“Listen but not forgive. Me or Mr. Knight,” Ms. Zeen answers. “The folks of Foxe Holler are quick to forget their neighbors when they need someone to blame, and blame is easier to cast for those of us without magic.”
“You don’t owe the town—or anyone—anything, Letha.”
I pretend not to listen, but I haven’t been able to get Ms. Zeen to tell me anything about herself, so maybe a friend can work a different kind of magic.
“He doesn’t think so, either. But I do.” The Governess sighs. “He never wanted this. One mistake, and it’s cost him everything, or it will. I’d hoped he learned from his parents, after—” She cuts off, eyeing me.
I’m caught.
What wasthatall about?
Ms. Buchanan looks back up at me. “And you—you push yourself too much.”
Her words have a knack for cueing the beginnings of my fatigue. I shrug them off. “I’m a Farewitch. I like to try hard.”Otherwise, I’m failing.
“Sugar, you have to care for yourself so you can care for others.”
“With respect, ma’am, that doesn’t work in every scenario.”
The old woman gives me the meanest side-eye. “You’ve gone above and beyond for the Warlock and that boy, two people you barely know. Even for a Farewitch. Why?”
Ms. Zeen is watching me, my shifting gaze, my complete inability to not follow the Warlock and Lazlo with my eyes at all times. “Hmph. I know that look.”
That’s when I realize something truly, inescapably terrible.
“Because I care about them,” I whisper. A helluva lot more than I bargained for.
Ms. Zeentsks. “Poor dear.”
Before I can respond, Carolina appears at my elbow. “I have the spell you asked for, Honey.”
Right. The next part of my plotting. Which doesn’t include getting attached.
Tearing my eyes from the gardens, I give the Hearthwitch a grateful smile.
And I try, oh so hard, to remember it’s agoodthing when someone can say goodbye to their Farewitch.
Chapter Seventeen
THURSDAY, MAY 12
40 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Sometimes the recipes you don’t make are more important than the ones you do.
Thursday morning, I’m deep in the library’s stacks, fueled with coffee and a plan.
I left everyone molasses baked oats on the stove so I won’t be bothered for a few hours. Lazlo mostly sticks to me like an adorable, pokey burr, but today he’s slept in, and now that the cookie bake is over and the Manor is calm again, I can finally put Carolina’s spell to good use.
Calm-ish. The house’s silence is never atrue, empty quiet. Ms. Zeen’s clacking heels or Lazlo’s laugh will float around corners, and the Warlock is only ever a glower away, watching to see what trouble I cause next. Like a heartbeat, the farmhouse thrums at the edge of my attention. It’s comforting to know someone is expecting to see me every morning.
Usually, I take my time in the stacks, hunting through shelves, grabbing any volume that looks exceptionally old. Which is a lot. The sheer collection of texts, magical and not… folks would be ecstatic if the Warlock opened his library to the public.
But today, I’m hunting for a single specific book.
