Page 24 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

“You run like the wind.” I admire his skills verbally instead of thanking him.

You noticed. He preens a bit.

Nearby, Kerboros has swung down without a word. His pooka touches my mind briefly. It was bearable. He didn’t speak.

“Call on me if you can use my help,” I say. Then I add, “Be well.”

And free, Ferghus adds.

“Always,” I agree.

A life lived in chains isn’t worth living. Everything I’ve done has been structured to keep me out of the hierarchy, not beholden to anyone, though the Lord and Lady of Winter are trying to change that. To affix me to a post through this wretched marriage.

“How far to the witch’s house from here?” Kerboros asks.

I shrug. “I walk until I find her hut or it finds me.”

“That is…a peculiar response.”

But it’s accurate. Macha’s hut is…not ambulatory but mobile is probably the best word. The house has a few spots that it fancies, and Macha rotates through those locations, depending on her mood and the weather. The swamp witch is mercurial, so why wouldn’t her abode be the same?

We walk deeper. The air smells faintly of sulfur, a mixture of the standing water and the types of plants that thrive in this environment. Every step squelches. The silence is broken by the occasional croak of a hidden frog or the distant mournful cry of a bird. I’m used to the eerie atmosphere, but Kerboros curls his lip.

“Not to your taste?” I tease.

“I doubt I need to answer that.”

“Is anything?” I ask, not really expecting a serious reply.

But Kerboros appears to be considering his response as he steps over a bubbling patch of mud. Best he didn’t put weight on it. He’d be swallowed to the chest in a blink.

“Yes. A cool, moonlit night outside the palace walls before the water freezes, when the air is so bright that breathing feels like the ringing of a bell.”

I had no idea Kerboros had even the merest streak of poetry in him. But thanks to his evocative words, I can picture the scene beautifully, even feel the crisp clarity of the air in my throat.

“That does sound lovely,” I admit. “Have you enjoyed many such moments?”

“Less than I would prefer.”

“Your employers don’t seem like they would offer you much space to breathe.”

“Employers?” He lets out a bitter laugh that echoes sharply enough to slice the drooping branches from the dark and daunting trees. “You can call them what they are out here. I’m their eyes and ears after all. There are no others who would report back.”

“Captors, then?”

“Closer to the mark,” he mutters.

“Do you have no promise of ever regaining your freedom?”

Perhaps he could sign a pledge promising never to plot against—but no. I curtail my own thought because that’s pure foolishness. Lord and Lady Winter don’t trust the good intentions of others, even when documents have been signed. If they did, they wouldn’t have sent me on this ridiculous quest, given that the marriage is legal on paper.

The quiet lingers to the point that it seems Kerboros won’t reply. Then he says, “Only threads of possibility so thin that they’re fantasies more than paths.”

“Dreams are important. They give us the strength to carry what we must.”

“For as long as we must?” he asks.

It is quite a different question, posed by one of the fae. I’m naturalized, and even I don’t know how long I’ll live, provided I’m not poisoned or murdered by my enemies. More accurately, Lord and Lady Winter’s enemies. I have friends, but the people who care about me and who I adore in return aren’t welcome at court. I imagine Nerys living in one of their fountains and stifle a smile. And Tara hates pomp and ceremony as much as I do.