Page 25 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

“I’m probably not the best person to ask about that. I’m very young.” I feel a bit self-conscious about it, actually.

I’m not even half a century, only a bit past a quarter. I haven’t seen mortal realms rise and fall in a flicker of my scrying pool. It can be difficult getting people to take you seriously if you’re less than a hundred. In the clay realm, I probably wouldn’t live that long.

Here? Nobody is sure because I’m a rare sort of changeling, not human, not moon touched, but other. Even here.

“Old enough for them to make use of you,” he returns with the faintest trace of salt.

“That is true.”

The stillness alerts me first.

As we’ve moved deeper into the swamp, I didn’t notice initially, but now I realize there are no other noises. The frogs and birds have either fled or stopped communicating. No chirps or chitters or grunts, no scrambling about in the mud. There should be things hopping and skittering, but as one approaches Macha’s domain, the wild creatures become leery. As they should be. Because there are traps scattered all around, snares for the unwary, magic trip wires, and cunningly disguised objects of power that will do all manner of things to a curious fae.

And I can’t afford to spend a week as a lizard. Not now.

Swiftly I put up a hand, signaling Kerboros to stop. “We’re close,” I whisper. “We must petition her properly and hope she’s in the mood to help.”

“If she isn’t?” His hand flexes toward his weapon, and I shake my head swiftly.

“You mustn’t. While we’re technically in Winter right now, this is Macha’s realm. By the time anyone heard what befell us, it would be too late. Let us be humble and respectful and see how it goes.”

His jaw clenches, and he speaks through his teeth. “You ask a great deal, do you understand that?”

“I do. But Macha is a great sorceress and must be greeted accordingly. And don’t—” A sharp snap! followed by the whoosh of powerful magic interrupts my warning.

Oh crap. Too late.

12

Open Book

This piece is carved into the edges and top of a bedside table. It’s a deceptively simple design with the edges of the table carved to look like pages of a book. At the bottom, it’s slightly wider, creating the sense of a cover while the lines for the pages are softer. The seam down the center creates the illusion that the tabletop is an open book and the wood has been polished until the wood grain could be mistaken for some mysteriously blurred text. Various creatures have been etched as well, adding to the impression that this is a picture book instead of a piece of furniture. But the mood of the creatures captured thus is dark and ominous. Their postures are tense; they are caged in the confines of these pages when they yearn to be anywhere else.

Kerboros

I have never been this angry.

Incandescent with rage—that’s the phrase. And I do feel so hot that I might be glowing strong enough to be used as a light source. Clenching my teeth, I pace, seven strides forward, three across, seven back to where I started. Trapped.

In a bottle. On the deck of a tiny ship.

I can’t blame this on Thea either, because she was about to warn me not to touch anything, I think. But I saw what looked like an altar on the ground, a fascinating array of objects, including this ship in a bottle. I sensed no ominous magic, nothing that would have warned me that I could become part of the display.

And now I’m an exhibition. I’ve already tried to open a portal, but I have no access to any of my abilities. Whatever pulled me in also neutralized my natural talents. The same sick helplessness that I experienced in the dungeons so long ago spills through me in a dreadful wave. I have not been this powerless since I came of age in my cousin’s court.

With great effort, I stifle the panic and gaze past the cloudy glass of my ridiculous prison. Thea is unfathomably huge, looking around the area, presumably for me.

“In here!” I call.

My voice bounces off the walls, and I can’t tell if she hears me. I don’t have a good grasp of what her magic can achieve, but she moves around, until—oh. She’s kneeling. I think she sees me. Feeling so foolish that it nauseates me, I wave both my arms, trying to attract her attention.

She says something, but the sound is muffled, so it’s like the burbling of a brook. Or perhaps that’s the actual water nearby; I can’t be certain. Pausing, she seems to be waiting for my response, so I shake my head and cross my forearms to signal that I don’t understand. I don’t want to reveal my knowledge of the wild fae’s secret sign, but the situation is too urgent for me to prioritize hidden advantages over personal freedom.

I do hope I’m not too small for her to follow my gestures.

The bottle is dampening all sound, I sign. I can’t hear you.

She signs back, Again? At your size, it’s a little hard to follow.