Page 46 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

Then I skedaddle, deciding I need a new vector of approach as I return to Kerboros. He smirks as I close the distance between us.

“That seemed to go well,” he observes.

“Not my best effort,” I admit. “I was abrupt. Do you have a better idea?”

“I suspect we shouldn’t ask any other hobgoblins,” he tells me.

“I deserve that.” I laugh because I don’t mind him teasing me about my lack of finesse. At least, I think he’s teasing.

We move deeper into the market, and this time, Kerboros chooses our contact. He approaches a boggart selling carved stones. Kerboros takes a moment to examine all the wares, and I’m close enough to catch the conversation.

Kerboros says, “Your work is exceptionally skilled.”

“I’m delighted to hear it!” The artisan seems thrilled with the compliment.

They discuss patterns, methods, acid washing, and a bunch of stuff that I don’t follow about working with stone. It’s clear Kerboros knows a lot about stone carving, and I’m fascinated by this revelation about him. As I’m about to tune out, Kerboros makes a purchase from the stall.

He tucks the stone in his pack, and then he says, “By the way, do you happen to know a hobgoblin named Tara?”

“Do you mean Taragon?”

“Yes, that’s her name.”

“I’ve seen her around the market, buying supplies now and then.”

I step closer, unable to resist chiming in. “I think she works at a tavern, but I can’t remember the name.”

“There’s loads of taverns around,” the boggart says, not unkindly. “You know who you should talk to?”

I shake my head.

“The herbalist, just around the corner. Tempest knows everyone. And come to think of it, I believe I’ve seen them together before. At any rate, if anyone can point you in the right direction, it’ll be them.”

“Understood,” Kerboros says.

We step away from the stall as the vendor greets a potential customer. It feels like we’re on the verge of a breakthrough. Once we find Tara, our group will be complete. Tara can talk anyone into anything. That’s another reason why I want to find her, not simply because we’re close, both emotionally (in the past) and geographically (right now). I hope she can help me talk my spouse into giving this relationship a try. Or maybe… This idea taps at the edges of my brain, as if looking for a weakness. Maybe she can think of a way out of this mess. Two heads are better than one, and she’s clever as well as kind. Either way, with the deadline galloping at us like a wild pooka, it’s do-or-die time.

I don’t want to be with Devan J. Fenelon; my heart has other inclinations entirely. I steal a look at Kerboros and wish I was still holding his hand. That peek catches him in the midst of returning a fallen rag doll to a young brownie, who scampers off with a delighted giggle, dragging the doll in the dust behind her. This is the enforcer others call Winter’s hound. To me, he’s someone else. Someone who’s kind to children, who buys me cake and lets me hug him. My cheeks heat, and I poke at them.

“Have you been stung?” Kerboros is very close, his face near to mine.

My breath hitches. “No.”

As I debate whether to confide how adorable he’s acting, a hobgoblin shouts, “Out of the way, coming through, hot bread for sale, hot bread! Get your hot bread!”

He’s pushing a trolley laden with loaves, and Kerboros reacts so quickly, it makes my head spin. In one motion, I’m in his arms, twirling with him out of the main flow of traffic. My pulse was stuttering before, and now it’s racing. I gaze up at him, staring at his lips.

And the look on his face—nobody has ever hungered for me like that. He dips his head. I lift my chin.

We’re jostled by a passerby, and my forehead smacks into his shoulder. At least they didn’t ruin a kiss.

My voice is husky when I say, “Let’s go find Tempest.”

22

Wild at Heart

One might be forgiven for missing this piece entirely, as it’s carved into the bed, a little secret the artist keeps close to his chest. This maiden has been carved into each leg, the only artwork replicated within the space. But this woman is shown four times, each a different pose, a different scene. The common factor is the woman’s expression, unfettered and joyous. The first depicts her in a wild wood, surrounded by adoring wild creatures. Another shows her astride a pooka. The third finds her trailing a hand in a wildly rushing river. And the final scene provides a glimpse of her perched high in the boughs of a tree, holding a round and perfect apple. The beholder might wonder whether she is the embodiment of freedom or temptation. Possibly, the artist perceives her as both.