Like its name suggests, spoonbread bakes as a lump, like a soft scone. No slicing—just spoonfuls from a communal skillet. It’s best served with friends. I wait for some trace of recognition on his face. Or applause—either works.
But he frowns. Andfrowns. Wrinkles sprout across his features. His fingers twitch toward his gloves. I can’t smell the spoonbread anymore, like my taste buds ran for the hills.
“Where did you get the recipe for this?” His voice is low and terse.
“Your library.”
“You mean you stole it. From the restricted section. After I told you about my mother, my family. After I asked you not to trespass.”
“Orderedme, you mean,” I retort.
“Fine. Ordered. Which you disobeyed. You’re my employee, a guest here, and I’ve implored you to respect the boundaries that I maintain to keep this Manor running—”
“Walls. You have walls. Not boundaries.”
“Do not debate semantics with me, Ms. Frost. We’re having an argument.”
I throw down my oven mitt. The soft, puffy sound is dreadfully unsatisfying. “I’ve had enough lectures from the men of the Holler lately; I don’t need one from you. You insist a crucial resource—part of our agreement,sir—is off-limits, and I want a reason. Now.”
“Becauseis a good reason. Those archives are restrictedbecause. That is where they stay out of the way, where they have been for decades, where they belong.”
I might have stayed angry if his voice didn’t waver onbelong.
My thoughts go lumpy, like bad batter, and my mistake hits me like a lobbed frozen pound cake. The locked bookshelf in the library isn’t a treasure chest full of cookbooks for my entertainment. They’re family artifacts. He lived alone in this house before Ms. Zeen came along. How long, is the question. How long can someone grieve, and grieve alone, before the walls begin to feel like home?
The purple of the yam now looks terribly like knockoff Play-Doh. Food can conjure the best memories. Or the worst.
“What do you need so badly from that bookshelf anyway?” he mutters.
“The recipes in there are old. I doubt a Farewitch has ever looked at them. One of them could save you.”
Does he care?
Cold hazel eyes rise to meet mine. “Could they also save your mother?”
That sends the remaining teaspoon of my good mood down the sink.
He knows. He knows and he’s going to fire me now for sure.
Somehow, that makes my mom’s situation all the more real. I nod weakly. “Maybe. I can’t know if I don’t try.”
“I’m assuming a Farewitch, like a Warlock, can’t cure herself with her own magic?”
“Theoretically, it’s possible. But we have to be focused for a recipe to be strong. If I’m feeling off, the magic won’t work. Think of it like taking a test with a fever. I can do it, but I’m barely gonna pass. C plus material.”
As I explain, he just listens, no advice or false encouragement. He looks like he might want to ask more questions, but decides against it. I’m grateful we’re not lingering on the topic.
A sigh crawls out of him. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for leaving after three weeks. Hell, three days.”
Just sayThank you for staying, infuriating man. “Well, you are paying me, sir.”
“Is it enough?”
“I can manage my finances fine, thanks.”
“That’s not what I—” He cuts off, some decision crossing his face. “During your interview, I was cross with you. I was… unnerved by your memory affinity. But I would never make light of you. Your magic.”
I think he just complimented me.
