He shakes his head. “You often apologize for knowing things. It’s a poor habit you should break.”
The next sip of wine goes right to my warm cheeks. “It’s less book, more hobby. I’ve been too busy to finish the thing. Although I’ve been able to test way more recipes here than in my tiny apartment. I’d kill to live in this kitchen.”
“You do live in this kitchen, Ms. Frost.”
“That’s… beside the point.”
He sighs, but it’s halfhearted. One might even sayaffectionately irritated.
“You sent marigolds to my mom.” This is my interrogation, after all. “Despite calling them—what was it?—an uninspired choice.”
“Is that a question?”
“More an observation of a disruption to a historically proven routine.”
He buys time with a long sip of his wine. Then, “Why did you hide her illness from me?”
My fork clatters on my plate. How did he turn this third-degree interview into one of his own so fast? “I didn’t want you to think I took this job because you might cure my mom. You asked for a Farewitch’s help, I answered as a Farewitch.”
Thirtyeightdaysuntilthesummersolstice.
“So why spend your time here with me when you could be with her?”
Another question, but one I’ve battled all my life, really. Here or there. School or Apothakery. Big wide world or home. I opt for the truth.
“Farewitches can’t keep trying the same old recipes if they’re not working. Some variable has to change. So I need new material. A lot of it. The texts in your library are one of a kind. Some Witches use spells, Farewitches need recipes.”
His head tilts, curious. “That’s why you need access to the restricted section. Why we were arguing over spoonbread.”
“Which you can admit was excellent, by the way.”
“It was adequate.”
I resist the urge to wad up my napkin and toss it at his skull. Before I can formulate a better retort, he stands and takes our wiped-clean plates to the sink. He returns with a massive cast-iron skillet of bubbling shakshuka.
Eggs swim in the tomato sauce like little suns in roiling lava, and golden-brown biscuits flecked with herbs rest between them. The Southern part of Southern shakshuka. The biscuits are soaking upgobs of spicy sauce, and my stomach growls even though we’ve just eaten a few pounds of tomatoes between the two of us.
Lazlo follows behind the Warlock, wiggling his eyebrows in anticipation. A bowl of mac and cheese jiggles in his arms. “I made mac, too. It’s my favorite.”
“You’ve had dinner, right?” I ask him.
“Oh yeah. I had four bowls of popcorn.” His smile blips. “Don’t tell Ms. Zeen.”
The Warlock adds the side dish to the table and winks at his ward. Or me. I can’t tell. “Don’t worry. Warlocks are very good at keeping secrets.”
When Lazlo scurries away, we dive in.
The new order of fun goes: farmers’ markets,this shakshuka, then sex.
“Biscuits are super versatile, you know,” I say, still battling to get another smile out of him. “Buttermilk cheddar biscuits will fix a sprained ankle. Biscuits and gravy? Broken bones. Biscuits with honey butter?”
“Let me guess, broken ego?”
“Broken heart.”
Lovely laugh lines come alive around his mouth just before he stifles the grin. I bite my lip to avoid the temptation to gloat. Doesn’t matter. He knows I won, anyway.
Tomato and egg in one cheek, biscuit in the other, I swallow and rip off the next Band-Aid while I’m ahead and have him at ease. “You know what’s strange?”
