Page 73 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

“I don’t understand,” she says in a small voice. “This isn’t the Toad in the Hole. At least, it hasn’t been like this for a long time. And you’re so tall.”

“You can be too. It’s a dream, and you control what happens.”

Frowning, she seems to concentrate, and her form slowly shifts. “Oh, I see.”

Still holding on to her, I stretch my magic to its limit. I didn’t think about getting back, but when I picture Kerboros pacing, waiting for me, I feel the tug on the other end. He’s the thread that allows me to pull her out. His strength, his resolve. I don’t dare to put other labels on it, not when I’m promised to someone else. Outrage sweeps through me, fresh and piping hot. Damn Zeph anyway.

My eyes snap open. Tara gasps, stumbling forward, but I catch her and give her a huge hug. “Steady. We made it.”

Tara touches her forehead to mine. Because of you. Because you love me.

Tears fill my eyes. We haven’t mind-sung to each other since we were children. It’s confirmation of an old and intimate bond. Doing this without surety of your welcome in someone else’s head is not only unwise, it’s also the height of discourteous imposition. I wouldn’t have done this without an invitation.

But she’s right. I do love her.

I do, I reply.

I love you too, Tara says silently.

The others are fearfully still, but just then, Rosa swears, turning the air blue with her affront. “When I get my hands on the stinkweed that dared to ensnare me, I will cram their nose up their butt!”

Tara laughs, easing out of my hold. We break the mental connection because it’s rude to do that when others are present, especially wild fae like Rosa who can tell they’re being excluded from the conversation. Kerboros might not have realized what was happening between me and Tara since he’s high fae, but I don’t want him to feel shut out either. He’s more observant than people realize.

“Welcome back,” I offer.

Tara smiles at Rosa. “You’re the only one who got out on their own.”

The pixie preens visibly. “I have a stubborn streak.”

“We still need to rouse Zeph and Govannon,” Kerboros says.

I summarize how Kerboros roused me and the way I did the same for Tara. Then Rosa says, “Understood. I’ll get Zeph.”

She’s incredibly efficient. No more than a handful of heartbeats—and I’ve no idea what the pixie says to Zeph in the dream realm—but they awaken in a foul mood. They pace, ignoring the rest of us, seeming unsettled by whatever they experienced. If the trial remained consistent, it was a traumatic event from when they were young.

I don’t welcome them back or try to comfort them. I would like a proper apology, fewer of these I did the wrong thing for the right reasons excuses. Whatever their motives, they fooled me, sabotaged our travel multiple times, and treated me like an accessory to a plan they haven’t troubled themself to share. In fact, just before this magical entrapment, they claimed they didn’t have a plan to exit the In-Between per se.

“How can we save Govannon?” Tara asks. “None of us have strong ties to him.”

Kerboros answers, “I’ll try. I’m the one who brought him back to the group, for whatever that’s worth.”

“I believe in you,” I tell him in a bracing tone.

“I’m glad to hear it, Thea.” People don’t use my name a lot, so it gives me a start, hearing it in such a velvety tone. The unusual softness makes it seem like an endearment.

“Wait,” I surprise myself by saying.

Kerboros offers me an inquiring look, and I don’t look at the others as I cross to him. There’s no point in pretending he isn’t precious to me, and I don’t want to regret letting this moment pass. Rising on tiptoes, I kiss his cheek. “For luck.”

His smile is so beautiful that it breaks my heart for all the moments I haven’t seen it.

He gathers himself, and then he’s ensorcelled again with the fate of our party resting squarely on his shoulders.

34

Endless Spiral

This piece is aptly named, as a spiral has been carved into the wall, though the unsteady cuts indicate that it must have been an early effort. There has been no attempt to smooth the roughness of those lines, so it lends a rustic rather than mythical look to the curls turning ever inward. Lighter wood grain peeks out from the grooves that have been winnowed out with time and patience, so the pattern has a certain illusive quality that makes one think that it might, in fact, be a portal or a doorway—that if one touches a specific point, an aperture might open to allow us access to the inner sanctum, where greater treasures or artistic endeavors might be stored, secured against prying and judgmental eyes. But finding the pressure plate, that might be a riddle that only someone who loves the artist could solve.