I studied and organized and routined my way through college. Graduated and tucked in to the usual tasting menu of odd jobs and sporadic travel until my savings grew crumb dry and I hunted for the next job. But in a chaotic layering of events I can only picture as shoddy croissant laminating, Foxe Holler’s long-standing mayor died and my one and only mother, Marigold Frost, somehow got herself appointed the next.
When I came home for the funeral, I first remember feeling glad (stunned) my mom was close enough friends with someone to attendtheir funeral. Because of our workload, Farewitches just don’t end up with close relationships. Second came unease. I found the Apothakery was barely afloat. Typical Frost, my mom deluded herself into thinking she could conjure up the time and energy for a hundred-hour workweek. The third feeling was… I realized something waswrongwrong when my mom could no longer lift her own skillet.
A Farewitch’s cast iron is her ancestors’, seasoned with generations of flavor and literal magic that seeps into every new morsel of food. It’s the foundation of our altars and the Sisyphus boulder we haul again and again from a hot oven, year after year, decade after decade.
So the only heir in the Frost Farewitch line—me—donned an apron, filled the vacancy, and stayed. But this was the job. A holler needs a Farewitch.ThisHoller needsthisFarewitch.
Like I said, no pressure.
At the farmhouse sink, I splash cold water on my neck and avoid looking at the old Frost family kitchen grimoires strewn across the table in the center of the room. That mess is for later. One step in a recipe at a time. Folks are hungry.
I cut the cornbread into plump golden bricks on a tray. In the hands of a Farewitch, cornbread can cure the common cold or general under-the-weather malaise. Mom has a stunning recipe with an old incantation to go along with it that makes the bread particularly buttery and makes it work faster than unregulated Sudafed.
A breeze, awfully cold for April, slithers into the kitchen through the back door I left open for air. I shiver.
True to Ms. Buchanan’s gossip, Gertha Fudge is on a tear lately, claiming the unusual season of spring colds is the work of bad magic, specifically that of the frightful old Warlock living alone up at the edge of the Holler. She’s got the other church ladies echoing her, too. Although folks tend to blame him for all of the Holler’s bad weather, now that I think about it. Rain? Angry Warlock. Hail? Warlock with a migraine. Tornado? Warlock with a vendetta.
Not that I’m complaining—more colds mean more cornbread. Better for business. I should give him a discount on snickerdoodles. That is, if he ever left his tomb of a house.
This is the one oddity I’ve not been able to figure out in my thirty-one years, even having grown up here: Not once, with eyes or scrying mirror, have I ever seen this Warlock. Not at the farmers’ market, the post office, or even the courthouse, where a person must theoretically have to renew a driver’s license once in a while. Or, most importantly, in my shop.
Everyoneshops here. If it weren’t for the other rumors—about his extensive archive of magical tomes—I’m not sure I’d believe he exists. Sometimes, I hope those whispers are true, since the Holler’s one library burned down when I was little. But no matter what Gertha Fudge tries to make the Holler believe, I’m more frightened one of my long blonde hairs will wind up in the banana pudding than of some stuffy old loner Warlock who may or may not be tampering with seasonal allergy patterns.
I steel my nerves, take a few breaths, grounding myself in the comforting buttery atmosphere. Strong as cast iron. I let the peace and quiet of the kitchen work its own charm. Food is magic, and so is alone time. Hunger pangs tickle my belly button, but I ignore them. Brain on, stomach off. I need to remember: Everything I do is for my mom.
I glance at the mountain of recipe books again. Everything is for her.
Into the fire again, then.
As I carry out the steaming cornbread, my famished customers are exactly where I left them. I spend the next hour stuck in the looping cul-de-sac of Southern small talk. Ms. Buchanan doesn’t leave, but she at least moves to a table where her poodle is safe from heavy boots and sharp church heels. I sell ambrosia salad for cravings, coconut cake for allergies—plant, not pet; that’s coconutcream pie—and chocolate chess pie for a dose of randy spirit in the bedroom.
Farmer Kelsey pays for his chess pie in wrinkled bills that smell loamy. He’s been with his missus for thirty years, as he reminds me every time he visits, like I could forget. “How’s that cookbook you’re writing coming along?” he asks today.
I cringe on the inside. That. Right. “Oh, it’s going. Going somewhere.” Another project I don’t have time for. I tie his box with a saucy silk red ribbon. “You two eat this together now, you hear? Date night.”
Sometimes I fantasize about what it would be like to have what these two have. It doesn’t even have to be now. I’m only thirty-one. I could wait five years, ten…
“You know,” he begins, and I feel my stomach drop. “My nephew is single—”
Oh no.
“—and you don’t have tomarryhim, by any means, but—”
No no no. I know the nephew he means, and… no thank you. Anything but this.
Then to my surprise and to the shock of everyone in the Apothakery that morning,anythinghappens.
The shop door blows open on another chilly gust of wind, hinges squealing.
Dark mist shrouds the entire Apothakery in a creeping plume and the sunlight disappears. Everything yellow turns a dull purple in the changing light and it suddenly feels like midnight, not noon. Folks squirm to the perimeter of the small shop to avoid the mysterious mist. The fog hovers, not quite reaching my patrons or the corners of the room. Finally, it stops spreading.
Ominous, but I’m more concerned the obsidian smoke will change the flavor of any exposed baked goods. I really hope Gertha Fudge isn’t right about troublesome Witches and Warlocks. She’d never let anyone live it down.
As I am areads the menu ahead of timekind of girl, surprise is not my favorite feeling. Do I have a recipe for shock? Probably involves ashwagandha and some moonlight.
I swing around the counter, grab an empty sheet pan for defense, and face the fog. Is it just me, or does the mass seem… cranky? I hesitate momentarily but Momaw and my mom wouldn’t tolerate a threat like this, so I won’t, either. I’m not going to be the Frost who loses the family shop to acloud.
But then the mist dissipates with aPOPbefore I can swing at it. Shock dusts every face in my periphery when a black envelope falls to the floor at my feet.
