Page 48 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

Finally.

“You’ve been an amazing help.” Thea smiles at Tempest, leaving me mildly dazzled by the bright beauty of her expression.

When she bounces off, I do my best to keep up.

She follows the directions and indeed a sharp voice does scold us roundly when we cut through the courtyard. But Thea ignores Tempest’s instruction to disregard the chastisement. “Do you object to us using the shortcut because we’re tracking dirt? I can sweep if you like.”

A round creased face appears in the upper window, and then the brownie pops out onto the sloping roof, creeping toward us with a suspicious stare. He is small, even for a brownie, clad entirely in gray from head to toe. His eyes are narrowed, focused on Thea with a puzzlement bordering on outrage.

“Are you calling my courtyard dirty?” he demands.

“Not at all. I was just hoping to make you feel better about our passage.”

“That’s absurd,” Ragh says. “Nobody cares about my opinion. Haven’t for ages.”

“Well, they should.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because everyone matters,” Thea replies.

The conviction in her voice pierces me like an arrow. I suddenly don’t care that we have little time to waste. She’s correct. I don’t know Ragh, but now this moment is critical to me as well. We should do what we can to make him feel less hostile.

“If you wanted me to feel better, you wouldn’t offer to do chores. You’d provide a tangible token of apology.”

Since I recently bought something that might suffice, I produce the glimmering rose quartz, so pretty and delicate, carved into an actual rose. Fenstig has a talent that outshines my own, and I planned to study this piece at my leisure. Then, if I felt brave enough, eventually, I might have given it to Thea as a gift. But it can serve a higher purpose now, comforting a brownie who feels overlooked by the entire world.

“Would you like this?” I ask. “As a tribute of respect.”

Ragh scampers to the edge of the roof and peers down at the artist’s work in my hand. To my surprise, he presses a hand to his lips, eyes going wide and soft. “It looks like the last flower I had from Govannon. Before he went away to Autumn.”

“Then this was meant for you,” Thea says softly.

A sudden pang startles me; this isn’t like me, not at all. I surprise myself by asking for more information. “Who is Govannon? And what happened to him?”

“The love of my life. And I wish I knew. The uncertainty eats at me. He went to the Autumn lands to work, and he was supposed to send word when he had a place for us. But it’s been so long, and naught but silence.”

“Have you tried searching for him? By magic or otherwise?” Thea seems interested too, as we now have something in common with Ragh.

“I did. Nothing came of it. I can only conclude he doesn’t want to be found,” the brownie says in a sorrowful tone. “I wish he’d told me that he wanted us to end. I loved him enough to let him go for his sake. And for his happiness.”

“Take this as a memento of happier times,” I say then. I lift my arm, and with a burst of magic, I lend enough animus to the stone rose so that it pops from my palm to Ragh’s in a smooth motion.

The brownie holds fast to the gift, clutching it to his chest. “You don’t know what this means to me. I feel…tranquil? I’d nearly forgotten the word, let alone the sensation. Go in peace and with my blessings.”

If Thea nibbled at his anger, there might be tangible reasons for his improved mood. But it’s better that he ascribes it to the conversation and the gift. We cannot be discovered here. If we’re caught, they will execute me. But I care less about my own fate than what becomes of Thea.

She waves, unaware of my bleak thoughts, and continues toward the tavern with the brightness of her being burnished to an incredible sheen. When I view her aura, she’s shining silver from head to toe, so good that it hurts me to gaze upon her. I shift my attention to the back of the tavern.

Toad in the Hole is gray stone, braced with pale wood, whitewashed first, pastel hues painted on top. Such gradient colors lend an enchanting effect, more like fish scales, or perhaps it’s meant to suggest an amphibian resemblance. There are window boxes with flowers tumbling from them, trailing vines creeping to the eaves. From within, I hear the sound of voices rising and falling in conversation.

The back door stands open, and she enters without hesitation. It never seems to occur to her to wonder whether she should do something. On my own, I would verify if this is a kitchen entrance, meant for staff. I follow, feeling as though I’ve adopted the role of guardian, destined to fail at keeping Thea out of trouble. We emerge in a kitchen with a huge scarred table, a variety of knives, and ingredients scattered about. It smells of hops from the brewing beer and yeast, likely from the freshly baked bread cooling on the counter nearby. If I’m not mistaken, I also detect mushroom stew, and I would love to try both.

Perhaps not right now.

Two surprised brownies turn to face us, one wearing a stained apron. The other holds a tray of drinks.

“You’re not supposed to be in here!” the apron-wearing one scolds.