I can’t help my satisfied smirk. “And you said a cookie bake couldn’t be done.”
“I saidshouldn’tbe done. Forgive me for assuming no one would want to visit this tomb of a house.”
“But?”
“But,” he sighs, “against all odds, no one appears distressed by the presence of a Warlock at a children’s confectionary social.”
My triumph doesn’t last long. It’s good news, but it conjures that same feeling I had seeing Arna Jean’s confused look at the market. This unease that the memories folks have of the Warlock are all based in rumor, the lore hovering only on the surface like the frothy broth on top of simmering soup. I wonder, when our guests leave the Manor, will they still think of him as the beastly old monster with treacherous magic? Will they even remember the man currently wiping tiny flour handprints off his elephant ear plants?
“I admit, it’s nice to see Lazlo laughing so much,” the Warlock says, saving me from my garbage disposal of thoughts.
I don’t say a word, lest I break the spell. Let it be known I, Farewitch Honey Frost, got the Warlock of Foxe Holler to use the wordnice.
Sweet tea made, I fan myself with a dishcloth. With so many bodies in the hot kitchen, I’m lightheaded, my temples warm with sweat.
He eyes me. “You should rest a moment. You haven’t eaten all day.”
“I’m fine, I’ll eat when everything quiets down. Speaking of, Eva Mae’s insomnia is flaring up and I need to whip up—”
“Ms. Frost, not three minutes ago you poured Lazlo a mug of Moscato and Ms. Buchanan a glass of chocolate milk. I insist.”
Oh dear.
To be honest, I’ve been enjoying this too much to stop. The buzzy kitchen reminds me of the Apothakery, which keeps my brain from lingering on the laundry list of problems to solve.
“Tell you what,” I say. “I’ll eat something if you take off your gloves.”
He looks at me like he’s been stung by an annoying bee. I smirk. I’m going to win this. He’ll never—
Finger by finger, he peels off his gloves.
What. Is.Happening.
Even Ms. Zeen looks over, as if she senses something terribly wrong. The universe is collapsing, that’s what.
Forearm muscles tense, the Warlock looks almost… relieved? I’ve never once seen his hands and they’re… normal. Dirt hides under his short nails. So hedoestake them off when he’s gardening alone. And no wedding ring. For those (me) at home wondering. Not that it matters. Purely for fact-gathering purposes.
“I expected claws,” I blurt before I can bite my silly tongue. And if he did have them? Claws are probably good for digging up dirt for new flowers.
“Warlocks don’t scratch, Ms. Frost. We bite.”
My face warms, and then I’m thinking about the drink we shared last week. I eyeballed my ceiling well into the witching hour that night because I couldn’t stop picturing that silly dollop of whipped cream on his lip.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he drawls, “I’m going to locate one of those godawful marshmallow sandwiches for you.”
As I watch him go, I feel ready to tip sideways. Maybe I do need a snack.
For the next hour, I wash sticky hands, rescue cookies from the floor before Beauregard pounces, and lead supervised treks to the bathroom so we don’t lose a kid Willy Wonka–style, just in case the house decides to try something.
Occasionally, I make eye contact with the Warlock across the room. Okay, a lot more than occasionally. Our chat left me feeling very…very. I take an aggressive bite of the Fluffernutter sandwich he brought me whenever he looks over. He just smirks, looking entirely too pleased with himself. I can’t take my eyes off his hands.
Slowly, the sharp pang of missing my mom goes fromneedletodull fork tine.
Soon, a sugar high hits all parties under four feet tall, and it takesme and Arna Jean twenty minutes to corral the kids outside to work off their fidgets. A few parents make the great sacrifice of offering to chaperone, and the Warlock joins them, though I suspect he just wants to escape for fresh air. Can’t blame him. One can take only so many shrieks measuring decibels close to the pain threshold.
The rest of us tidy the kitchen. While I sweep up sprinkles Ms. Zeen will find until Christmas, I snatch pieces of the ongoing conversation at the table.
“How old do you think I am?” Carolina is saying. “Hedgewitches have longer than normal lifespans, not Hearthwitches. Trust me, I wasn’t born when this farmhouse went up.”
