Soon, the locked enclave of books looms before me. The hum of anxiety in my mind fades into a literal buzzing vibration. It’s coming from the locked stacks. A soft purr, as if the books behind the iron bars are whispering to me, encouraging me to explore.
It’s surprisingly easy to break in. That is, with the spell my favorite Hearthwitch, Carolina Vázquez, gave me for tricky locks.
The gate swings open.
There’s no sign at all the cage was ever out to grill me like a kebab. But I don’t want to test the time limit on the house’s docile mood, so I immediately go for the book that caught my attention days ago. Dessert first.
TheFoxe Holler Yonder.
The first thing I learn is, I’m right: The archival volume contains whole issues and clippings, from a single year of our town’s history, twenty-five years ago.
The front page doesn’t disappoint: The library fire is the only article above the fold.
The Foxe Holler Library burned shortly after midnight and was a pile of ash by sunrise. As far as authorities know, the fire has claimed the lives of two victims, who likely gained entry after the librarian locked the facility at the usual closing time…
It’s got facts but not much journalistic investigation. There’s one mention of the mayor—Ewing Summer, my mom’s predecessor—refusing to comment on accusations and community suspicion that a Witch or Warlock and “rogue” magic were responsible. Instead, he mentions plans to raise funds to rebuild. Which never happened.
No wonder Ms. Zeen got so worked up on Sunday. Since I was only about three when it burned down, I never got the details firsthand. Lord, I hope the two folks who died weren’trelatedto the Governess. I’ve never even asked if she has family.
The rest of the thin volume covers news from the year and community announcements. But for the most part, the saved articles areof dismal affairs. Deaths and crop problems, almanac predictions that proved accurate, missing animals, storms and vicious floods. Similar to the town’s rumors about the Warlock.
I flip back to the library fire. There. I spot a tiny line of ink, faded with time, under a black-and-white photo of the smoldering shell of the library. I missed the caption before.
The Foxe Holler Library the morning after the fire. The victims of the fire are believed to have been a couple, survived by a child.
TheYonderdoesn’t mention names, which is odd for a small town. This is the only article about the fire. No follow-up pieces with any identities released to the public. A dead end.
My mind thumps along with my erratic heartbeat and my skin succumbs to a chill, even though noon should be approaching. I begin to feel like I’m not just perusing archives, but holding someone’s personal and very depressing scrapbook. Someone keeping track of all the terrible things they couldn’t prevent.
Or the terrible things they’ve done.
If Arna Jean were here, she’d be able to sense the emotions hiding within the pages. Whether they were violent or more melancholy, full of guilt. But I don’t want to risk taking the book out of the farmhouse, so I banish the thought of bringing her even further into my messes.
The rest of the restricted books are underwhelming, so I shift my attention to possible recipes and cures. I expected these locked bookshelves to imprison dangerous spell books, family ledgers of misdeeds, bestiaries. All number of Warlock-y texts.Warlock Knight’s Big Bad Book of Grudges Old, New, and Permanent. I’d read that one.
Instead, I just find the contents of any family’s basement: photo albums of grainy memories, property deeds, birth certificates with tiny footprints, farmers’ almanacs, tickets to performances gone by, blueprints the house has rebelliously outgrown.
And handwritten recipes. Some are even in elegant Chinese characters. Finally, tucked between other handwritten recipes, I stumbleon a particular list of ingredients, the delicate cursive script winking up at me.
Nowwe’re getting somewhere. A plan takes shape.
Back in the kitchen, an hour slips by, and then I’m putting the finishing touches on my idea. A kiss of cinnamon and a first-snow dusting of powdered sugar—
“Have you slept at all since Sunday, Ms. Frost?”
Turning from the stove, I find Warlock Knight at the kitchen island. Dewy sweat mists his forehead and the prominence of the sun spots on his cheeks tells me he’s been gardening all morning. May seeds will sprout vegetables, fruits, and blooms for months. He’s in his element, and it suits him.
It suits himverywell. My face heats even though the oven’s off.
As his bright hazel eyes study me, I yank my traitorous gaze back under control before the need to accost him with sunscreen wins out over any common sense I have left.
“No time. We’re on a schedule. Farewitches rarely rest.”
“So I’ve noticed.” He sets his gloves on the island. We’ve reached an agreement since the cookie bake: I promise to eat some of everything I make, and he removes his gloves in the kitchen.
The tiniest bit pleased with myself, I slide a cooling skillet onto the island.
Ube spoonbread, from what I’m positive is his grandmother’s very recipe.
