Chapter One Chapter One
FRIDAY, APRIL 1

Honey’s Helpful Hint, from

Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:

The first thing you need to know about making cornbread is that food is magic.

A holler is best at just that: hollering.

If the folks of Foxe Holler—a crumb of a town way down on a forgotten, lonesome shelf in the pantry of the South—are good at anything, it’s making a fuss.

From behind the safety of the counter, I absorb the chaos of the hunger-fueled Friday-morning rush at the Frost Apothakery, the town’s only bakery and apothecary of culinary cures. Family run, of course. Epicures, Momaw Frost used to call them, despite our efforts to gag her stubborn wordplay.

Your Apothakery now, girl. Momaw’s voice chimes in my head from beyond the living world. Not literally. We Frosts don’t have that kind of magic. You’d have to trek miles over to a larger town for a Tombwitch.

Right. Mine. Honey Frost’s Apothakery. My insides squelch.

But I don’t have time to dwell on how my twenties didn’t go according to plan, because Ms. Buchanan is on one helluva tear this morning.

“And if I have to listen to that woman tell me about her canned pineapple one more time, so help me—Gertha, I said, you would think angels blessed you the way you carry on, but I know the good Lord does not care a lick about your church luncheons…”

I mumble a quick Is that the truth? and bite my tongue. Any polite nodding—ingrained in my DNA like a Yes, ma’am—is only encouragement for a hurricane like Ms. Buchanan. I pass a still-warm honey bourbon bread pudding over the head of the chatty old woman to the man behind her, for his insomnia.

“Thank you kindly,” he says, already sniffing the bag.

“Sure thing, Mr. Earl,” I answer, hoping my eyes say Please save me from this conversation. No luck. He’s already munching on his remedy as he walks out the door, and I’m grateful he’s got a short drive home ’cause my bread pudding works fast.

“—but between you and me, the only thing she yammers on about more is her grandbabies. I told her, Gertha, I said, the only reason you got a litter of grandbabies is because your children are trying to distract you so you quit bothering them—”

“Ms. Buchanan—” I try, but she’s been chugging along for five minutes, oblivious to the line that’s now ten deep. And I’ve still got to rescue the cornbread from the oven. The Apothakery is not meant to stop. It operates as quickly and efficiently as the Frost women who’ve been running it for decades. And I’m pretty sure one of Gertha’s prolific children in question is just out of earshot by the door, perusing the apple butter I jar myself. My mom calls it the curse of small towns; Momaw Frost would’ve gleefully declared karma.

I stretch around Ms. Buchanan to hand Eva Mae a fresh Louisville Benedictine sandwich, for her pregnancy fatigue. The young woman doesn’t wait to take a bite as she cedes her place in line to the next customer, her dark eyes already clawing back some sparkle as the cucumber hits her tongue.

Inheriting the Apothakery way earlier than I was supposed to—or wanted to—makes me a battlefield-promoted Farewitch. But seeing someone’s expression after the first bite of something I made never gets old. It’s as addictive as any sweet.

Ms. Buchanan, however, does get old.

“Ma’am, please…”

“Oh, you should have seen Gertha when we were younger, a real hellcat that one, and now all she’s got time for is grandbabies, canning, and spewing that nonsense about magic and the downfall of the Holler. She won’t even buy from you and I know she needs something for her arthritis. So I told her, Gertha, I said, you quit what you’re on about, bad apples stirring up trouble don’t make the magic itself bad, and no Witch’s magic is gonna hurt you worse than the cigarette I know you sneak when you think no one’s looking—”

“Ms. Buchanan!” I exclaim. The customers behind Foxe Holler’s self-proclaimed most-informed church lady (but don’t say that in front of Gertha Fudge) take a collective step back.

The old woman eyes me, her wrinkled cheeks swelling with a hmph. “No need to shout, sugar. I’m old, not underwater.”

With tired fingers that spent hours kneading this morning, I push a large yellow box across the counter. Enough for a week. “Yes, ma’am. It’s just your jam cake is ready.”

“My jam cake?” Her silver hair glimmers in the late-morning haze peeking through the windows. Gossip and sunshine, a typical Southern spring day.

“Yes, jam cake. Every week.” For six years.

“Well, whatever for? I ordered apple dumplings.”

“For your memory. Ma’am.”

A pause. Then a bark. “Oh, hush, Beauregard,” Ms. Buchanan snips.

I peer over the counter and see shiny dark eyes and a wet nose.

Beauregard Buchanan is a beauty of a standard poodle, his midnight fur like licorice cotton candy and as glossy as the glaze on my jam cake. I wish my own hair looked that groomed, but when I hit twenty-five and trudged home to Foxe Holler, I cut myself some feral bangs like any self-respecting quarter-life-crisis victim.

“Beauregard’s fussy because he hasn’t had his morning nap yet. Gertha was up mowing her lawn at Satan’s hour this morning. Wasn’t she?” Ms. Buchanan coos at the poodle, then waves a knobby hand at the cake box. “Thank you, sugar. I know it won’t be as good as your mama’s, but it’ll do, such as it is.”

Because I grew up with Southern politeness baked into my bones, I don’t point out that the old woman didn’t know what the hell her order was thirty seconds ago. Instead, I ignore the insult and sneak a few dog treats into a to-go bag. And I definitely don’t hope she thinks they’re cookies by accident. “Believe me, ma’am, she’s still the Holler’s Farewitch in my mind, too.”

“Mmm-hmm. How is mayoral life treating that mama of yours?”

“Just fine.” Not fine.

“Guess we all got jobs to do. You tell that Mayor Frost I say hey, you hear?”

A timer dings from the back.

I startle with relief. Lord, I love that sound, and not just because it rescues me from countless awkward conversations. My customers protest when I head for the kitchen.

“Two minutes!” I promise, slipping into the back before someone catches me. Old Blanche, the choir director, is looking particularly hangry.

The smell of butter hugs me the moment I slide into the peace of the kitchen. I inhale, nostrils greedy. Our neighbors and customers are important, sure. Our town has relied on the Frost family’s food and baking magic for decades, ever since the Holler was no more than a whisper. And a Farewitch is nothing without a town, without the folks who depend on her culinary cures.

But the kitchen… I might not be the Farewitch my mom is, but the kitchen is home.

Tension seeps from my shoulders and stomach. The only sounds are my deep breaths and the massive churning oven. An only child of a single mom and one grandma, I made that oven my best friend growing up.

If I had kept up with friends more instead of work, someone would be here to laugh at that joke. Or would’ve at least warned me about the bangs.

But there’s no time for reminiscing or dawdling in a Farewitch’s kitchen.

I free two cast-iron skillets of cornbread from the oven just in time and leave them to cool. Frost women do not burn their cornbread. With a pastry brush, I Van Gogh some honeysuckle butter onto the perfectly golden full moons.

Then my stomach shrieks—when was the last time I ate? That banana before sunrise? Can’t remember. I’ll scarf down some reject scraps of something later. The cornbread sells better fresh out of the oven and I have a full shop waiting. A full town depending on me.

Every town has a Farewitch, sometimes several for big cities. But as the official Farewitch for this Holler, I’m responsible for upholding the reputation of generations of Frost women, of protecting our legacy for curing all manner of ailments with the right recipe and ingredients, the right intention, and the right dash of my own unique magical flavor.

It’s a Michelin Star honor.

With Michelin Star pressure.

Self-taught chefs and bakers, my mom, her mom Momaw Frost, and all the Frost Farewitches before them were experts at managing oven temperatures just as well as neighbors with too much flavor. It’s part of the job, and six years into it now, I follow my duties like I follow the family recipes: precisely.

Because if I don’t…

Momaw Frost appears in my mind. Not her seasoned scratchy voice this time, but her skeletal frame fighting a wasting disease that no recipe could cure. As a girl, I watched my mom bend over kitchen grimoires all night long; as Farewitches, they’re our bibles. Other Witches, from Hearthwitches to Greenwitches—even the elusive Tombwitches—traveled to help, asking for nothing in return. Finally, Warlocks passed through the Holler at the idea of a good challenge. They promised a whole spice drawer of magical solutions and exclusive potions, higher magic much stronger than the lower practical magic of Witches.

For a price, of course.

But after the Frost family bank account was dry as a sawdust biscuit, the Warlocks disappeared and the only ingredient Momaw Frost ever needed was time. More time for us to find the solution.

Her death hung on us like a lead apron. It still does. But if I do this Farewitch thing right, the Holler can depend on me. Which means Mom can depend on me.

I glance at the vaulted brick wall next to the oven, where hangs the Frost family’s vast collection of cast iron. Skillets and grill pans and cornbread molds in the shape of whole ears of corn dangle from the chipped brick, seasoned under generations of strong butter, stronger magic, and the strongest women. Despite the delightful floral aroma of the honeysuckle butter cooling over the nutty cornbread, my heart clenches.

I’d trade one of these priceless, magic-imbued skillets for my mom to be here with me right now. If only to see this batch of cornbread, which looks perfect, humility be damned. Rich gold crust to match everything else in this place.

Once, I looked forward to becoming a Farewitch. But at forty-five, not twenty-five.

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 attend their 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 was wrong wrong 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. This Holler needs this Farewitch.

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.

Everyone shops 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 coconut cream 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 to marry him, 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, anything happens.

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 a reads the menu ahead of time kind 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 a cloud.

But then the mist dissipates with a POP before I can swing at it. Shock dusts every face in my periphery when a black envelope falls to the floor at my feet.

Surely this isn’t for me… And yet, curious, I reach down—

“Don’t touch it, child!” Ms. Buchanan fans herself with an empty cupcake liner. “That’s higher magic there, that is. I’d recognize the foul stuff anywhere.”

My hand pauses. Farmer Kelsey nods. “Warlock magic.”

Everyone leans back, like just whispering Warlock ensures a pox. Beauregard the poodle barks and, I’m pretty sure, pees a little.

“Now you all sound just like Gertha Fudge,” I say, eyebrow raised, trying my best to appear relaxed. They’re perfectly safe in the Apothakery. Whether pests or mold or bad weather, nothing dangerous—not even nefarious mail posted by curmudgeonly cumulonimbus—can make it past the warding a Farewitch’s magic bakes into her kitchen over the years.

“What if Gertha’s right?” Farmer Kelsey asks, eyes wide. Folks nod with him. “The Widow Witch is bad enough. Now the Warlock is knocking at our doors?”

By their reaction, you’d think we have an infestation of them. But the Holler only has one, as far as I know. I’d like to point out that no one my age has even seen the man, but I can’t over the escalating sounds of my customers growing frantic.

“The Warlock ruined my tomato crop last summer—”

“My chickens won’t lay eggs because of him!”

“He’s why we don’t have a library, burned it right to the ground…”

“I heard he did it so he could steal the books.”

“People died in that library, you know.”

“It’s not him. This has to be the Widow Witch—”

“Don’t be silly. It’s too early in the season yet.”

I ignore the warnings and reach for the envelope a second time. My fingers tingle with that just-scraped-by feeling that comes with remembering to grab an oven mitt just in time before touching a hot baking sheet.

But the tiny constellations of oven-burn scars on my hands are one of the undeniable things I have in common with my mom and Momaw. Like the blonde hair, I inherited that urge to reach into the heat. Momaw always said there’s no such thing as foul magic, only foul intention.

I snatch up the envelope.

Folks gasp, then seem almost underwhelmed when I don’t immediately burst into flames. A prickling sensation kisses my neck. My fingernails turn blue. The envelope does burn, oddly. Not painfully, though. A good burn. The first bite of something hot yet delicious.

When I open it, I find glittering silver scrawl on thick black paper.

Dear Ms. Frost the Younger,

I am in need of a Farewitch. The situation is advanced and beyond my efforts.

Report to Knight Manor on Monday morning. You will be compensated handsomely.

Regretfully,

Mr. Knight

The Warlock of Foxe Holler

I look up to find everyone’s eyes on me. Waiting. Perhaps for the inevitable kaboom.

This has to be an April Fool’s joke. Folks have seen the Widow Witch more than the infamous Warlock, and she plagues the Holler once a year.

But my stomach growls with fear, not hunger, and I know this isn’t a game. At one point or another, I’ve healed everyone in Foxe Holler of something.

Nearly everyone.

But folks come to me for everyday ailments. Not problems too complicated even for a Warlock’s magic. So why me, now? Why a second-rate, stand-in Farewitch?

A gnarled knot of worry twists in my gut, dampening the fear.

What the Warlock of Foxe Holler doesn’t know is that I can’t heal him.

What everyone else doesn’t know is that I’m a fraud.