Page 14 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

He’s right about that. The dew pear is long gone, and I only nibbled the honey wafers. But unlike our cottage in the wildlands, we don’t have the means to cook.

But I should have known that wouldn’t stop him. He gets busy with some ground grain and dried fruit; then he pours some water from a flask and sets the copper bowl on the table. With a focused frown, he wriggles his fingers, and the bowl heats slowly, slowly, until the ingredients thicken into groat porridge. He even put this spell in a book, and I already know how lovely this will taste. Even better, it will warm me from the inside out, comforting me now as much as it did when I was small.

“I adore you for this.” I take my spoon from the little box on the table and dig in.

“Have you heard from Tara lately?” he asks unexpectedly.

I haven’t seen my childhood friend in such a long time. Her father never approved of me, and he was angry at her mother for allowing the connection. I shake my head, mouth too full to answer. The repast is simple and creamy yet chewy with bursts of sweetness. And it’s spiced with love and kindness, the rarest flavors of all. Quickly, I empty the bowl and lick my spoon clean. Da pets my head as he takes the dish away.

“She’s working in Summer, probably busy at the inn,” I guess.

He sighs, showing a wistful expression. “That’s what comes of growing up, I suppose. We have so much to talk about, but…” A pause as he studies my face. “You look done in.”

“I am,” I admit.

“Ferghus is in the wind with his herd, is he?”

I nod. “It was worth it.”

“As long as you feel that way, I do as well,” he says.

“I’m sorry they dragged you to the dungeon because of me.” It comes out in a rush.

“If you have energy for apologizing, you have spirit enough to discuss how we’re getting you out of that dratted marriage contract.”

If I run, he’ll pay the price. I know that, and he does too. There’s no world where I allow anyone to hurt him. So I manage a smile and stretch my mouth into a yawn that swiftly becomes real. “What’s that? I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“You can’t kid a kidder,” he points out. “But I’ll let it be. Ready for bed?”

“More than. You get some rest too.” I hug him for a long time and then edge up the ladder, gingerly using my scraped hands to pull myself onto the platform. Earlier, when Da asked if I was hurt, I said, “Not really.” He hasn’t noticed that I’m a bit beaten up, and I don’t want him to.

It takes a few painful contortions to strip off that wretched silver dress. I fling it away with a muttered curse. As I tumble onto the pillows, I tip my head backward. On the ceiling, there is a whole world, still sparkling with pixie magic. Da called in a favor from a friend named Shereth, who painted the forest scene to cheer me up when I grew old enough to ask awkward questions about why Rain and Fen paid no attention to me, though I was supposedly their daughter. Twenty years on, the rivers still sparkle and the pookas still run through the flowering trees. I can even smell the floral and honeyed perfume of the wildlands, thanks to her deep woodcraft.

A few of my childhood things are still in a chest at the back of the loft, but I haven’t looked in there for ages. There’s nothing of value, apart from my own sentimental attachment. The sound of Da moving about below and eventually settling himself to sleep soothes me as well. Before I know it, I’m gone.

Without realizing how I got here, I’m standing in the garden outside Miremorel House. The sun is a blessing, and the air is bright and pure, the song of the brook nearby calling to me in the distance. Here, I know the shapes of all the rocks, the colors of the mossy stones, and I could sketch the trees from memory.

I love it here. But where’s Da?

“I’m waiting for you,” someone says in a sunny tone. “Find me.”

I spin in a circle. “What? Why?”

The more obvious question is who, but I’m too savvy to fall into that trap. Asking a fae directly for their name is quite a dire offense, a misstep I wouldn’t make even if I have spent more time in the wildlands than at court. Though I don’t see anyone, there are certainly multiple places to hide. I pace across to the broad-branched tree that shades our cottage. There’s a tangle of foliage, leaves practically woven into a verdant screen.

“They’ll make you if you don’t volunteer. I rather think that you’re not the sort who enjoys being forced to comply. Have I read you wrong?”

“Not at all,” I admit grudgingly.

Some might find it bewildering or vexing to converse with a disembodied intelligence, but there’s a water sprite near Miremorel House who doesn’t much enjoy leaving her brook, so I’m used to it. Truth be told, I’ve had some lovely chats with Nerys. She’s got a wicked sense of humor, and she always knows the best gossip. Even here, people are always whispering to trinkets and tossing them in fountains, never wondering where that water goes.

“Then heed my warning. They’ll blame you if they can. Punish you if you let them.” The voice is light and melodic, delicate as butterfly wings and flower petals, but there’s also an inherent power that pleases my ear to the point that I find myself languorously smiling, when the words are, in fact, most alarming.

“‘They’? Do you mean the Lord and Lady of Winter?” That’s the only deduction that makes sense, considering the day’s events.

Which means this isn’t a dream. It’s a Sending.

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