It doesn’t escape me that most of the folks here today also happen to be regular customers of mine. Promising. I just hope the house will be on its best behavior. The grannies on our guest list won’t survive a stumble over an ornery rug.
“You’ll be pleased to know, Honey sugar, young Ms. Claywell is doing a mighty fine job with the Apothakery,” Ms. Buchanan says. She drops a morsel of dough for Beauregard, who’s lounging strategically between her and Lazlo.
Down the table, Arna Jean raises a container of sprinkles and her phone like twin Bavarian steins. She filled orders this morning, then closed up to join us, and she’s been taking video of the chaos when the light is just right,for content, she explains. The Apothakery has a small online following now,you’re welcome, according to her.
Two of my other favorite regulars are here as well. Noxie from Shirley Street, whom the church ladies refer to asa real hellcat, must not be too distraught over her husband’s missing-toe incident Silas mentioned to skip a cookie bake. Though she’s always pale and morose, so it’s hard to tell. Next to her is Eva Mae, whose warm brown skin shifts between pregnancy glow and absinthe. Her nausea keeps her close to the bathroom.
As my neighbors debate the Manor’s interior design—“Look at this wallpaper, surely one does not need a fern on every surface…” —I whip up some ambrosia salad in ten minutes flat and place it on the island. I step aside to safety as folks descend on the customary Southern offering for guests. They’re not vultures in a horseman-of-the-apocalypse kind of way, more the kind of scavenger that feeds on purse candy and coupons.
A sudden rush of appreciation threatens to make me as mushy as the coconut cream pie I made earlier for Noxie’s cat allergy. Here are neighbors who came all the way up here, despite possible retaliation from Webb and his followers in town. Heaven strike me well and good if I ever let them down.
Even if I have to sacrifice extra hours of sleep here and there.Extraextra.
Back at the table, I refill frosting bowls and roll out fresh dough, trying not to sneak glances at the Warlock, who’s been conned into helping Carolina’s little niece Anna shape a mermaid.
“I wish I was better at cookies,” Anna says. “Can you do that kind of wish?”
He’s nearly on his knees now so he can be at eye level with her. “Nonsense. I’ve never seen a better mermaid. And I’ve met real ones.” He winks.
The moment the kids found out the Warlock practices the Language of Small Wishes, there was no stuffing that biscuit back in its can. In Foxe Holler, most folks are only familiar with Witches’ practical magic, so all morning, kids have been pleading to see his power at work.
Anna gives a tiny smile. “But she’s globby. Like a walrus.”
“She’s just abstract,” Lazlo says, leaning over to inspect.
The kid was up at dawn this morning trying to iron the tiny waistcoat he’s wearing, until I swooped in before anyone lost an eyebrow. I’m right—he’s been lonely. Now he’s feasting on the activity and attention.
“And Small Wishes don’t work like that,” Lazlo adds, accidentally drenching his lap in sprinkles. “Mr. Knight says,You can’t wish for solved problems, only problem-solving. LikeI wish the dough was colder. Or cold hands work, too. That’s what Honey told me.”
My heart seizes at his smile, which is sweeter than the marshmallow mess that is a Fluffernutter. I can’t with this kid.
This kid, who just has one guardian left. Maybe I was a little harsh on the Warlock last week. Why should I assume a Farewitch can’t fix a curse like any other affliction? Especially a curse that acts like a physical ailment? Any good Witch knows how finicky magic is.
It’s taken three decades on this earth, but I’ve gotten good at managing mine. I know the cost for me is more than just the energy needed for standing and stirring. Bigger recipes, more complex memories, need more energy I can’t just make up with a snack or cup of coffee. A solid day of baking demands a full night’s sleep. The inflow and outflow are as familiar to me as the Apothakery.
But I’m not sure I’ll ever know this Manor like I know the shop. The Warlock and his house churn with ingredients that are galaxies outside my comfort zone.
“Is your mom really the mayor?” comes a voice at my elbow.
I can’t recognize whose kid he is under all the flour. “She is. Mayor Frost baked cookies with me like this when I was your age.”
“Told you,” Lazlo says with all the proud satisfaction of a kid who knows he picked the right parent for a career-day presentation. He gives Beauregard aGood boyand a treat.
Eva Mae looks up from decorating a horseshoe-shaped cookie. “You know, I haven’t seen Mayor Frost in months.”
“Perhaps she’s avoiding Pastor Webb. I would,” Ms. Zeen says, nursing a cup of English breakfast next to Ms. Buchanan. Those two haven’t stopped whispering, heads bent, since the kettle went off. It’s hard to imagine, but maybe Ms. Zeen is also a smidge lonely.
“I can’t believe that man,” Carolina seethes. “Managing to get myBeltane bonfire canceled because of some bureaucratic nonsense. Do I have some words for him—”
“When children aren’t present,” Eva Mae chimes in. That girl was born fifty.
Ms. Buchanan smacks the table, startling a few of the kids. “He won’t let us sing any of the good hymns anymore. He cut out ‘All Is Well with My Soul’ last week for another rant about the dangers of magic.”
Arna Jean rolls her eyes, positioning bottles of sprinkles for a picture. “He can’t be more dangerous than Noxie’s aim.”
“RJ!” Eva Mae scolds, stifling laughter. Even Ms. Zeen blows on her tea to disguise a grin. I catch Noxie’s slightly off-kilter smile. She’s eerily quiet, this one. Like the skeleton hanging in the Halloween-decoration corner of any suburban basement.
Ms. Buchanan nods at Noxie. “If anyone’s in need of the Widow Witch’sservices, it’s you, girl. That fellow was rotten right out of the pack. I know the options are thin here in the Holler, but get yourself a new one.” She turns her sharp eyes on the Warlock. “I know a few eligible bachelors yet.”
