Page 31 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

Now then, you already know about mushroom circles, but you won’t always be near one, will you? So you must have a mode of travel accessible for emergencies. This spell requires complete focus, so don’t attempt it if you’re suffering stress or simply having a dreadful day. To portal where you’re meant to be and not end up somewhere entirely wrong, keep your wits about you. Opening a portal is a little different than a passage charm. The latter allows you to pop into another room, perhaps past a locked door. Not that I’d speculate regarding your intentions about such an endeavor. The former takes a fair bit out of you, especially if multiple beings pass through with you. I’ve never been able to bring anyone with me when I create a passage.

You’ll require:

A hagstone made from a stalactite (agate will substitute in a pinch)

Dandelions, basil, and juniper berry

A bronze kettle and a tin cup

Clear water blessed by a nixie

Heat the water in the kettle, using your magic, then steep the fresh herbs until you have a savory tea. Pour it through the hagstone into the tin cup. Down the drink in one go while you focus on opening the path. You’ll feel energies gathered, though you may need to take some nourishment from anyone who might be nearby, as this is a large working. The portal should look like swirls of energy in the same hues as your aura. You’ve got a lovely silvery-white corona, my gem, so your portals, when you succeed at this spell, will reflect that shade. Pass through quick as you can, as it burns energy to hold such a fold in the world. Let the portal go when you’re safe, and reward the nixie who provided the water. Speaking of which, Nerys sends her love.

To grant passage, the steps are similar, but be familiar with the space you’re trying to enter. If you can’t picture it in your mind’s eye or see it with your actual eyes, you can’t safely transit to that space. Otherwise, the wild fae would be robbing vaults every day. Alas, we’re limited to places we know by heart, but it’s a lovely spell if you find yourself locked out of a warm house in a pouring rain.

Writing these notes has me missing you something fierce. You’re ever and always the joy of my life and the jewel in my imaginary crown.

Thea

When the others vanish, I jump in too.

It’s got to be the exit, right? I surface in brackish swamp water, not too far from where the ship-in-a-bottle trap lay in wait for Kerboros. There’s no need to warn him not to touch anything. He’s got that lesson etched on his bones now.

I can’t believe I shared the lizard story. It took a week before Da found me. I was much younger then, and he was fearful to the bone.

But he didn’t punish me. Instead he told me calming stories while he painstakingly unraveled the spell, sharing lore he’s gathered of “my people,” though I can’t verify the authenticity or accuracy. From time to time, Da has also shown me relics from the mortal realm, including various religious texts. I find an academic interest in such things. They are fables to me, nothing of worship, but there was a story about a primordial garden and a tempter snake, as I recall. The front of Macha’s demesne—where we are now—that’s how I imagine that eternal garden from the human stories.

The trees are bent but not stunted. They grow together in a wall to protect her, branches intertwined. Beneath the water that surrounds the small peninsula, juts of dark root tangle with white flowers growing upward toward the light. Above, green moss drapes the branches like bridal veils and pixies flutter in gossipy clusters on iridescent wings.

Shereth, the one who painted the mural on the loft ceiling, isn’t here, and the others don’t greet us. Swamp pixies tend to be cliquish. Nearby, a small yellow lizard lounges on a log. I wonder if it’s anyone I know. They’re not trying to get my attention, however, so they could be enjoying the break.

“Where are we going?” Zeph asks cheerfully, falling in step beside me.

I glance at them. “We were visiting Macha before we got sidetracked.”

The air is perfumed with pollen, and deep breaths make me feel as though I’m hovering on the verge of a great sneeze. In the distance, something splashes into the water, swimming about us in slow circles.

“Should I be concerned?” Kerboros asks.

About the thing in the water? I shrug. Presuming Macha wishes us harm, she hardly needs a beast to do her bidding.

“This should be fun,” Zeph declares. “Do you mind if I spectate?”

“Not at all. You did get us out of the bottle. Wise sorceress, if you’re willing to speak, prithee let me know,” I call, directing the last statement in a louder voice.

I’ve had the most success with that greeting where Macha is concerned.

Kerboros gives me a look as the silence builds, and then I hear the rattle of reeds that could be mistaken for bones. That’s the sound of Macha gliding through wind chimes that line the perimeter of her home.

“It’s been some time since I saw you,” the swamp witch says in a silken tone.

Beside me, Kerboros starts faintly, likely in surprise. People are never prepared for her beauty, I think. In legends, swamp hags are wizened old crones with matted gray hair and gnarled, clutching hands. But Macha is ageless like a forest, with dark green hair that flows down her back in a river of silk. She wears a simple gown with many hidden pockets, and her features are exquisite, pointed and foxy, full of clever, knowing amusement. Her eyes are endless shadows, black like onyx, and she gazes at me briefly before her attention shifts to Kerboros.

“I’ve been conscripted,” I say wryly.

“The Winter Lord does enjoy evaluating the extent of his reach,” Macha says. “Whom have you brought me?”

I’m surprised by the gently protective instinct that makes me want to shield Kerboros from the sharpness of Macha’s interest. “This is Kerboros.” I gesture at the sharply scintillating fae on my left. “And Zeph.”