Page 5 of Too Hexed to Handle

And they can be found if I’m the one to make them happen.

‘I had another matchmaking success yesterday,’ I tell the tombstone. ‘They left this morning all giddy. Astin –’ His name sticks in my throat. I avoid mentioning Astin to Michael wherever possible, because telling your dead ex that you have a small – small – obsession with the way your gardener looks when he chops wood is awkward at the best of times, least of all when you’re the reason said dead ex is dead. It’s like rubbing salt in the wound. Hey, Michael, sorry I killed you, but have I mentioned I really like it when my gardener gets sweaty?

On the other hand, this is a conversation about how Astin is wrong about things, which I suppose is an acceptable topic. ‘He always tells me that if they can’t figure it out on their own, they don’t deserve my help. But sometimes people can’t see what’s in front of them. You didn’t notice me until we turned eighteen, if you recall. But I always knew that you and me would . . . that we’d . . .’

Oh no. I widen my smile, but it’s not enough to stop the tremble in my chin. There are only so many memories a smile can help me avoid. We were only together a few months before his death, and I spent the whole time hoping he’d love me even if he knew everything. I should have known better. A part of me did know better, but I’ve been practising my fake smiles for a long, long time, pretending the problem wasn’t there, desperate to have the romance of my dreams despite knowing people like me don’t get happy endings.

The truth is, hex or no hex, I’d have hurt him eventually.

I’ve had the potential to be lethal long before that Souleater came to Shiverholde.

That’s another thing the smiles are supposed to stop me thinking about though. I rise on shaky legs, pat the head of the tombstone in a pathetic attempt at an apology, and set off towards Shiverholde’s town square in the hope it’ll provide the distraction I need.

Indeed, the hustle and bustle of the market is a stark contrast to the leafy quiet of the graveyard, with festival preparations in full swing. Bunting is strung in a zigzag pattern over my head, pink triangles flapping wildly in the breeze. Hearts are embroidered into the fabric.

For the last three centuries, towns and cities have celebrated Laevothe, a festival culminating in a bonfire where we burn a replica of Ozias, the first Souleater on record to be killed by a human, proving they weren’t as all-powerful as they wanted us to believe. Proving we could fight back against their reign of terror, when humans were getting hexed in dark alleys on a nightly basis.

Wardens patrol both sides of the road, hands locked on the hilts of their daggers, and I avoid eye contact. Further ahead, a man has been apprehended for a magic search, a warden forcing him to peel off his shirt so they can inspect his torso for any telltale magical lines. I quicken my pace.

If it were up to me, the events of two years ago would be enough to put a stop to the festival entirely, but aside from the wardens and their increased security measures, everyone else in Shiverholde seems to suffer from a selective memory. Shoppers dart in and out of stores, sacks bursting, grins on their faces. I quiver when some come too close, their excitement and urgency smelling like the crackle of lightning in the air.

My nails dig into my palms. Maybe I’ve grown too used to the solitude of the inn, but everyone seems especially frenzied this year. Blood roars in my ears as I walk on, and on, and on. If I can make it to the end of the street, I’ll be away from them. From their smell, from their taste, from –

A leaflet is shoved in front of my face.

‘Re-enaction tonight!’ a man in a top hat exclaims. ‘Come and witness the doomed love of Ozias and Clarabelle, slayer of Souleaters, before your very eyes!’

I take several deep breaths before glancing at the leaflet. It contains a fairly terrible illustration of a woman waving a bloody knife in the air, while standing over the dead body of a man surrounded by shadows.

‘She found out he was a Souleater and murdered him,’ I say. ‘You can’t call that a love story.’

‘Well, that’s why it’s a doomed love story. A Souleater and the leader of the wardens, of all things! But she tried to save him, didn’t she? Created a potion to remove his power, and he refused to drink. Come to our show, and you’ll see how she struck him down after he –’

‘No, thank you.’ I slap the leaflet into his chest, pushing him aside before calling over my shoulder, unable to stop myself, ‘And for the record, there’s no proof the cure exists.’

If it did, surely someone would have found it by now. The day after the bonfire, huge swathes of people go in search of the cure, convinced Ozias hid it before Clarabelle stabbed him in the back.

I’m trembling as I walk away. Street vendors shout at me as I pass, encouraging me to buy bracelets with dangling heart charms and matching necklaces. One tries to grab my wrist, seemingly horrified I’m not already wearing one of her – according to the sign – Ultimate Anti-Souleater Talismans.

‘You must,’ she tells me as I dodge her outstretched hand. ‘Love drives them away. It’s the opposite of everything they need.’

‘You don’t know what they need,’ I retort, storming off. I’d forgotten how irritating everyone gets this time of year. Even if the theory that celebrating the most positive emotion of all will keep Souleaters away (I can say with some authority it does not), I’m not sure how anyone can believe a piece of jewellery is going to keep them safe.

It’s a relief when I reach a section of the street where the shops are grubbier and the crowds have dispersed. One building in particular is coated with soot and grime, while posters are nailed to its boarded-up windows. The pictures are different, but the text is the same: MISSING. Some of the pictures are too faded to make out, but the newest is of a man with red paint for hair, last week’s date beneath him. Next to that is a charcoaled illustration of a girl around my age, her smile toothy and wide.

I hurry past to enter the apothecary next door, where a bell tinkles overhead. Little has changed since my last visit: velvet curtains cover the windows, darkness shrouding shelves straining under the weight of jars packed to the brim with various herbs and flowers, used to create all manner of elixirs and potions.

Mum brews some of them herself, but there are others that are . . . less natural, more magical, thanks to a long-standing arrangement our family made with some Souleaters. We don’t interact face to face, but coins are placed at the back of the greenhouse once a month, alongside a list of orders, and the following morning they’re replaced with fresh stock, the dark magic within capable of killing various ailments.

The supplies barely last the month. People may hate Souleaters, but they sure love to purchase what their magic creates. Turning a blind eye is easy when you can only see the end result, selfishness the best mask of them all.

I say that like I’m not guilty of the same. The lust powder I use in the inn is made by Souleaters too. Speaking of which . . . the scent of strawberries is pungent and overly sweet in the air. Searching around, I locate the culprit: a canister filled with pink powder sitting on the counter, its lid slightly loose. I snap it shut quickly.

‘Daisy!’

I jolt at the familiar voice. Mum hovers by the door leading into the greenhouse, clutching a potted mint plant to her chest. She hesitates before approaching, her eyes flicking between me and the rest of the shop, as though assessing the best escape route should one be necessary. My chest squeezes, but I smile anyway, pretending it’s normal that my own mother doesn’t want to come within a few feet of me.

Once the plant is successfully deposited on the counter, she says, ‘I wasn’t expecting you today. Something wrong?’