Page 3 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

Word is already spreading how some reckless soul has freed the pookas, thus sabotaging the peace talks between Houses Summer and Winter.

I have been pulled from my meal to do my hateful cousin’s bidding yet again, and I clench my jaw against the outrage that threatens to overwhelm me. If I spoke even a whisper of my white-hot hatred, Lord Liskaal would separate my head from my neck. And while I can heal most injuries, I am no Dullahan. I keep my eyes down because this false subservience allows me to survive.

Lady Valnevi is present as well; unlike most consort-and-liege relationships, they wed with mutual adoration in their hearts, not for mutual benefit. They are thin and pale, more like ghouls who feast on pain and terror than the beautiful hosts immortalized in human poems. Clad in silver and white, they represent the worst and most capricious cruelties Winter has to offer.

I curse my blood and fate silently as I incline my head. I waste no words on this pallid pair, now busy eating each other with their eyes. The palace staff speak of their perversions with secondhand glee, and their chambers are said to receive a regular rotation of all manner of visitors. I do not give a damn what they do privately, but I’d prefer never to see either of their smug, wretched faces again.

“Why are you still here?” Lady Valnevi demands in a shrill tone.

“Merely waiting to be dismissed,” I reply.

“Get out,” Liskaal snaps.

I stride from the great hall without looking back. I’m still so cursed hungry that it makes me crosser than usual. And I have quite a reputation. Just as well. I loathe most beings and would enjoy spending the rest of my life in silence and solitude.

A pox on both Lord Liskaal and Lady Valnevi.

On my sire too, while I’m cursing people. If he hadn’t tried to wrest the gilded crown from Liskaal, I might not be in this situation. I was barely whelped when the rebellion failed, and to this day, I cannot be certain why Liskaal spared me when he executed the rest of my kin. On my bleakest days, I suspect that it was so the humiliation of my line would never end and he could punish me in perpetuity for my father’s sins.

“Hubris and avarice,” he once whispered to me, and at the time, I didn’t understand.

Now that I do, I find a grim sort of satisfaction in completing the tasks set to me as efficiently as possible, so that I may resume what little peace I’m permitted. They call me his hound, the beast that exists only to heel to his hand.

It would have been kinder to kill me. But Liskaal is not known for compassion.

And I serve because I am waiting. This isn’t my destiny. Not forever. I have never been able to pinpoint an alternative, and it is safer not to anger the Lord and Lady of Winter. So I hunt. And watch. And wait.

But I have been sowing seeds and tending my garden for an eternity now. Eventually, my darkly beautiful belladonna shall bloom.

And my cousin will be stunned, not because I will complete my father’s work. Entirely the opposite. But for now, I keep up appearances and offer silent apologies to those I’m forced to hunt. Retracing the culprit’s path will not serve as well as visiting the stables. That is where I shall commence. They would have lingered, opening each stall, so it will be easiest to find traces of them to follow.

But I don’t quicken my pace, now that I have left Liskaal’s sight. Instead, I take a quiet pleasure in returning to my quarters. If I’m questioned, I’ll justify the pause to collect tools of the trade. I have obscured my methods sufficiently that no one can determine how my magic functions, whether I use rituals or elemental aids.

My room is humble, intentionally so. Though the same blood runs in our veins, Lord Liskaal houses me with the wild fae. He thinks I should mind this obvious insult. The truth is, being hidden from the upper echelons allows me considerably more freedom and solitude. I would enjoy even more of both.

I have no artwork on the walls, no treasures that can be taken. As a child inside an enemy stronghold, I swiftly learned that anything I valued could be stripped from me. And so, I learned to treasure nothing but my own sovereignty. There are only carvings on the walls, and no one would know that I made them, fanciful shapes created in silence, over the long years of my exile.

As I enter, I touch the beard of a water dragon that I shaped when I was young. It’s a quiet little ritual that comforts me. Friends are a luxury I cannot afford, loved ones even less. I have been alone for so long that silence feels more natural than conversation. I eat what remains of my meal, left on my table, toasted brown bread with mushroom-walnut paste covered in creamy white cheese. It’s not as delicious as it was before the interruption, but I savor it nonetheless.

To add to my subtle defiance, I also tidy my dwelling before collecting my weapon, the only blade I am allowed to carry, its haft etched with Liskaal’s personal crest. It is the closest thing to a brand on my skin, a possibility they did discuss and eventually discarded.

Outside, the light informs me that I have dallied long enough. Any longer and I risk provoking displeasure. My disrespect must be measured in microns, not meters. As I step into the passage that leads behind the serving annex, a brownie greets me with too many teeth. I respond with a single word: “Erdene.”

“You’re off hunting, then?” she asks.

“It is my mandate.”

A pause as she checks to be sure we’re alone. “Such a waste, that one in the big white room.” She makes a sound betwixt lips and teeth. “It should be you,” she adds.

It’s not the first time she has expressed such sentiment, often in less oblique terms. Erdene isn’t the most cautious of wild fae, and I distance myself from her, not due to antipathy but because I must be so careful. Even this exchange is enough to prompt a wave of executions. I ensure that my expression does not change when I incline my head, slipping past her as a silent shadow. There is no response more accurate than what she’s already articulated.

If things were different, if my father had chosen his course with better strategy and greater foresight, it would be me.

And then I despise myself for the thought. Because in any future where I lead the Winter Court, it means my brother still perished. I would gladly swap my luck for his, as the world would’ve been better off if Geraint had survived in my place. He was a force for good, a bold and bright soul whose loss dimmed the glow of the fae collective. Geraint was endlessly patient with my questions and my curiosity, and I—

I miss him.

Fighting a tide of melancholy, I head for the stables, where the fire has been contained with misty magic. The smoldering bits are still warm, and I acknowledge the warning with a nod at the brownie who offered it. Nobody tries to stop me from entering the premises, however. They must be aware I serve at Liskaal’s whim.