Page 81 of Too Hexed to Handle

I walk inside. An elderly man with a ruddy face and a moustache obscuring most of his mouth slumps behind the counter, drumming his fingers on the desk. He straightens at the sight of me. Alarm sparks in his eyes.

‘Miss, your hands . . .’

I lift one from the book and realise I’m still covered in Astin’s blood. The red has faded now, but it lingers underneath my nails, in the lines of my palm, my whole being saturated by his memory.

‘I’ve had a bad day,’ I tell him, in the understatement of the year. Decade. Century.

His brow furrows. Summoning one last bit of energy, I try to recall how to plaster a smile on my face, aiming for something reassuring that says I am not an axe murderer.

‘Cut my finger,’ I tell him, waving my hands around. ‘Shocking how much blood one tiny scratch can produce.’

Oh no. My voice wavered. And – hexes, is that a tear? I thought I was done with those. My tear ducts must be a barren well by now, and yet, like magic, here they go again, filling my eyes with wet and stinging my mouth with salt.

‘I’m sorry.’ I hiccup. ‘It hurts.’

I pull out the emeralds I managed to salvage from my broken bindings. ‘I don’t have any coin, but I have these. They’re real, I promise. If I can have a room, everything will be –’ For once, I can’t bring myself to lie. He could give me the nicest room in the building, and things would still be terrible.

The man holds the emeralds to the light. They must pass inspection, because he says, ‘All right. Room three’s available.’

I snatch the key the moment it hits the counter and rush away, nearly colliding with the front door as someone tries to shove it open from the other side. The last thing I hear as I dart up the stairs is the man saying, ‘Not another one. Been in a fight, have you?’

A brief prickle of conscience tells me I should investigate what that means, in case it’s one of the basement captives seeking refuge, but I’m already shoving the key into the lock of room three, desperate to be alone.

Until I open the door to find one large bed waiting.

My face crumples. The door slams shut.

I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be alone at all.

I drop to the floor, realising this is my life now. One bed to myself until the end of my days. My stomach is hollow, not out of hunger – although, thinking about it, I have no idea when I last ate – but as though the absence of Astin has carved through me.

A blanket is draped over an armchair sitting next to the hearth. With no energy to consider lighting a fire, I crawl towards the blanket, tugging it free, shaking uncontrollably as I wrap it around my shoulders. It offers no comfort. I place the book on the floor at my side; all desire to peek at its contents vanished.

I don’t know how Astin survived it, losing his sister. I don’t know how he put up with me either, because if some smiling, happy person told me to see the positive in things, I might smack them in the face.

A knock jolts my focus. I ignore it. It sounds again.

‘I didn’t order any food,’ I call out. Maybe the innkeeper noticed I needed some. Or maybe he didn’t believe my finger-cutting story and has sent a warden here to interrogate me.

The doorknob twists.

I’m half on my feet when the door swings open, no solid plan in mind other than they can’t take me away, today of all days. But when I register who’s standing on the other side, I freeze. The blanket falls to the floor. I’m tempted to fall with it.

Because it’s not the innkeeper with a steaming bowl of soup in hand, nor a warden come to investigate my bloody hands.

It’s Astin.

26

My jaw drops, but no sound comes out. I stare at him in complete and utter disbelief.

‘Hey,’ he says.

Hey. Hey. What does he mean, hey? I’ve been crying over him, and all I get is a hey. If I wasn’t so confused, I’d be furious.

‘I don’t understand.’ Time moves in slow-motion as I take one tiny, cautious step towards him. I keep expecting him to disappear. ‘Did your hex bring you back?’

He hesitates. ‘Why would you ask me that?’