He’s my mom’s number two, the person who would take her place when she… if she, I mean… Well, in so many words, Silas is me. Marigold Frost goes around collecting people-pleasing young folks to fill her chef’s clogs.
But my mom doesn’t need a Silas, a number two. She’s going to get better; I’ll see to it. Even if it means Idon’tavoid a mysterious and treacherous ancient Warlock in an isolated danger-palace far from everything and everyone I know.
Silas brushes a perfect comma of blond hair off his forehead. “I’m sorry to interrupt the obviously jolly energy in the room, but I need our mayor to sign a few documents.”
“Too tired,” my mom sighs.
“Marigold.”
“Silas.”
“Marigold, do we have to argue like an old married couple every time I need you to do a single clerical task? You’re still the mayor on a Saturday, you know.”
“Frosts don’t have husbands—”
“Or partners,” I interject.
“—or partners, Silas, you know that. And I enjoy our bickering.”
He rolls a pair of brown eyes. “So you’re not too tired for that?”
“We’d never work, anyway. Marriage would take the fun out of this.”
“To clarify, would that be because of our quarter-century age gap, or the fact that I’m looking for ahusband?”
My mom throws out a hand. “Fine. Hand them here. You can entertain me with the story of your latest date, because my daughter isn’t going on any.”
Her assistant slash number two slash secretary grimaces as if he’s recalling a particularly terrible memory. Interesting.
“I need to talk with Honey while you sign.” He sets a manila folder on my mom’s blanketed legs and turns to me. “Mind if we speak outside?”
Every private conversation I’ve had with Silas always ends with the terrible taste of bad news in my mouth. Suddenly, I crave nothing more than the butter haze of the Apothakery’s warm yellow kitchen. My skin is freezing over in this place.
“Actually, I’m late for a date with my apartment.”
“What, a whole jar of cornichons and a book with subpar smut you’ve read ten times already?” He looks at me like Mom does and it’s not a stare I appreciate.
“Don’t dismiss my refined palate.”
“You see your apartment all day. You sleep where you work. I just need five minutes.”
Resisting the urge to grumble, I give my mom a kiss goodbye. Visiting hours always taste a little of guilt. Just because I like being alone on a Saturday night doesn’t meansheenjoys spending so much time alone. I get to go home to a robe and a container of reject cookie scraps in the freezer. She has to stay here.
I slip into the hallway with Silas.
When we’re alone, he looks me up and down—is that dissatisfaction with my overalls? Not today, sir—and smooths the waistcoat of his suit. I know he’s only a few years older than me, so I despise how consistently put together this guy is. We’re supposed to be equally stressed and overworked. The code of thirtysomethings.
Where’s hismessy?
He clears his throat. “Can we be friends?”
“You’re preparing yourself to replace my mom.”
“Like I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m simply trying to create contingency plans here. I’ve been your mom’s mentee for six, going on seven, years. You’re both in denial, but you’ve got to trust I can handle this responsibility.”
Now, as can be summarized so far, I don’t usually stoop to gossip. But in a holler where the phone lines fold in storms, access to any network could blink out from one gravel road to the next, and many folks simply don’t trust the devil’s tool of Wi-Fi, sometimes gossip is the most efficient form of communication.
A cast-iron skillet is my weapon of choice, but I go for my backup—information. “Like how you handled that date of yours last Saturday night?”
