“Whatever Carolina was saying about me, she’s fibbing. I’m a star patient.”
Marigold Frost is all stern nods and raised eyebrows to anyone who doesn’t know her, but a smile slips through for me. Her graying-blonde hair rests in a plait over her shoulder, since Farewitches know ponytails stir up headaches after a long day in the kitchen. She was once a plump woman from sampling her concoctions as she went. But now, she’s not so much warm loaf of bread as, well, breadstick.
When I came home, I thought she was just pale and thin from the stress of being the Holler’s new mayor. But back then, our biggest heartbreak was still only Momaw’s death, and we were both blessedly naïve.
After giving her a hug, I take my usual seat by her bed. “How is Mayor Frost this evening?”
“Fit as ever. I could debone a duck right now if you needed one.”
My gaze narrows on her. We’ve got the same blue eyes and pale skin, which means the same purple eye bags when we’re utterly spent. But my mom has always been a better liar than me.
Marigold Frost, current mayor, has overseen Foxe Holler with the thoroughness and care of a chef in her kitchen.
Marigold Frost, former Farewitch and my mom, is also dying.
The lead apron came for Momaw Frost but stayed for my mom.
She pats the bag I brought with me. “Did you—”
I pull out a bottle of Cheerwine, cold and sweating. A spark lights her eyes. She downs the sugary drink in crisp gulps. In a recipe for Marigold Frost’s immediate happiness, Cheerwine is the first ingredient.
“They don’t give me any of the good stuff,” she says after draining half the bottle. “You’re telling me Jell-O is better for my health than this?”
I don’t argue, giving in to a shiver instead. The room is chilly enough that it would be a good place to work with buttery biscuit or pie dough, but other than that, this place reminds me of a meat fridge. The only steady constant is the tight staccato of beeping machines. What happened to the daffodils I brought? Not a speck of yellow anywhere. Momaw would be appalled.
There’s a tray of food my mom has clearly been avoiding out of sheer stubbornness. A small bread roll (visibly stale), the aforementioned Jell-O, a mass of what has to be collard greens—no bacon, of course—and some clumpy dish whose defining characteristic is Already Digested.
Mom yanks on my focus. “The nurses have been extra chatty. The way the hospital’s squawking about you, it’s like you’ve gone and won the lottery, girl.”
Oh no. I’m too late.
I hoped to talk face-to-face first, before the he-said, she-said network of town got busy. Momaw’s voice rings strong in my head:Don’t be green, girl. Foxe Holler loves its lore and loyalty. If I befriend the wrong legend, make the wrong decision, bitter and upset townsfolk might try to deboneme.
My mom raises both eyebrows, her way of being more tactful than her own mother. Unlearning generational bad habits and all that. “Does the Warlock really write in script?”
“What?” The letter burns in my pocket. Maybe I should check if it’s actually burning. “Oh, uh, yeah. His cursive is actually pretty good.”
“Phew. I don’t think that old man knows what century we’re in. Glad to know I’m not the most outdated soul in the Holler.”
“Least not while Beulah Buchanan and Gertha Fudge walk the earth.”
“Those two old busybodies could subsist on Communion wafers and hard candy till Judgment Day.” She eyes me real good. “You, on the other hand…”
Here we go. “Don’t start, Mom.”
“You eating?”
“You know how busy the shop gets. I’m surrounded by food if I want it. I’m fine.”
“A hot brown would do you some good; your nail beds are blue—”
“What did we talk about?”
“Yes, yes, commenting on bodies, I know. I don’t want to be another relic of a matriarch.” She props herself up, flat biceps shaking, and I catch her wince of exhaustion. I’d do anything to take some of the pain away.
Anything? Like heal a dangerous Warlock just to get access to his magic or money?
“What did he offer you?”
