Page 62 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

The gnome is silent, creeping in my wake with a stealthy lightness that says he doesn’t want to fight monsters. We walk until the mist begins to clear and the glow brightens, revealing Zeph in the distance, covered in a shimmering aura. My magic whispers, Them. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. They interfered with your spells.

Spy? Saboteur? All I know is that they cannot be trusted.

For now, none of them can see us. Beside me, the gnome remains quiet and still, unable to see what I do—the certainty of betrayal. It’s a spell known only to me, part of the tracking magic that makes me such an effective hound, much as I loathe the role.

Now the question remains: With all of us trapped, what can I—or perhaps more saliently—what should I do about this treachery?

29

A Spell for Regret and Remorse

My gem, this may come as a shock to you, but I’m not perfect. I muck things up now and again, and while I’m always sorry, sometimes it doesn’t change the outcome. When people are hurt, the results matter more than my intentions. Yet guilt can consume you when you allow it to. Since I’d rather you avoid that torment, I’m offering a spell that may grant your heart peace in times like this. It’s important to acknowledge your part in what went wrong, but if there was no malice in your mind at the time, you can admit that you caused harm without carrying that shame with you until the end of days.

This may not be possible, but gather those involved in the event. First, apologize sincerely. They’ll know if you mean it, and while forgiveness isn’t owed, you can take comfort in the fact that you did the right thing. You don’t control how other people react, only your behavior. So we start by offering contrition. If they feel so moved, once you’ve spoken your piece, then invite them to participate in this ritual with you.

This spell can be cast at any time; that’s the magic and the beauty of it. You’ll need:

All willing involved parties

Hyssop, cinnamon, comfrey

Clean water

A vessel to make tea

The tools here are less important than your intentions. This brew might be strong tasting, and you might need to sweeten it, if possible. If it isn’t, you don’t need to drink the entire cup. Simply sipping the drink you made together and talking honestly will comfort everyone. I hope your hearts feel lighter once you do.

The pain should ease by the third sip, and if you feel like ending the ritual with a hug, that will feel even better. I remember the first time you fought with Tara. Do you recall what it was about? I confess that I don’t, as I came on the scene late with the two of you sobbing like your hearts would break. We had this tea that day, along with honey wafers and cheese toast. You were laughing together again by bedtime.

Thea

“I’m so sorry,” I say immediately, as soon as Tara pulls me from the group.

I notice the tear streaks on her face, and I take a step, meaning to hug her, but she holds up a hand. “Not now. What happened back there?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper, misery lacing my tone. “I touched Tempest to keep them from falling, and something came over me.” I can’t explain that hunger, even now. “There was an unusual quality to their energy.”

It’s not a justification, certainly not.

Tara sighs, shoulders rounding. “They are mysterious. I don’t even know where they’re originally from.”

I blink at that. “Not Summer, then?”

“No. They’re maddeningly reticent about their past. And I thought they’d open up in time, if I was patient. Instead, they ended things between us.”

“Without explaining anything?”

She nods. “It’s dreadful, not knowing if they’ve recovered.”

From the harm I did.

I flinch and produce my spellbook from a small shoulder bag. “Would you consider doing this spell with me? We’ve done it a few times over the years.”

Though I seldom let anyone look at this book Da wrote especially for me, I hand Tara the tome and show her what it says. Her aspect softens. “I remember why we were fighting. You wanted to steal all the dough from the palace kitchen and put it in the wishing fountain to see what would happen.”

I cringe at the reminder. It’s coming back to me. “And you said that it might be funny, but it was a waste of food and hard work and we might get the cooks in trouble.”

“You said I was mean,” Tara reminds me.