Page 8 of Too Hexed to Handle

I back up against a cabinet. It wobbles precariously, a bottle bouncing off my shoulder before tumbling to the floor and spraying purple liquid everywhere. My parents jerk, but make no move to come closer to clean the spill.

They’re scared of me. Deep down, I think they’ve always been scared of me, and it’s only become worse these last two years, like that Souleater attacking the festival opened their eyes to what I’m capable of doing.

‘Sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’

Unable to look at them, my gaze locks on the paper instead. Attention Cure Seekers.

If the cure is real, it’d fix everything. I’d be a normal girl – hex aside – and not the kind of creature that would contemplate harming her own parents. I’d take a sip before handing the rest over to this fake king, claim my reward, and save both myself and the inn in one fell swoop.

But who knows how many people will arrive at the ruins, smelling of expectation and greed, ripe for the taking. Or what I’d have to go through to retrieve the cure; how much magic I’d need to give myself an edge over every other competitor. Magic I refuse to use, knowing what it’ll cost someone else.

I know first-hand how awful a hex can be, and I will not be the person who inflicts that on another.

I can’t risk it.

There’ll be another way to get the money I need. A safer way. There has to be.

‘I should go,’ I say, unable to witness the wariness in my parents’ eyes any longer, let alone the way they smell.

I’m halfway to the door when Dad calls out, ‘Daisy, wait.’

I halt, but don’t turn, instead fixating on a bright blue potion that’s supposed to soothe an upset stomach. Honestly, the way I feel right now, I wouldn’t mind taking a swig. The sound of paper tearing fills the room, followed by floorboards creaking and a light tap on my shoulder.

By the time I’ve spun round, Dad has already stepped out of reach, the torn-off advert extended between us.

‘Take it,’ he says. ‘Think about it. The festival doesn’t officially start for another two days. You’d have time to make it to Rerta, if you left tomorrow. If it’s a scam, you can come straight home. And if it’s not, you can use the reward to save your inn.’

It’s nice he’s pretending the reward is all that’s at stake.

Our fingers graze as I take the paper from him, and he can’t hide his grimace. My urges have faded, but I snatch my hand back quickly anyway, in an attempt at saying, See? Nothing to fear here.

I stare at the advert one final time. Attention Cure Seekers. My chin wobbles. I have no intention of going. I don’t. But then I watch Dad return to Mum and wrap an arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Gestures of love I’d give anything to receive. For someone to know all of me and say I deserve them too.

I fold the scrap of paper into four and tuck it into my cloak pocket.

Just in case.

3

The journey home is a blur. Basil moves at a steady pace, tugging my cart along, his footsteps sure despite how rough the road becomes as we leave Shiverholde. My fingers tremble around the reins, struggling to forget the hunger I felt in my parents’ shop, unable to shake the lingering scent of their worry and fear.

Unable to shake the desire to never have one of those urges again.

The scrap of paper in my pocket feels heavier than lead; a reminder of a possibility I’m too afraid to take.

I should have thrown it out.

It’s not dark yet, the sun low in the sky, but when we reach the inn, it’s to find lamplight blazing from every window. While I’d like to pretend that light is a warm welcome home, what it really represents is a waiting inquisition, in the form of Astin, determined to learn if I succeeded in getting the money we need.

I procrastinate having that unpleasant conversation by urging Basil into the stable as quietly as possible, hoping Astin won’t notice our return, then raking straw for the sake of it, humming as I work. Singing, much like smiling, is an excellent method of pretending all is well. It’s enough to help me plot alternative ways to solve my money problems: we could auction off some of our belongings. Get rid of the armchair Astin hates. Or we could sell the pastries he makes for breakfast – I’d pay good money for those.

‘Maybe I should rent you out at children’s parties,’ I suggest to Basil. ‘How do you feel about having ribbons in your tail?’

Basil huffs, the sound startlingly similar to when Astin is unimpressed about something. They must be spending too much time together. I pat his nose, thinking. I was forced to sell off the inn’s more expensive heirlooms soon after moving in, but there are some things left. I bite my lip.

Things I couldn’t bring myself to part with.

I climb the ladder to the loft, and head to the far corner to open the chest containing my great-great-granduncle Howard’s diaries – along with the knowledge that I’m not the first secret Souleater in our family.