He receives two frosty looks.
“The fact is,” my mom continues, “the entire basis of a Farewitch’s occupation is caretaking at the expense of ourselves. What kind of person bakes all day long and is never allowed a taste of their own work? Their own bite of happiness?”
“People with eating disorders?”
“Lord Almighty, Silas, that was rhetorical.”
The hospital room falls into tense silence.
After a loud slurp of coffee, Silas stands. “Those should be by the window, Marigold. Not hiding on your nightstand. The sun is good for them.”
He moves a vase of flowers to the room’s windowsill. Marigolds. A lot of them. Must’ve come from a big garden. How’ve I not noticed them until now?
“Did you bring those?”
He shakes his head. “Not me this time.”
“The staff were giving some to all the patients,” Mom says. “Someone made an anonymous donation to the hospital this week.”
My neck practically lights on fire. Momaw’s voice rings in my head.Silly, silly girl.
The Warlock has always been honest about one thing: He doesn’t leave the Manor. And what do I do? Fault him for it.
What does he do?
The man sendsflowers.
Oh Lord. I’mthe worst.
Even as I stew in my chair, a delicate bud of appreciation for the Warlock blooms in my chest. Soon, Mom grows tired enough to nap, and Silas and I leave her in peace.
Outside, sunshine warms my cheeks before a breeze chases it away. Typical Southern spring. Clear skies for a cookout at noon, a vertical bath by three. Already brainstorming recipes, I cinch my corduroy barn coat tight, wishing for my favorite wingback in the Manor’s library. Definitely a chicken-and-dumplings kind of day. A dish good for bouts of sadness.
“See what I mean?” Silas says, buttoning his suit. “She’s like that all the time now.”
“Her morbid pragmatism is normal, but the existential resignation is new. Have her latest tests shown anything new?”
“Nothing definitive. Bloodwork so-so. Her numbers are still off.Moreoff. She tried to sign paperwork for me earlier, but her hand was shaking so badly, she couldn’t grip the pen. She got pissed. Remind me never to play darts against your mother.”
“A temper is a good sign for her.”
For once, Silas doesn’t have anything to say. The phenomenon is a bit nauseating. The man is meant to be chatty.
“Silas.”
“Hmm?” He looks up from his phone.
“Whatactuallychanged? Don’t avoid the question.”
“Why do you torture yourself?”
“It’s my favorite recipe.”
“You want to know? Truly? The cookie bake, of all things. It hit her this could be her last Mother’s Day as your mom.”
A renewed, icier chill stabs me in the back. I want to vomit. I wasn’t even thinking about that possibility—probably because I’ve refused to accept it.
“Please tell me this is the silence of thinking and not a panic attack.”
