Even if I’ve just been insulted… she’s right. There are no jewel tones in my future. I slip the delicate fabric over my skin. Ms. Zeen has an hourglass figure I don’t, so I grab the tie from one of my aprons and fasten it around my waist in a small bow.
Now I look more cocktail hour than sleepover. Better.
We study my appearance in the mirror. Ms. Zeen tilts her head. “Acceptable.”
That is a thousand out of ten coming from the old woman. This could be a rare window of camaraderie. Watching her in the safety of the mirror, I ask, “How did you wind up at Knight Manor, Ms. Zeen?”
“The house needed a caretaker, and I needed a house.”
I pretend to fiddle with the bow so she thinks I’m making innocent small talk. She’ll close up like a clam if she thinks I’m genuinely curious. “You weren’t the Governess when Mr. Knight was growing up?”
“No, I arrived long after Mr. Knight was officially a practicing Warlock. He grew busy consulting on curse magic and needed assistance with his research. But he still had dismal manners. Took him years to learn how not to enrage the senior Warlocks of the Eldercraft.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. Something tells me she’s gotten plenty of pay raises over the years. “And when Lazlo arrived?”
“Mr. Knight, handle the boy alone? Can youimagine. Anarchy.” She gives me the barest grin. Then it vanishes. Must be some warping in the mirror.
“So you’ve stayed, all these years? For the Warlock.”
“I owed Mr. Knight a favor. Even if he does not agree. Besides,why would I live in town with all the noise and gossip when I can live here, in the peace and quiet?” Her lips purse. “Before you moved in, that is.”
I ignore the jab. “Gertha Fudge not your ideal neighbor, then?”
Ms. Zeen breathes the sigh of a weary woman. “Gertha’s just angry. And angry women are usually right about something.”
Can’t argue there. There’s a lot of anger going around. “I’m glad Lazlo makes the Warlock happy. Or, lessunhappy.”
“He does. But the boy is only here because of unfortunate circumstances. Mr. Knight would rather he not have needed to come at all.”
Right. Lazlo’s parents.
“Word of advice, Ms. Frost. The more you avoid growing attached to him, the easier things will be.”
My gut churns. Does she mean Lazlo, or the Warlock? “You make it sound like he’s going somewhere.” I don’t specify who I mean, either.
Before she turns away, she tucks in the dress’s tag against my spine. A lance of sadness runs right through my ribs. The gesture reminds me of Momaw. “You’re going to be late.”
Conversation over. I deflate, and don’t point out it’s hard to be late for a dinner in my own kitchen.
When she’s gone and I’m alone again, I wrestle my bangs and fuss over my stress chin acne in the mirror, not sure why I even care. I can’t fathom how Arna Jean has the stamina for eyeliner every day. Why did I even agree to this dinner in the first place?
Easy. The more I know about a patient, the more I can connect lifestyle dots and personalize treatment. I wonder if the Warlock will ever let me see another memory, or if I’ll have to decipher him like a faded recipe for the dwindling days he has left.
Much too soon, there’s a knock, precisely at nine.
With a tissue, I dab the nervous sweat pooling under my arms. Why am I so anxious?
Just. Dinner.Relax.
When I open the door, Warlock Knight is at the threshold, loom-brooding as usual. That’s about all that’s usual, though.
No dirt, no sweaty bandana. He’s in a white button-down with a band collar, loafers instead of boots, and his forest-green slacks have a freaking pleat. His black hair rests snugly in a tie at the back of his neck, wild strands tamed away from his face. No gardening gloves in sight, but his hands are hiding, clenched in his pockets. Like he’s making an effort to focus.
I stare. And stare. He’s looking very much like notjust dinner. Oh boy.
Oh boy, Momaw Frost echoes in my head.
“Evening.” His mouth is a familiar severe line, but I’m glad. I don’t know what I’d do with a scowl-free Warlock.
