Page 59 of Too Hexed to Handle

I spend my afternoon searching Rerta, in case I luck out and find a second item that way, while waiting for the cover of nightfall before locating the address Damian gave me. Shrouded in darkness, the manor house is ringed by a brick wall and guarded by a set of tall iron gates. No light shines from any of the windows. It looks abandoned, not a home at all, as though when Eira’s here she’s nothing more than a phantom haunting its walls.

With trembling legs, I approach the gates, hyper-aware that Astin’s presence is missing from my side. I’ve never been more alone, or more vulnerable.

I even miss the way he’d be grumbling about what a bad idea this is.

Hinges whine in protest as I push the gates open, and I wince, hovering over the threshold, waiting for something to come swooping out of the house at the intrusion.

Nothing happens.

No shouts. No candles sparking to life. The wind rustling through my hair is calm and gentle. A hanging basket creaks as it sways by the entranceway, long-dead flowers drooping over its sides, shrivelled petals scattering over the porch steps.

The gates click shut behind me.

I jump at the sound, but the house remains quiet. Too quiet. A predator lying in wait, and I’m about to stumble into its trap. Shadows flicker in the corner of my eyes as I approach. I follow the house around until I reach a side door Damian promised to keep unlocked for me.

It opens to reveal a dimly lit passageway. Cobwebs draped like Laevothe banners hang across the corners of wood-panelled walls, and floorboards creak beneath my feet as I step inside.

Surely Eira can’t live here. I creep through the ground floor, peering into room after room. The building is almost frozen in time, like she hasn’t wanted to change a thing since her parents died. Place settings are arranged on the dining table as though she expects them to return home at any moment, while the dusty cushions in the living room are plumped, the armchairs forever waiting for someone to relax in them again. One room is locked, and no manner of handle rattling will open it.

In the corridor ahead, a clock ticks, pendulum swinging back and forth, propelling time forward despite how much the rest of this place resists, and next to that, an open door reveals the library.

Thick velvet curtains, a shade of maroon a smidge darker than the walls themselves, are draped over the windows, while an oil lamp burns on a side table next to another unloved armchair. The room is three times the size of the barn back home, filled with row after row of bookcases crammed with tomes.

I wander through. I don’t spot anything that looks like the journals Damian mentioned, although a few books are missing here and there, dust collecting in the empty spaces as though they’ve been absent for a while. The rest are mostly fiction, I think, until I hit a section filled with textbooks. One spine in particular catches my eye – brown, falling apart in places, gold lettering faded but unmistakable: A History of Witches.

I pause. The word’s familiar, but I can’t remember where I heard it. I don’t have time for this, but I pull the book free anyway, unable to help myself. Enough dust explodes from the pages that I sneeze as I open the introduction.

I suspect we will never learn how magic came to be, or why only a select few can harness it. Evidence suggests the ability runs through bloodlines, often skipping generations . . .

Frowning, I flip to the next page.

The earliest indication I can find of witchcraft dates back to the Bythelian era, where a family lived in the woodland near Dordam, operating an apothecary. Locals marvelled at how effective the potions were at curing the worst illnesses. The woman in particular had an ability to detect smells, often declaring she could sense things that weren’t there. I suspect she was the witch of the three, because after her beloved husband’s death, the apothecary closed, as though she became unable –

A loud bang outside jerks my attention, and my heart leaps into my throat. I shove the book on to the shelf, listening for any further signs I’m about to be interrupted. Nothing comes, but I’m on edge now, mind whirling over the words in that book as I move to the back of the library.

It sounds like the woman described was a Souleater, if she was going around smelling things. And she had a life. A family who loved her. A whole town she could help. Who weren’t afraid of her.

How did we go from that to this?

I hesitate, wanting to take the book for myself, but it’s big and bulky, and it’s not what I came here for. A waistheight, wooden cabinet looms ahead, and I crouch to examine it. Scratch marks cover the keyhole – Damian’s futile attempts at breaking in, I imagine – along with the glass panels showcasing the items within. I take a deep breath. I made fire in the clearing simply by willing it, so I can only hope lock-breaking works the same way. My stomach churns at the thought of using magic again, but I force the nausea aside, reminding myself that once I have the second item, I’ll be one step closer to the cure. Then I’ll never have to do anything like this again.

I need this lock to open. Something dark puffs in the air, not fire, and not a wraith either, just a mass of shadows that shoot straight for the keyhole.

It clicks.

I blink, surprised by my own competence, and equally surprised nothing terrible has happened in response, and yank open the doors.

On one side, ornate jugs are nested inside one another and used as storage pots for several daggers with blunt tips and green sheens to the metal. Jewellery lies in a tangled pile on the other, and I sigh, rummaging through it. It would help if Damian had given me an accurate description of this locket.

Finally, my fingers latch on something oval-shaped, and I pull it free. Dangling from the end of a gold chain, the locket is plain, not a single marking on the front. On the back, the phrase love is the key is engraved.

‘Love is the key to what?’ I say to myself, and immediately the clasp falls open.

Oh. Well, that answers that question. Strange to write the passphrase on the actual thing itself though. Not that the locket is hiding anything exciting – a miniature portrait of Clarabelle I recognise from all the memorabilia sold in her honour, alongside one of, presumably, Ozias. He’s smiling. He’s never smiling in the representations we have of him now.

Love certainly wasn’t the key to saving his life, that’s for sure.

At least I know I’ve found the right locket. As I pop it inside my cloak, another memory from last night, one that makes my whole chest pang, flashes across my mind.