2Kallikantzaros: A creature appearing in Southeastern European and Anatolian folklore. Like most fey described in human texts as “malevolent,” they are not particularly fond of their unflattering depictions in literature and art. Kallikantzaros do not in fact crawl out of the ground during the winter solstice to trouble mortals—they also do not spend their time sawing at the world tree when not aboveground. They live quite simple lives, and while it is rather uncouth to generalize about an entire people, most would agree that despite their animalistic qualities, it’s rare to find one among them that would self-describe as “outdoorsy.”
3A hagstone (which are also known as holey stones, adder stones, and witch stones, but alas hag is the name that regrettably stuck the most) are stones washed on our shores with a naturally occurring hole through them. Commonly comprised of flint, which is known for its grounding properties in the magical world, it is most often found on the beaches of the British Isles and can be utilized to see through glamours. It is not entirely clear where this natural earth magic derives from, but it is widely agreed the name “hagstone” was assigned by the first Mundane to survive a magical catfish scenario.
4Wecken (German): “Wake up.”
It should be noted that while intention over language is key in working with magic, even the Archfey have found German to be particularly commanding, especially when breaking a curse, or even waking the dead. It has been noted that nine out of ten necromancers prefer German.
5The term “car” has in fact been in the English vocabulary since roughly the 1400s and would refer to a wheeled vehicle such as a cart or chariot.
This has nothing to do with the story or your understanding of it, but it was deemed important to mention as the author found this tidbit of information “incredibly cool.”
6Gaeilge: “Go fuck yourself, and the donkey you rode in on.”
Like actual curses, this phrase is also effective regardless of which language you speak it in.
Chapter 2
Saga
No good can come from ruminating at 2:00 in the morning. The human mind is often a bizarre labyrinth of neurosis, and whatever function allows us to feel any empathy toward ourselves retires by midnight.
It was that lack of self-empathy that had Saga Trygg shifting restlessly in her bed for the past hour. She’d fidgeted, rolled, and ran her fingers into her hairline so many times it had ruffled her bangs and dislodged the silk scarf tied around her head.
The weight of the Brigid medallion she wore was a small comfort, and she layered her hand over it, pressing it into her sternum. This, unfortunately, had the reverse of the intended effect—all she could feel was her heart pounding. It drummed in invasive thought after invasive thought until her mind was overflowing with humiliation draped in taffeta.I’m unlovable.
She sat up abruptly. Her fingers combed through the thick Brigitte Bardot–style fringe to brush it from her eyes, only to catch sight of the heavily embroidered ghostlike fabric peeking out at her from the closet.
With a growl, she flung back her covers and stomped over to the offending mass of chiffon and tulle. She clumsily gathered the skirt of the ballgown wedding dress in her arms before trying to shove it deeper into the closet and close the bifold door. But the great marshmallow mockery of matrimony would expand the moment she released it, thus pushing on the hinge and forcing the door open again.
Undeterred, she attempted this same ritual two more times beforeconceding that it was a futile effort.
By conceding, of course, she furiously grabbed the hanger and yanked it from the closet. This feat was also no small effort as her attempts to contain it within the wardrobe had somewhat wedged the skirts against the other clothes, hangers, and shoes.
Saga was reminded of dueling with a particularly stubborn pickle jar. The fabrics clung to each other, and when she finally wrenched the dress free, the momentum caused her to fall back onto the bed.
She laid there, staring up at the ceiling through a veil of tulle, and vaguely wondered if it could just finish the job and suffocate her.
Death by fashion. That would be quite posh. Much better than death by crippling embarrassment and heartbreak. Or at least considerably more English. Her mother would have preferred that.
Her mother also might have preferred that such a death could have happened unseasonably early, rather than fashionably late in regard to the oh-so-blessed event itself. Before the dreaded in-law dinner. Before so many deposits had been spent on a venue and a caterer and alterations on the very instrument of her demise. Before the day itself at least, so every close family member and friend wouldn’t bear witness to what she could only pray would be the worst moment of her life. Rejected. Humiliated. Abandoned.
