“Y’all should be grateful I’m in overalls and not pajamas.”
“No blends,” Silas says. His sigh sounds like exhausted agreement. “Lead the way.”
The three of us return to the kitchen just as Lazlo says, “We have a doorbell?”
No one answers.
The Warlock and Ms. Zeen are too busy eyeing Silas, whom they haven’t met since he wasn’t at the cookie bake. Well, eyeing for Ms. Zeen. Wishing death with his corneas, for the Warlock.
I breeze over their chilly non-welcome. “This is Silas Key, the mayor’s assistant—”
“Associate,” Silas corrects.
“—assistant associate.”
“Hope you don’t mind the late RSVP,” Silas says with his usual confidence. “Honey invited us for Sunday supper.”
Warlock Knight’s stare hovers on him before landing heavily on me. “Did she.”
I’ve promised him no more surprise guests and voilà, here I am.Not as scary as you think, I mouth, hoping he can read lips.
Silas turns to me, unbothered, and holds up a signature white box with gold lettering. “We brought you a host gift. Alas, no flowers this time.”
“Modjeskas!” I cry.
The Warlock is less impressed. His hazel eyes narrow even more, if that’s possible. “Youbrought those flowers for Beltane.”
“From the mayor,” Silas explains. “A gift for her daughter.”
I don’t think the Warlock believes him. “Kingcup? Really?”
“It’s also called the—”
“The marsh marigold, I know. Bit of an uninspired choice.”
Silas smiles without his teeth. “Prickly. You and Honey must get along so well.”
I glare at the Warlock. Arna Jean bumps my elbow, whispering, “Does the entertainment have a two-drink minimum?”
Silas casually steps around the Warlock. “We’ll give these to the lovely lady here. Beauty before age.” He handsmygift box of marshmallowy caramel sin to Governess Zeen, who doesn’t seem to know what to do with her hands, or flattery in general.
“We only made enough food for four,” the Warlock declares.
“We have plenty,” I counter. “A Southern four is a metropolitan eight.”
“We’ll have to set additional places at the table—”
“I don’t mind!” Ms. Zeen dashes into action, grabbing utensils and napkins.
“How kind of you, Ms. Zeen,” the Warlock mutters.
Lazlo sandwiches himself next to Silas. He holds up two sticky palms like trophies. “You can judge the food and pick a winner. I made the dessert.” Wink.
Bless that kid and his de-escalating smiles. I’m relieved his little hands haven’t faded again, more, since the other night. “Silas, this is Lazlo, and Ms. Zeen. And this—”
“Mr. Knight.” The Warlock gives Silas one of those weird, curt man-nods. He doesn’t extend a hand. “The Warlock of Foxe Holler,” he adds, like a threatening doctorate degree.
Silas looks him up and down. “Oh, I thought you were the gardener.”
