History shows us Warlocks often monetize what Witches are already good at, then demonize midwives and kitchen girls for those very same skills. That rivalry is why the Witches in this Holler will withstand the threat of the Widow Witch and the damage her reputation does for magic, butheaven forbida Warlock sends a letter.
I square my shoulders and try to look as mature as possible in overalls. “I know Warlocks have disappointed us before. We paid them to help cure Momaw, and they gave us a whole bunch of nothing.I know. But I also know what bills got paid or didn’t based on the groceries in the fridge.” I gesture around the room we basically mortgage. “We live in a town smaller than the population of a liberal arts college, Mom. The Apothakery is busy, but if five people go vegan, we won’t be able to afford ingredients, and we sure as hell can’t pay the hospital.”
“Vegan? Here? Girl, Beulah Buchanan thinks we still use lard in the pie dough, and I don’t have the heart to correct her…”
“Mom.”
“Honey, I’m going to be too tired to argue with you soon.” She downs the rest of her Cheerwine. “Focus on the Apothakery, on our neighbors. The good folks we know. Do not accept the Warlock’s offer.”
Is that an order?I want to snap, my frustration surfacing. Or my hunger.
When she crosses her arms, I know the conversation is over.
“Shouldn’t you be out on a Saturday night?” she adds, like she’s just asking me for a mint and not commanding me to avoid a mysterious and treacherous ancient Warlock in an isolated danger-palace far from everything and everyone I know.
I slump back in my chair. I’d call her out on the lousy diversion if I weren’t so tired. “With who? Ms. Buchanan and her poodle?”
“I don’t know, adate. Just because we Frosts don’t take husbands—”
“Word choice.”
“—or partners, doesn’t mean we have to be celibate.”
“Ew, Mom, really?Word choice.”
The Frost women before me have always gotten away with tolerating men just long enough to keep the Farewitch line going. Our family’s tradition is the source of consternation for the conservative old church ladies, who love to gossip aboutpromiscuousWitches. Because of the Widow Witch, we Frosts aren’t the only folks in the Holler who dodge marriage, but the church ladies are too afraid of the Witch to make a true fuss over neighbors living in unmarried dens of sin. Feeling conflicted about this no-win scenario is one of their top-five hobbies.
“Just don’t spend all night looking at all those old recipe books and family grimoires,” my mom adds. “I’ve told you before, you won’t find anything in there.”
Same argument, same ending. I want to holler in frustration. Our kitchen grimoires are our bibles.What if we missed something? What ifImissed something?These thoughts keep me from sleeping most nights.
Especially considering the Farewitch of Foxe Holler is a fraud.
Sure, I can cure concussions with apple dumplings, inflammation with butternut squash, a bloody nose with hush puppies, and the flu with burgoo. I can hold my own with remedies that keep the Holler running. But if I can’t puzzle out the mysterious wasting disease eating away at the woman who raised me, and the woman who raised her, what kind of Farewitch am I?
I don’t get the chance to mount a final protest because at that exact moment my nemesis walks in.
Silas Key, I can admit, is an objectively stylish force in his usual three-piece pinstripe suit, which today he’s traded for a linen version for the warmer April weather. But that doesn’t matter, because every time I see him, he looks increasingly like a formidable mayor while my mom looks less and less like one.
“Silas,” I say. More of a grunt than a greeting.
Bless his heart, he tries to smile, but my scowl probably doesn’t make it easy. “Ah, Honey. Delightful.”
