Page 45 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

I try to decide who might be the best source of information, but the market is so pretty that it’s tough to concentrate. Even the vendor stalls have an artistic bent; they’re not just hammered together from fallen wood. Colors limn the sides with silken streamers affixed to the tops, and artful patterns are etched into the lower frames.

This is a bustling, wondrous place. Observing the denizens of Summer as they pass, I notice they seem happier too, calling out to one another without timidity or hesitation. There’s a boldness in their stride as well. Even the pixies are smiling, which, if you know anything about pixies, is a big deal. Despite her occasional brusqueness, Rosa is one of the nicer ones I’ve met. Da’s friend Shereth is an outlier, sweet as spun sugar.

Kerboros quickens his step, tugging on my hand, and I match his pace. He’s heading toward a stand that I never would have predicted. They’re selling sticky buns shaped like nautilus shells. Da always called them sea cakes, and I haven’t had them in such a long time. Kerboros buys two and turns to offer me one.

“I noticed that you have a sweet tooth,” he says gruffly.

He…noticed? I swallow the urge to ask, Since when?

“That’s so kind.” I take the cake right away. Even though we did have lunch, we didn’t have dessert, so I eat the treat in two bites. So delicious, light and fluffy like a cloud, delicate sweetness with a hint of fruit and flowers—and it dissolves on my tongue in a burst of honeyed goodness. “This is wonderful,” I add, fighting the urge to hug him.

I wonder what he would do if I did. The idea makes me chuckle, and he gives me a narrow-eyed look, as if he might be the butt of a joke. I suspect he’s used to that.

I don’t think he’ll ask, but…he does, taking a careful bite of the cake. “Will you share what you find so amusing?”

“It’s more that I’m happy,” I reply, which isn’t a lie. It’s not the entire truth, and I decide to share the rest. “I’m happy, and I want to hug you. But I thought you’d be appalled—”

“You may,” he cuts in.

“What?”

“Hug me.”

I stare at him, stunned, but I don’t hesitate for more than a moment. I rush at him and wrap my arms about his middle, as he’s rather tall, and I mean for it to be a joyous, playful moment, but from the instant his arms come around me in turn, there’s a rush of heat, a conflagration of sparks, all over my nerve endings. He has no right to smell this delicious after days on the road, like woodsmoke and dried herbs. His hand moves idly on my back, dragging up and down, and I squeeze my eyes shut in response to the stunning tingles that follow each sweeping caress.

I feel a little dizzy when he lets go of me. “Wow,” I mumble.

“I should buy you cakes more often.” Kerboros is smiling slightly, a feline expression of contentment visible right around his eyes.

I never would have guessed him capable of such a look. “No objections on my end.”

“That was an enjoyable break,” he observes. “But we should focus.”

“You have a point.”

As I spin in a slow circle, I try to recall everything Tara told me. Her family runs a tavern nearby, but I can’t remember the name. When we were kids, we didn’t talk about work. Instead, we caused as much chaos as we could—pretty much what I’m known for.

I decide to start the research at a nearby booth where they sell handmade silken shawls, gorgeous artisanal work with fringe and lace. The hobgoblin sings out a poetic patter about his work: “All the colors of the rainbow! Coquelicot, carmine, cobalt, celadon, citrine! Come and see, purchase and preen!”

“I’ve got this,” I say to Kerboros.

He releases my hand with apparent reluctance. “I await your success.”

My hand is warm from his touch, and it takes genuine effort to walk away. “I was wondering if I could ask a question,” I say to the shawl seller.

“Of course!” he replies. “What do you like? I made everything you see on display with these two hands.” He wiggles his short fingers for emphasis.

“Your work is beautiful, but the question is unrelated.”

He sighs, losing some of his enthusiasm. “Fine. I’m listening.”

“Do you know a hobgoblin named Tara? Her full name is Taragon.”

The merchant frowns, heavy brows pulling together. “Do you think all hobgoblins know each other or something?”

Yikes. I don’t think I can come back from this.

“Sorry,” I mumble.