Page 27 of Warlocks Don't Win
I blinked at him while I drank as quickly as I could so I consumed more tea than dripped all over the table. “I thought you were going to make a way door,” I said then slugged back the rest of it and set the cup back on the table.
“I’ve asked Jordan to bring the necessary supplies. Your friend Parody can help from her end once we get things in place. But first, the house needs to be cleaned, personally, by its mistress.”
“That’s right,” the butler said, shiny head gleaming in the morning light as he happily rolled out dough for sausage rolls.
“The kitchen…” I looked around with a critical eye. It was cleaner than I’d ever seen it, every surface washed down, including the ceiling. He must have saved that for last, which was nonsense, because everyone knew you were supposed to start at the top and work down. Apparently Sage House had different rules. If I wanted the house’s cooperation with things like finding the source of a curse and unraveling it, I’d have to humor it. Winston was right. It wanted more attention before it settled into any form of servitude to me, its abandoner.
“Fine. Let’s do the conservatory,” I said, standing up. “There should be fresh plastic rolls in the shed. I’ll go get them.”
“I’ll come with you,” Winston said, still barefoot.
I pointed at his feet. “Where are your shoes?”
He leaned close so I could see the flicker of purple magic in his eyes. “I’m a Warlock. I don’t need to wear shoes.”
I leaned towards him until our noses brushed, sending a shock of heat and awareness through me. “Tetanus,” I breathed then spun around and headed to the back hall, past the back parlor, the office, and then the conservatory.
It smelled like my mother’s ghost, only more mildewy. Dust and mold reigned in that large, tangled jungle, mixed with pot shards and spilled potting soil. The old deteriorated plastic hung down like cobwebby curtains, shredded, not keeping out the chill outside the glass. Hopefully the pipes didn’t freeze. The house groaned like it was thinking about whether or not to spontaneously rupture a pipe, freezing or not.
“Let’s get this done,” I muttered and then started pulling down the shrouds of dust and carapaces.
Working with him was fine. He wasn’t a snobby actor with a reputation who couldn’t get his hands dirty. The only problem was when we’d be folding up one of the long, shredded shrouds, and then our hands would brush, and I’d be dragged back toreality. The one where we were married, however unreal that seemed.
“The House refused entrance to the rest of the coven,” I said, trying not to notice how close we were standing as we rolled up the plastic.
He raised a brow. “It must have used the energy it got once we were?—”
“Sure. I guess that’s what happened,” I said quickly, cutting him off. The M word was not to be mentioned.
We went out to the shed, overgrown, almost impossible to get into until Winston started yanking out the overgrown vines sealing the door shut. I let him, just stood there and watched my warlock battle the fifteen years of neglect like a superhero. Like a manly warlock who should have a beard at least down to his pectorals to declare his masculinity.
“Why don’t you have a beard?” I asked while he struggled.
He glanced at me. “A beard?”
“Warlocks should have beards. That’s what the Warlock’s Kiss is always arguing about, which warlock’s beard is the most manly, ergo the most warlocky.”
He raised a brow and then continued yanking out the rest of the vine blocking the door. “As an actor, my facial expressions have to be visible, or they’re not as effective. Also, manliness isn’t defined by the size of one’s beard.”
I sniffed. “The Warlock’s Kiss thinks so.”
“The Warlock’s Kiss is the Singsong Coven’s band, right?”
I shrugged. “They’re not the official coven band, but we don’t have another one so…”
“Do you spend a lot of time with them?” He yanked the door open, green peeling paint flaking off as it did, reluctantly, with a great deal of creaking.
I snorted. “Yeah. You know how musical I am.”
He disappeared into the depths of the shed. I followed, peering around the rusted wheelbarrow to see the rolls of plastic against the wall.
“Perhaps one of them is responsible for alerting the Salem coven of your existence.”
I stiffened up. “Why would you say that?”
“You’re not very calculating with men. You mostly overlook us, or are distracted by our manliness.”
I squinted at him. “Distracted by your manliness? What’s that supposed to mean?”
