Page 11 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

Kerboros

In distant halls, I hear the shouts, a great clamor spreading like a wave.

But I never volunteer my time to the Lord and Lady of Winter.

No matter the situation, while they do compel my service time and again, I never proffer it freely. Had I the power, I’d sabotage everything related to Thea’s forced nuptials. As far as I’m concerned, whatever has gone wrong can continue on its way. I remain in my quarters, ignoring the ruckus, carving the first shallow shapes of a new bas-relief.

And I smile.

It is not my problem until I’m summoned to deal with it. I continue slicing delicate strips from the wall that curl downward like the peels of a desiccated fruit.

Whatever has occurred, they will demand that I remediate the crisis. At this point, I doubt that my distant cousin would know how to act without first steering my hand wrapped around the hilt. He thinks that if I do violence in his name, the court will loathe him less.

For I’m the perpetrator; I hold the weapon. But he is shortsighted and imperceptive. Everyone else sees, as well as I do, that I’m not the wielder; I’m the dagger.

For now, however, I’m permitted to choose the angle of my cuts, create a design of my own making. The artistry is soothing. I’m repeating patterns I find everywhere—in the scales of sea creatures and the shells they leave behind.

It is a rare peace that cannot last.

The sounds intensify, until eventually, they culminate with the sound of small fists thumping on my closed door. I take my time in responding, knowing that each tick of the clock will feel intolerable to my accursed cousin, the Lord of Winter.

Lord only of his own sight line.

There are quiet rebellions all around him, and he lacks the wit to discern them because he is always scanning for overt resistance, not seeing the subtle markers of disrespect. The whole court despises my cousin and his consort, and I doubt the courtiers would weep if Summer conquered the realm and imposed new leadership, a puppet more amenable to their terms.

Not that I’m willing to serve as such.

Once I complete my arrangements and escape from Liskaal’s influence, I will never permit anyone else to make me dance.

Before opening the door, I clean my artistic tools and put them away with precision that must feel maddening to the person who has demanded entrance three times with urgent rapping. Only then do I respond to the summons.

“Yes?” I regard the brownie with a calm mien, unmoved by the chaos spinning in the shadows behind us.

“Lord Liskaal needs you, sir.”

I say nothing.

But with every moment, the urge to smile plucks at me. I must not, of course.

I must behave as if I know nothing about what’s transpired and have no insight as to how the Summer delegation came to vanish within our walls. If that’s what has occurred. I will put my faith in nothing before confirming it for myself.

The brownie takes the direct path instead of sticking to the corridors allotted for the use of the wild fae. This choice reveals much about the urgency of our mission. The great hall is empty as we pass through, and it smells of trampled flowers. Something large and angry rampaged here, terrorizing the court. Blood here. And here, drying now. Those who serve will be up all night, scrubbing away stains from the gleaming white.

I guessed at the chaos from the distant noises, but I’m not a guard.

I suppose if I was ordered to fight, to defend the Winter Court, I would comply. But that is a waste of my magic, and for Liskaal’s many faults, he’s not a complete dolt. He tends not to squander valuable resources, and there are other bodies better suited to protecting empty rooms and halls.

“What transpired?” I ask.

It would seem strange for me to evince no curiosity, so I ask even when I may be able to surmise. Through my spiderlings, I specialize in secrets. And there are always those who pay for such. As I work through intermediaries and dead drops, nothing could be traced back to me, and someone who wanted to pass unnoticed might find my knowledge useful.

The brownie is young, nervous. Her gaze darts into all the dark corners before she speaks in a tiny voice that reminds me of ringing bells. “I’m sure I don’t know, sir. It’s better for you to get your information from the source.”

“You didn’t see anything?” I press.

People tend not to like me. I encourage it. She’s no exception, trembling from the question like I might blame everything on her and offer her to the Lord and Lady of Winter. As if I’d do that to my worst enemy, let alone a kitchen brownie whose name I can’t recall.

“I truly don’t know,” she squeaks. “But I’ve heard a lot of confusing nonsense.”