For the people who built this story with me.

If not for your joy, your comments,

and your excitement,

this book would not exist.

Your magic made this story.

Copyright © 2024 by Beth Revis

http://bethrevis.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover design and art by Jessica Khoury. Chapter header images by Canva, used with license.

House of Hex

Beth Revis

Contents

Foreword

Prologue

1.  Four of Swords

2.  Death, Transposed

3.  Judgement, Transposed

4.  The Empress, Transposed

5.  Two of Pentacles, Transposed

6.  The Magician, Transposed

7.  Four of Pentacles

8.  Seven of Cups

9.  Six of Swords, Transposed

10.  Four of Pentacles, Transposed

11.  Eight of Cups

12.  The Lovers

13.  The Queen of Cups

14.  The Fool, Transposed

15.  The Devil

16.  The Devil, Transposed

17.  Page of Cups, Transposed

18.  Ace of Swords

19.  Ace of Swords, Transposed

20.  The Star, Transposed

21.  Judgement

22.  The Star

23.  Page of Wands, Transposed

24.  The High Priestess, Transposed

25.  Nine of Cups, Transposed

26.  The Moon

27.  Eight of Wands

28.  Ten of Cups

29.  Page of Wands

30.  Four of Cups, Transposed

31.  The Queen of Cups

32.  The Magician

33.  The Queen of Cups

34.  Three of Wands, Transposed

35.  Three of Wands, Transposed

36.  The Chariot, Transposed

37.  Seven of Pentacles

38.  Knight of Cups, Transposed

39.  The Magician, Transposed

40.  The Hanged Man

41.  Three of Swords

42.  Four of Wands

43.  Seven of Swords, Transposed

44.  Seven of Swords, Transposed

45.  Epilogue

46.  Bonus Short Story

47.  A Map of the World

Historical Notes

With Special Thanks

About the Author

Also by Beth Revis

Foreword

The book you are holding in your hands would not exist if the readers of Museum of Magic had not made the exact wrong decision. And I’m so grateful they did.

See, Museum of Magic was not supposed to have a sequel. It was already an ambitious project due to the unique way I was writing it—I wrote it like a Dungeon and Dragons game, having all choices by main character Emmi be made through a combination of luck and dice rolls. At the end of every chapter, readers got to vote on a major direction for the next chapter to take.

A main theme throughout Museum of Magic is “never trust the fae.” They’re tricky! They purposefully design ways to trick humans! Emmi knew this; my readers knew this.

And then when Emmi and Puck go to Glastonbury, my readers voted to trust the fae.

It was such a gob-smackingly wrong decision to make that I had not actually planned any contingencies for this event. When the time for the vote come, I just naively assumed my beloved readers understood never trust the fae. And yet! They threw me for a curveball, and suddenly I was halfway through the experiment novel Museum of Magic with Emmi trusting a fae creature.

It created such a huge plot hole that I had to write a whole second book. This book. House of Hex is entirely the result of that one vote, and the gaping plot hole it made, and the way I had to pivot all my story ideas to accommodate it.

And I could not be happier.

The fact that this story comes from a place of curiosity and creativity is brilliant. I love that it’s the result of bad choices and mayhem—all the best things usually are. And I am most proud of the way I kept the creation true. I didn’t try to fudge the numbers on the vote or overrule what my readers wanted.

They chose the path of chaos.

And House of Hex was waiting at the end of it.

Prologue

The Cut Deck

“This is the last magic,” Emmi whispered to herself.

It wasn’t—there was magic in both this world and the Otherworld, as she had learned over the past few weeks—but this was the last of her magic. A swinging crystal over a map.

“Where are you, Puck?” she asked, knowing the shadows, her only companions in the otherwise empty room, would not answer her.

Emmi had tried pendulum dousing in order to find Puck, who’d been kidnapped the moment she released him from the bonds that bound him to her house, the Museum of Magic. But while the spell had helped her before, now it was haywire. Emmi had held the crystal over the map soon after Puck disappeared. It still swung out wildly in broad, erratic circles, the string taut despite the fact that it hung from nothing, the crystal roving over the map even though no one and nothing moved it.

The pendulum showed no sign of slowing.

Puck was nowhere.

Puck was everywhere.

“Everywhere but here,” Emmi muttered. She couldn’t help but stare at the glinting crystal as it spun over the open atlas. Even if it didn’t give her answers, it helped, a little, to watch it. To remember that magic was real.

Even if she didn’t have it any more.

Not for the first time, Emmi wondered if she’d made the right choice. In any of it. She’d freed Puck, but breaking the contract he’d made with her ancestor had made him a target of some other contract, pulling him away from her, into some unreachable unknown. She’d saved her grandfather, but at the cost of her own magic…to make a witch bottle for a fae king she absolutely did not trust.

The door opened. Emmi watched as her grandfather stepped into the room.

“There you are,” he said.

His gaze adjusted to the twirling crystal, suspended from nothing, spinning rapidly over the atlas. His eyes widened.

“Did you know?” Emmi asked. “That I had magic? That I am…was a witch?”

Grandfather shook his head. “I suppose I should have. There were…signs, looking back. Unexplained things when you were younger.”

“Was my mother…?”

He shook his head again, his eyes on the revolving pendulum. “How did you…”

“I did it before I lost my power,” Emmi said.

Some of the tension in his shoulders relaxed. He stared at it with wonder. “Pendulum dousing?” he asked.

Emmi nodded. “It didn’t work.”

“Living under Elspeth Castor’s shadow, in the house she built, I should have seen magic for what it was,” Grandfather said. “Real.”

Grandfather had always taken an academic attitude about magic. He was a professor at the local college, drawing complicated lines between religion, fear, and superstition and guiding his students to see the branching paths through history, the connections and deviations.

He turned research into complicated formulae seeking unknowable answers, but he’d never factored in real magic.

Emmi hadn’t either.

“Missing that boy?” Grandfather asked in a gentle voice.

Emmi had told Grandfather some of what had happened while he’d been absent, but he’d guessed that her connection with Puck had been deeper, even if she hadn’t elaborated on it more.

“I just want to know he’s safe,” Emmi said in a small voice.

The pendulum swung round and round.

“The fae…” Grandfather’s voice trailed off. Emmi looked past the pendulum, at her grandfather. His cheeks were still sunken, despite how much he’d eaten since coming home. His eyes were haunted. He walked around the house as if he were unsure what lurked in the shadows.

Emmi was a little more sure what had been in the shadows, but that knowledge brought her no comfort.

“What was it like?” Emmi asked. She hadn’t yet broached the topic of his experience being prisoner of the fae, forced into the Wild Hunt. Every time she got close to the idea, Grandfather’s eyes grew distant, his face slackening with remembered horror.

“It was not…pleasant,” Grandfather allowed, his gaze sliding away from hers.

She wanted more. She wanted answers.

But before she could say anything, Grandfather reached out, touching the taut string between them.

The crystal collapsed down, momentum sending it skidding over the table and clattering to the floor.

“Oh, no,” Grandfather said, looking up morosely. “I guess the magic’s gone now.”

Four of Swords

Recharging, restoring, and recuperating

Emmi’s hand gripped the stone doorway. She flinched in the morning light diffused by the green leaves of the maples lining the sidewalk. It had rained earlier, and it made the walkway gleam in reflected sunlight.

“Everything okay?” Grandfather asked, coming out of the gift shop with a dustpan in his hand. Emmi hadn’t just let the shop go while she’d been adventuring; the whole Museum of Magic that was her home had been neglected. The front area—the first thing potential customers saw—was the worst. Her introduction to magic had come from a very aggressive Witch Hunter who’d tried to force himself into the Museum. She and Puck had both fought back, but the foyer had been trashed in the process.

At the time, it had made sense to just shove everything behind the counter—the broken telephone she’d thrown at the Hunter, the piles of ripped up brochures from the display that had scattered in Puck’s magical wind, and all the other debris. But now that Grandfather was back and things were normal again, it was time to clean up.

“I should be helping you,” Emmi said, turning away from the door. The light bothered her eyes; she could feel a headache coming on.

“No, it’s fine.” Grandfather opened the closet. “I’m mostly done anyway. What are you up to today?”

“I was going to the library.”

Grandfather cocked his head, glancing behind him to the corridor that led to the library upstairs, a collection of books both ancient and modern.

“I requested a few volumes from the county library,” Emmi explained.

“Want me to pick them up on my way back from work?” Grandfather had already swapped the dustpan for his jacket. Even though it was summer, the morning was crisp enough for the tweed with leather patches at the elbow. Grandfather was the walking epitome of a New England professor, even if he only taught history at the local community college.

“Sure,” Emmi said, stepping back. The task gone, the pressure from her growing migraine seemed to diminish. “There should be five books on hold.”

“Ambitious.”

There was a catch in his tone. “What?” Emmi asked.

Grandfather flinched. “It’s just…this is about all that…fae stuff, isn’t it?”

Emmi’s eyes widened slightly. “Of course it is. Don’t you want answers?”

Grandfather shook his head. “I want things to go back to the way they were.”

Emmi started to reply, then thought better of it. She chewed her bottom lip. This wasn’t like Grandfather. Just ignoring a problem never made it go away. She’d learned that from him—from the way he faced a life that didn’t turn out the way he’d thought it would, from the way he’d handled unexpected bad luck with as much grace as he handled unexpected good luck. He was the one who squared his shoulders and kept going. He was both stubborn and resolved…but he never turned a blind eye.

Well, he hadn’t before he’d been kidnapped by the fae. Being a prisoner of the king of the fair folk and forced into the Wild Hunt would change a man, Emmi supposed.

Grandfather reached out and squeezed Emmi’s arm. Through the open front door, they could feel a gentle breeze, hear a trilling bird, but they were both in the dark shadows of the house. It reminded Emmi briefly of the moment when she’d used her magical sight to see into the Otherworld, an image of a dark, abandoned house in the forest replaced with a cottage in the fae lands.

She was making a habit of existing on the edge between two worlds, belonging to none.

“I worry about you,” Grandfather said in a low voice, his brow crinkled.

“I’m not the one who was kidnapped!”

Grandfather’s face broke into a smile. “Well, we can worry about each other, then. But…”

Emmi prompted him to continue with an impatient look.

“It’s just…” Grandfather started. “I’m still trying to wrap my mind around everything that happened. And I gather that, in the end, you did something to help the fae.”

Emmi hadn’t told Grandfather everything. He knew she bargained with Gwyn ap Nudd, king of the fair folk, but he hadn’t pressed her for details when she’d been reluctant to share.

“I did,” Emmi said weakly. “I tried, anyway.”

Grandfather’s smile faded, and Emmi realized it’d been forced. “Was it for all the fae? Or did you only try to help that one you like, Puck?”

Emotion choked her. Images flashed through her mind—Puck showing her the Otherworld, Puck helping her disguise herself, Puck protecting her.

Puck.

“It started with him,” Emmi confessed. “At first, all I cared about was saving you.” Grandfather squeezed her arm again. “But then I realized I could do more. I…I tried to do more. I tried to help. I hope…”

Every day she questioned whether she had done the right thing. That was the problem with bargaining away her magic; as soon as she sacrificed her power, she lost the ability to see the fae, to interact with them.

To know if she had actually helped.

“I’m sure it all worked out,” Grandfather said as he gave her a brief hug and headed down to the stone walkway leading to the sidewalk. “And now we’re back to normal.”

Normal? It was almost too normal. The last few weeks of Emmi’s life had been upended by Puck and magic, Hunters and fae, ghosts and shadows. But now Grandfather was smiling at her, the sun making the rain-dampened leaves glitter and the steps shine blue-gray. It was all normal again.

Sabrina, Emmi’s cat, mewed as it wound its way around her ankles. She bent to pet her, the ginger tail wrapping around her wrist.

Everything’s normal, and that’s good, Emmi reminded herself as Sabrina circled back for more scratches. Too normal? There’s no such thing.

As Emmi straightened, Grandfather knelt on the walkway to tie his shoe. He fiddled so long with the laces that Emmi thought he was delaying on purpose, but when he stood up again, he left without looking back.

Emmi shut the front door. Her headache had come upon her suddenly, but it was rapidly disappearing. By the time she crossed to the back of the house, it was gone. Emmi swung open the back door, stepping lightly onto the paving stones that wound through the enclosed backyard, leading to the glass conservatory.

The conservatory was usually hot—the clear ceiling arching with silver spires worked as a greenhouse for some of the more exotic plants grown there—but the long windows could be cranked open, and a large electric fan had been installed over the door to create a warm breeze so that even on the hottest days, the conservatory wasn’t stuffy.

Emmi stepped inside, warm air laced with the scent of damp earth and new green leaves. Although technically not a part of the house, the conservatory was still part of the tour of the Museum of Magic, and little black placards with silver writing listed the names of every plant on display: belladonna, deadly nightshade, henbane, and more. Elspeth had a fondness for herbs that could kill as well as the ones that healed.

Two sides of the same coin, really.

Emmi’s fingers bounced over shining leaves as she made her way to the back of the conservatory. A big bench stood against the far wall, huge leaves hanging over it like a canopy. Emmi sat down, pulling out the crate she’d stashed under the bench.

She could think clearer here than in any other room of the house. While the library had once been Emmi’s sanctuary, now it was a constant reminder of Puck. She couldn’t focus on the books; her eyes drifted incessantly toward the spot under the window where they’d kissed, or the shelves where they’d stood together, researching. The hearth room reminded Emmi of what she’d lost—not just Puck, but also her magic.

With its glass ceiling, the conservatory held no shadows—literally or figuratively. So Emmi had packed up the books from her library that she wanted to examine, and she read them here, with rainbows occasionally skittering across the page thanks to the angles cut in the glass.

She was looking for answers.

But so far, all she’d found was more questions.

“It’s impossible,” Emmi muttered, flipping open the first book. She wasn’t sure if she was talking about her own futile research or the subject of her reading material.

Because what her ancestor, Elspeth Castor, had done…it had been impossible.

Elspeth Castor had made a witch bottle, designed to protect witches from Hunters and, by association, to protect the fae from being exploited. Each item in her witch bottle had been linked to a woman accused of witchcraft. Including the artifacts inside the bottle. By powering the bottle with magic, Elspeth had cast a powerful protection charm, making magic impenetrable and invisible to Hunters.

But Elspeth could not have gotten some of the items that were included in the witch bottle.

Emmi’s ancestor had come to America as a colonist in 1620.

But she’d made a bottle with items from Great Britain. She’d included a coin used to pay off a Witch Hunter on the opposite side of England after she’d left. She had a page of a book written by a king well above her station.

How had Elspeth put together the ingredients for the bottle when she’d been in America when it had been made, a months-long journey separating her from her homeland?

Puck had been her servant. He could have helped. Maybe he’d made portals from ash sigils for Elspeth the way he’d made them for Emmi.

“But…” Emmi said, looking at a page she’d printed off the internet detailing information on Joan Wytte’s skeleton, which had been on display in another museum of magic, one in England. Elspeth had dirt from Joan’s hidden grave in the bottle. But Joan had died in 1813. Almost two centuries after Elspeth had lived.

How could Elspeth have picked up a clod of dirt from a grave of a woman who’d not been born yet?

Emmi thought of the Shadowlands and the orddu witches that ran them. Their dark magic was linked to time—the cauldron they stirred was filled with time itself, showing the past, present, and future. Perhaps Elspeth had been an orddu, perhaps she had been able to foresee…

Or perhaps Emmi was just grasping at straws.

Her mind drifted to Grandfather. Maybe she needed to start with him for answers.

Before Emmi could distract herself completely, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, her mouth dropping open as she read.

While she’d been trying to recreate Elspeth’s witch bottle and find her grandfather, Emmi and Puck had stopped at a museum in Boscastle, the same one that had Joan Wytte’s bones on display. She’d asked if her grandfather had passed by, but the worker at the museum had not known him, instead giving her the email address of the museum’s owner.

In the chaos of the quest for magical items, Emmi had forgotten about the email she’d sent, begging for information on her grandfather.

The museum had finally written back.

Death, Transposed

Transformation, endings and beginnings

Emmi held her breath as she scanned the words on her phone screen, then forced herself to slow down, concentrate, and breathe as she read it a second time.

Dear Emmi,

My apologies for the delay in responding; I’ve been on holiday. I’m sorry to hear your grandfather is missing. I can confirm that I did speak with him in person in Boscastle fairly early in the summer, but he found our collection here…not to his taste. He’d come to see Item No. 2766 specifically, a hand-made apothecary box, but he ultimately dismissed it as more art than history or culture.

I regret to inform you that Landon Castor left soon after arriving. He seemed on somewhat urgent business.

Urgent? Grandfather had gone to the United Kingdom almost as soon as his spring term teaching assignment was complete. He’d been excited—off to track down some English artifacts linked to their shared ancestor, Elspeth Castor—but none of his vague plans had been what Emmi would have called urgent.

But perhaps Grandfather hadn’t told her the full truth when he’d left. Emmi had found some of Grandfather’s notes—it had been his writing in the margin that had told her about the book Daemonologie, which had ended up being the key to starting her magical quest. And he’d also made a note about salt in another book that had led to Emmi and Puck defeating a Witch Hunter.

Grandfather had told Emmi that he was just on a typical hunt for antiques, but the reality seems to have been quite different…

Emmi turned back to her phone and tapped out a response to the owner of the museum in Boscastle.

Thank you for letting me know you met with my grandfather. If you think of any additional details about his visit, anything he may have said to you or indicated what, exactly, he was looking for, please let me know.

“Mraw.” Sabrina had made her way to the conservatory and hopped up on the bench beside Emmi, pushing her phone away. Emmi scratched the cat absently. Why had she written out her email like that? She’d purposefully not told the museum owner that Grandfather was back; she was acting like he was still missing.

Sourness boiled in her stomach, but Emmi swallowed it down. She knew why she hadn’t revealed the truth in her response.

“I can just ask Grandfather what he was researching,” Emmi told Sabrina. The cat looked as doubtful as she felt.

For the first time in her life, Emmi wasn’t sure her grandfather would tell her the truth.

Shaking herself, Emmi quit petting Sabrina, who rolled over on her stomach in protest. Instead, she searched for the item the museum owner had mentioned, an apothecary box. The museum’s website meticulously catalogued everything they had on display, and Emmi was impressed with the organization behind it. She should probably revamp her own museum’s website.

“An apothecary box made by a local artist,” Emmi read aloud. The box looked like it would fit on a desk perfectly, and it held tiny vials with handwritten labels: Sands of Time, Mermaid Hair, Wisdom Potion, Phoenix Feather, more.

It was impressive, but she secretly agreed that Grandfather had been right—there was artistry here, but not history. She tapped the screen, blowing up the image of the bottles, trying to see behind the label “Mermaid Hair.” The box and its contents may not be authentic, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a clue here to what her grandfather had been thinking when he sought it out…

But the picture wasn’t in high enough definition to see the details of the bottle’s interior. And while Emmi had been to the museum herself with Puck, she no longer had access to ash sigils, and no easy way to pop across the Atlantic Ocean and see for herself.

It was all too much. Without Puck or her magic, she couldn’t truly investigate anything.

“Much less the disappearance of a grandfather I’ve already found,” Emmi said, tilting her head back and staring up through the clear glass ceiling obscured by condensation. Sabrina hopped off the bench, pouncing on a leaf before twitching her tail and disappearing among the plants.

Emmi’s phone dinged again. She glanced at the screen halfheartedly, then straightened, opening the email past the notification preview. The Boscastle museum owner had sent a quick reply, just two lines.

By the by, have you tried following up with the museum in Orkney? Landon mentioned he was heading there next.

“Orkney?” Emmi said. Deep in the conservatory, Sabrina growled at Emmi’s loud voice. What was in Orkney? That area was far to the north, a cluster of Scottish islands that seemed willing to drift away from the mainland. Almost as far away from Boscastle, a tiny town to the southwest, as it was possible to be.

Orkney sounded familiar, but Emmi couldn’t recall where she’d heard it from. Certainly not from Grandfather’s planned itinerary.

Although, to be fair, Grandfather hadn’t mentioned Boscastle, either.

Emmi stood. The warm air in the conservatory was doing nothing to clear her mind. May as well go back inside the house. Sabrina shot out the second Emmi opened the door, bounding over the stone step pathway as if Emmi had kept her caged in the conservatory for half her life.

Lost in thought, Emmi started listing what she knew and what she still had questions about in her mind. Pressing down on those thoughts, though, was the awareness that summer would end fairly soon. And then…what? School? Could she really just…go back to normal? After…

Sharp pain stabbed at Emmi’s mind, and she flinched as a beam of sunlight reflected off the conservatory’s roof across her vision. Emmi shielded her eyes, cringing as a sudden headache flared. She’d meandered off the stone path and onto the soft green grass in her backyard, but she scrambled up to the house, shielding her eyes and fighting down the nausea rising up her throat.

As soon as she was back inside, the cool air and shade helped her symptoms lessen almost immediately. Warily, Emmi lowered her hand from her eyes, blinking rapidly. That was the second time a headache had hit her today; this morning, as she’d been heading to the library, she’d felt the morning light oppressive, her head throbbing. Emmi had never had a migraine before, but she’d heard that sensitivity to light was a symptom.

At least the hearth room didn’t have many windows. Emmi stepped inside despite the pang in her chest. The room where she had both found and lost magic. Found and lost Puck.

She made a slow circle past the cauldron, past the scrying mirror, pausing at the hearth. If she had Puck’s portals, she could go to Orkney.

Emmi gasped. Puck had made a portal to Orkney before! The first portal he ever made for her had been right here, at this hearth, showing off his powers. She could almost see the glimmer of the rocky ocean over the cold bricks.

Why had Puck shown her Orkney?

He’d said he’d just done it as an example of sorts, but what were the chances that Orkney was the first place he showed her and the last place she had a clue toward where Grandfather had gone?

Emmi turned to the mirror. Not for the first time, she wished she could use it to communicate with Puck, to ask him about everything…just to see him again.

“What are you doing here?”

Emmi jumped at her grandfather’s voice. She hadn’t seen his reflection in the mirror, even though he stood just behind her, in front of the hearth. She strode forward, and he shifted, a look of confusion crossing his face.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“No,” Emmi stated flatly.

“What’s wrong?”

“We need to talk.”

Grandfather looked around. This room was typically staged for tours, although Emmi had been using it all summer for magic. “Here?”

“Why not?” she demanded.

Grandfather shrugged. “What did you want to ask me?”

Doubt crossed Emmi’s mind. She’d asked him about his travels and research before, of course she had, but he’d always dodged the questions. They brought up bad memories of his time with the Wild Hunt and Emmi didn’t want to re-traumatize him.

I’m being paranoid, Emmi chided herself. And just because I lost Puck doesn’t mean there’s anything going on that involves me. Puck had his own contracts to deal with, and I…

She was just left behind.

“I brought your books,” Grandfather said, holding the stack out to her.

Emmi took them and dropped them on a small table by the hearth, barely looking at the titles. Perhaps if she and Puck hadn’t gotten close. If she hadn’t trusted him.

If she hadn’t fallen for him.

Then she could have let it all go. She could have trusted Grandfather without quizzing him on where he’d gone and what he’d done. She could have just moved on.

But that’s not what happened.

“What did you find in Boscastle?” Emmi demanded.

Grandfather’s eyes widened a little. “Boscastle?”

“The Museum of Witchcraft and Magic in Boscastle,” Emmi pressed, pulling out her phone and bringing up the apothecary box. “What about this box did you want to find out more about?”

Grandfather took her phone and examined the screen. Even though he’d seen the box in reality, he scrutinized the image and read the description slowly. “It was nothing,” he said finally. “It was art, not a true artifact of fae. I just wanted to verify it.”

That echoed the email. But… “You were never interested in fae before,” Emmi protested. “This house—it’s about our ancestor. Witches. History. Fae were never a part of what we were doing.”

“My research led me to believe—accurately, as you proved—that fae and witches are linked.” Grandfather handed her back the phone. “When I left for England, I had a loose theory of that connection. I didn’t tell you because…” His lips tightened. “At the time, it seemed crazy. You know I care about history and facts, not myths and legends.”

That was true enough.

“Things like that box…it seemed to prove that my theories were harebrained. But then…”

Then he was taken by the fae. And Emmi became a witch. And everything changed.

Emmi almost stopped then. She would have, but… “Orkney,” she said. “Did you go to the museum in Orkney?”

“Oh, I’ve been there before!” Grandfather laughed. “A long time ago. But not to a museum. I didn’t know there was one there.”

Emmi schooled her face to show no emotion.

This was a lie.

The museum owner had told Emmi that Grandfather knew of a museum in Orkney, had planned to go there.

Grandfather’s face was placid, his eyes watching her, a genial smile engraved on his wrinkled face. She had doubted him before, but now she knew.

He was lying to her.

But Emmi didn’t know why.

Judgement, Transposed

Avoidance, resisting change, refusal

It should have taken Emmi time to process the idea that Grandfather was lying to her. She trusted him implicitly; she normally couldn’t fathom a world where he would betray her.

But she’d been teetering on the edge of distrust for some time. Hadn’t that been why she hadn’t told the other museum owner in the email that she’d already found Grandfather again? Wasn’t that why, even now, she kept her distance?

Something was off.

Nothing she could pinpoint. But when she hugged him goodnight, she had to suppress a shudder. When they ate meals together, she watched the way he held his fork, a little too loosely. His smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The inflection of his voice.

Emmi had been chalking it up to his time with the fae, the trauma of being their prisoner. But now…

Grandfather’s eyes widened. “Lying?”

“I know you were going to go to Orkney. To a museum that I know you knew about.”

“It was a dead end. Nothing serious. Not worth going all the way north for it.” Grandfather raised his hands to indicate how unimportant it all was.

“Really?” Her jaw worked as she thought about what to say, then her temper drowned her strategy. “Why, exactly, did you go to England in the first place?”

“You know why. To find artifacts Elspeth left behind.”

Emmi pressed her lips together. That had been what Grandfather told her from the start, but now? He was hiding something. Maybe he wasn’t lying, not exactly, but he was not telling her the whole truth. She was certain of it.

“Which artifacts?” she demanded. “Which ones exactly? I want to know precisely what you were looking for.”

Grandfather shook his head, a baffled look on his face as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with an Emmi who could barely contain her rage. “Just some general items. Nothing too specific. I’d been looking at our genealogical records and followed the trail. You know this. I didn’t have any specific agenda. Just…authentic, historical items for the museum.”

Emmi sucked in a breath of air, let it out through her nose.

“Also,” Grandfather added, his gaze slipping away from hers, “I kind of wanted to just sightsee a little.” He glanced up at her, guilt pulling the corner of his eyes down. “I needed a break.”

Emotion stabbed at Emmi’s heart. Grandfather needed a break because of her. He and Emmi’s grandmother had been about to retire when Emmi’s parents died, one after the other in a pair of tragic accidents. Grandfather kept the museum—and their income—going until Emmi’s grandmother had passed as well. And then it was just him, and a debt-riddled off-interstate attraction and a grief-stricken little girl to take care of.

Rather than sunny beaches or relaxing cruises, Grandfather had selflessly given everything to Emmi and the museum.

Of course he needed a break.

From her.

And…Grandfather was a planner, yes, and he’d meticulously outlined much of his first weeks in England, checking in with Emmi daily, sending pictures and itineraries. But that had grown increasingly sporadic as time went on.

She wanted an answer for his negligence, but she hadn’t realized the answer might simply be he had nothing left to give her but silence.

Emmi couldn’t meet his eyes, not after that confession, but she moved around the room, pacing to avoid letting him see how deep a cut he’d given her. He had a plausible excuse for everything—why he left, why he dropped communication, why he didn’t know about Orkney.

But there was still something off.

Almost, but not quite.

She’d felt that way before, when the shadow magic had grown within her but didn’t fit the way it should. She had thought herself on the cusp of being an orddu witch, a witch of darkness and shadows, of death and rebirth, but…

Not quite.

Emmi paused in her pacing. Grandfather had shifted out of her way, almost to the center of the room, and Emmi now stood in front of the hearth.

That was the problem.

Grandfather was almost—but not quite—the same as he had been before.

She looked up, avoiding his gaze, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flicker of light that made her whip her head around toward the scrying mirror spotted with age. The mirror’s surface was usually smudged, more faded silver than shining glass, but for one instant, it had gleamed brighter than the sun.

“What is it?” Grandfather asked.

The mirror was blank and dull.

“Nothing,” Emmi said, resuming her pacing. “No, not nothing.” She felt her rage rising again, familiar and comfortable. While she had questioned her powers, questioned herself, questioned her home and her grandfather and even Puck, she didn’t question her anger. Things were almost, but not quite, right, and that filled her with ire.

“Not nothing?” Grandfather repeated, one bushy eyebrow raising in confusion.

“Not nothing,” Emmi continued. She whipped around to face him. “You’re not telling me the whole truth. And I’m tired of dancing around the subject. Something isn’t right. I don’t want to make you relive trauma or anything, but I want real answers. I deserve them.” She rolled her shoulders back. “And even if you dismissed Orkney as a possibility, the way you said it at first…” She shook her head. “You’re lying to me. I just don’t know about what.”

“I…I…” Grandfather hunched his head down. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…My time with the fae…” When he looked up at her, his skin was sallow, as if he were about to vomit. “It was horrible.”

Emmi instantly felt sick. Her eyes blurred, and she leaned against the hearth. She was wrong to question him.

…Wasn’t she?

I need answers, she thought, but then almost immediately doubted herself. Why did she need answers?

Wasn’t it enough to have her grandfather back?

Why did she have to question it?

Swiping at her watery eyes, Emmi tried to meet his gaze. His expression was sympathetic, his face full of concern for her.

Almost, but not quite…

Emmi’s eyes slid away from his, to a point just past his shoulder.

To the scrying mirror hanging on the wall behind him.

It should show the back of Grandfather’s head. He was facing her, turned away from the mirror. But in the reflection Emmi could see Grandfather’s face as clearly as the real one in front of her. The mirror showed her a Grandfather exactly like the one she looked at—same slightly wrinkled cotton shirt, same unruly white hair.

But while her real grandfather looked at her with an expression of concern, the one in the mirror grinned. His lips twisted up, stretched far beyond what was natural, in a Cheshire cat snarl that bared all his teeth. It was not a joyful smile; it was a wicked one, one that promised evil coming to fruition.

And the eyes, as silver as the mirror, bore into her soul, both a threat and a promise.

The Empress, Transposed

Material loss, insecurity, and low self-esteem

Emmi couldn’t bite back the gasp of shock and horror at the way the mirror didn’t reflect the truth but instead some twisted version of her grandfather that she didn’t recognize—silver eyes, ghoulish grin, terrifying teeth. It was her beloved grandfather but made into a monster. She felt cold, a bitter chill that seized her whole body, leaving her clammy and shaken.

“Emmi?” Grandfather peered at her, his big eyes full of worry.

Was it her imagination or did he look as if he were acting concerned, not truly feeling the emotion?

“Emmi, what is it?” Grandfather took a step closer, and the movement broke her terrified gaze.

“I…I thought I saw…” Her eyes flicked back to the mirror, but it no longer showed the horrifying visage. It reflected normally again.

“You shouldn’t doubt your own eyes, granddaughter,” Grandfather said, his voice low and almost menacing, despite the placid expression on his face. “What did you see?” There was a hint of a sibilant hiss to that last word.

“N-nothing,” Emmi stuttered, unnerved by his tone. She took another step back and hit the hearth, stone unyielding.

Grandfather cocked his head. Fear rose up in Emmi as she wondered what he would say—what he would do—next. Her hand brushed against the stack of books on the table beside her, and she embraced the opportunity to escape the room.

“I’m just going to put these in my room,” she said, grabbing up the small stack. One tumbled to the floor—Through the Looking Glass. Emmi’s eyes rounded as she read the title.

“Oh, that one is for me,” Grandfather said, scooping to pick the book up.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. The mirror had shown her a grotesque version of her grandfather, she knew that, and now the real grandfather in front of her was reading that title by Lewis Carroll?

“What aren’t you telling me?” Emmi demanded. She dropped the books back on the table, ignoring when some crashed to the floor. She strode forward, and even when Grandfather didn’t back down, she stood uncomfortably close, not willing to break eye contact.

His expression seemed bemused, mildly curious about what she might do. Emmi couldn’t shake the feeling that he was humoring her, much like an adult may listen to a child’s rambling play-pretend.

And that infuriated her.

“I know you’re not telling me everything,” she said, her voice low.

“About what?” Grandfather asked in that same mild tone.

“I don’t know!” Emmi shouted. “But there’s…something…not right.” It felt lame even to her ears. “And I—”

He raised a hand, cutting her off. “I learned one thing from the fae,” Grandfather said. “Everything has a price. They don’t just give help; it’s all a transaction to them.”

Emmi thought briefly of King Gwyn ap Nudd and the way she’d stolen a single flower petal from him. The petal had turned into a coin; one gold coin from the king of the fair folk’s treasury. Everything to the fae may be a deal, but she’d gotten away with her theft.

“And that,” Grandfather said, “is what I can’t figure out about you. You gave up your magic to get me back, that was the deal. But what deal did you have with that fae boy, Puck?”

Emmi shook her head, disbelief painted on her face. “I never had a deal with him. How could you think that about me? The fae may be mercenary, but not me.”

Grandfather’s eyes narrowed.

“I just wanted to help; is that so hard to believe?” Emmi said, her voice raising again. “The only way I could get you back from the king was with a deal, but I tried to make the deal in a way that would help some of the fae Elspeth accidentally hurt, protect them from the Hunters…I tried to do the right thing.” She glared at him. “The way you taught me to.”

Grandfather’s suspicious gaze didn’t abate.

“Why is this so hard for you to understand?!” she shouted, throwing her arms down and glaring.

“I can’t figure out your angle,” Grandfather muttered.

Emmi’s gaze flicked to the mirror. It didn’t show anything but the room in a normal reflection. “How can you think that about me? I thought you knew me.” She scoffed. “I thought I knew you. But you’re not the grandfather I knew.”

As soon as she said the words, a sound like splintering glass pierced her brain. It was so loud that Emmi staggered back, clapping her hands to her ears, her eyes wide. She looked from the window to the mirror, the only two sources of glass in the room.

Neither was broken.

Grandfather turned, facing the mirror, looking at what Emmi stared at.

For just a moment…

The light streaming from the window cut across the mirror, distorting Grandfather’s face. Emmi blinked; the light shifted.

“What was that?” Emmi asked.

Grandfather turned back to her. “What was what?”

“That sound…” Her voice trailed off. Grandfather looked at her curiously.

Had he not heard the noise, or was he merely pretending?

“I think we both need a break,” Grandfather said gently. “Ever since I came back, you’ve been…off. Almost like a different person. It’s clear that our time with the fae affected us.”

That was exactly how she felt about Grandfather—that he wasn’t quite the same. Had it really been that she had changed so much? Did Grandfather wonder the same weird things about her that she was beginning to think about him?

“Maybe you should just take it easy,” Grandfather continued. “You’ve been having those headaches… A few days at home, resting; that’s the ticket.”

Emmi schooled her face into an expressionless blank mask. She had barely mentioned the piercing headaches that had started to plague her, but the way he said it, so easily relying upon them as an excuse for her to stay home…

When Emmi had wanted to go to the library and stood in the doorway of the house, preparing to leave, the morning light had blinded her, and she had felt a migraine coming on. When Emmi had stepped off the stone path and onto the grass in the backyard, she’d gotten so sick she nearly vomited…but as soon as she was back inside the house, she had felt better.

The stone path to the conservatory was made of the same stones that the front doorway was made of—in fact, Emmi suspected they were remnants of the hollowed out part of the doorway. In other words, a part of the house.

But any time she left the house—such as by stepping on the grass in the backyard—or even intended to leave, she felt sick. Debilitatingly sick.

Sick enough to want to stay home.

Emmi was keenly aware of the hearth behind her. She had lived her whole life with a hex on the hearth, not knowing that it had a charm on it that prevented her from cleaning it. She had simply never wanted to clean it before. She had never questioned it.

Just as she hadn’t questioned the odd migraines and aches.

“I have to go,” she muttered.

“Go where?” Grandfather asked, smiling at her blandly.

Emmi swallowed down the fear rising in her. She picked up the books, even the ones fallen on the floor. “Just to my room,” she said weakly.

There was nowhere she could go.

She was trapped in a house of hex.

Two of Pentacles, Transposed

Disorder, confusion, and instability

Emmi could feel Grandfather’s eyes watching her as she left. She’d said she would go to her bedroom, and there was nothing to do but follow through with that. She trudged all the way up to the attic apartment she shared with Grandfather, keenly aware that there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

As soon as her door was closed, Emmi flicked the lock. She had never, not once, used the lock on her own bedroom door before.

Her hands bunched into fists, and her stomach roiled with acid. Torn between anger and fear, for a moment, Emmi did nothing but stare at the walls closing her in.

The dormer window across from her bed opened out onto the roof. Sunlight streamed in, a mockery of freedom.

“I only want some fresh air,” Emmi said aloud, striding over to the window.

And maybe a chance to escape, she thought. I could crawl out onto the roof and see if…

The acid in her stomach soured, and Emmi gagged, doubling over. Blinking stars out of her eyes, she forced herself to focus her mind. I do not want to escape. I only want to open the window. I do not want to escape.

The sick feeling disappeared so suddenly it left her gasping.

Emmi pushed open the window. “Ah, fresh air,” she said aloud, as if that would be enough. She didn’t even let herself think about not trying to escape; she just cleared her mind of everything as she hoisted herself up and swung her legs onto the roof.

“I’m still in my house; I’m still in my house,” she chanted. If walking on the stone pavers to the conservatory counted as being “home,” surely being on the roof attached to the house counted as well.

Emmi glanced down. From this vantage point, she could almost see the glittering glass of the conservatory.

Everything seemed a long, long way down.

I just have to jump, Emmi thought. Four stories wasn’t that high. She could survive that…

Her stomach seized, and Emmi clutched her waist. Her thoughts had strayed too close to escape, and the hex was taking hold on her. She sucked in a ragged breath, tasting bile on the back of her tongue. Her vision blurred, and her feet slipped on the old shingles. Emmi lurched toward her still-open window, grabbing for the frame as she threw herself back inside. The latch cut a gash along one arm, and hot blood seeped through her broken skin. Emmi collapsed on the floor, gripping her arm, tears stinging her eyes.

She couldn’t get out that way. If the fall didn’t kill her, the hex might.

There was a banging on her door, then the knob rattled. “Emmi?” her grandfather called. “Are you okay? Let me in!”

“I’m fine!” Emmi croaked from the floor, then again, louder.

The knob rattled again. “Open this door!”

Grandfather had never tried to enter her room without permission before. He’d never made such a fierce, angry demand of her.

Emmi crossed the floor, hiding her cut arm as she flipped the lock. “Everything’s fine,” she said.

Grandfather pushed the door open wider, taking in the open window. His eyes narrowed.

“Just getting some fresh air,” Emmi said. “You know. For my headaches.”

“Are you okay?” His voice was almost normal. That tone hurt her more than his demands had; to hear him as if nothing was wrong. The sympathy in his words; the love in his tone.

“I’m fine,” she bit off. “Just…feeling a bit sick. I think I’ll lie down.”

Grandfather nodded slowly, backing out and closing the door behind him. Emmi reached for the lock, but before she could touch the knob, the door swung open again. “And keep this door unlocked, okay? I need to be able to get you if you’re ill.”

Emmi nodded, swallowing down a lump in her throat.

She stayed in her room the entire evening, crying off supper despite her hunger. She couldn’t bear eating at the dinner table with Grandfather and pretending all was well. Emmi drank water from the tap in her bathroom and ate snacks she’d stored in her desk. The Cheez-Its box was half-empty and stale but better than nothing.

She waited until midnight. Before…everything, Grandfather had a reputation of snoring before ten. “I’ll never make it to double digits!” he’d laugh if they started a movie late in the evening.

Emmi didn’t trust that to remain true. So she camped out in her own room, watching videos on her phone in an attempt to stay up as late as possible before daring to creep out.

Everything was dark and silent. Grandfather’s bedroom door was closed; the light was out.

Emmi made as little noise as possible as she headed downstairs, not turning a lamp on until she was on the first floor. She went straight to the front door.

It was unlocked.

Grandfather always locked the doors to the Museum of Magic. “Too many precious historical artifacts,” he’d say. He hadn’t installed a security system only because he didn’t want to damage the house with new wiring, but he was vigilant about locking the doors.

Not tonight.

He clearly didn’t mind if anyone tried to come inside. He felt safe.

But he knows I can’t go outside, Emmi thought grimly. Lock or no lock.

Emmi shook herself. There was still a chance that Grandfather was innocent. Things were weird, yes, but…his current weirdness could be chalked up to all the other weirdness. Maybe. She wasn’t sure any more.

But she was going to find out.

Emmi slung open the front door and looked out at the cool night air. Rather than throw herself out the door, Emmi approached with caution. She rubbed her bandaged elbow; she had learned her lesson.

Carefully, Emmi thought: I want to escape this house.

And she leaned forward, arms outstretched and pushing into the empty space in the doorway.

Going slowly, Emmi concentrated, begging her eyes to shift into the magical Sight.

She saw nothing.

But she felt something pushing against her hands, threads as fine as spider silk. It wasn’t so material that she could trace the bonds holding her in the house, but it was enough for her to be absolutely certain that the hex was real. It was like a net cast over the Museum of Magic, one that prevented her from leaving.

Well, Emmi thought, stepping back and shaking her tingling hands. I broke one hex. I can break this one. Eventually. Once I figure out how.

She bit her lip, hoping the thought was true.

After closing—and locking—the front door, Emmi went to the hearth room. She caught her own image in the scrying mirror, her face gaunt, dark shadows under her eyes, worry creasing her brow. For a moment, she remembered the way Grandfather’s face had appeared distorted to her.

She stormed across the room. The mirror had once been an asset, but without her powers, it only gave her more questions. It reflected shadows behind her—not magical ones, but the normal shadows of the room, a bitter reminder that she had lost her powers, her outlet, her hope.

Emmi grabbed for the mirror’s edge, intending to yank it from the wall.

She snatched her fingers back. The glass was cold, bitterly so, so cold that it felt as if her skin was burning.

Carefully, she touched the silver edge of the mirror frame. It was stuck fast to the wall, even though when Emmi pressed her face against the wall, she could see the thin sliver of air from how the mirror hung on a hook. She should be able to easily lift the mirror away, but…

It would not budge, not even a millimeter.

“More magic,” Emmi spat, disgusted. Another hex, stopping her from what she wanted to do. Grabbing a blanket from the wicker chair by the window, Emmi tossed the cloth over the reflective surface. That would have to do. The mirror had been a way for her to get messages from the past and from the fae, but perhaps the blanket would be enough to stop anyone from spying on her when she could no longer detect or use magic.

A jaw-cracking yawn made her pause. The thought of going to bed—of returning to the attic apartment, her Grandfather just a wall away from her—made her blood run as cold as the mirror had been. Without even realizing it, Emmi’s footsteps carried her not to the stairs that would take her to her room, but down the corridor.

Toward Elspeth’s room.

She should have been reluctant to even enter the room, filled to the brim with historical artifacts that could be damaged if she handled them too much.

But…

This was the last place she’d seen Puck. And the room was exactly like it had been that night when she dreamed of him, a dream so real it had felt as if he’d been there beside her.

As if they could figure it all out together.

Emmi touched the table beside the bed. It still held the book she’d used to find Gwyn ap Nudd’s true name in the fae language, the guttered and cold candle in the iron holder, and the tiny potion bottle labeled in Elspeth’s own writing: To sleep, perchance to dream.

How had her ancestor known to make the potion, to leave it in this exact spot? She couldn’t have… Fate had meant the room would be cleaned, remodeled, updated over time. Centuries had passed.

But, somehow, the magic sleeping potion had been right there when Emmi had needed it most.

She picked up the bottle. It reminded her sharply of another Lewis Carroll tale, Alice in Wonderland. “Drink me,” Emmi muttered, looking at the dregs of the potion that still remained in the bottom of the glass vial.

Emmi sat on the edge of the bed, the bottle loosely resting in her cupped hands.

She felt safer here than in her own bedroom.

And so very tired.

There were hardly any drops remaining of the potion her ancestor had made centuries ago, but Emmi tipped them out onto her tongue, swallowing all that remained.

The Magician, Transposed

Misdirected intention, ineptitude, and lies

The potion was more bitter than Emmi remembered it being. There had hardly been any left in the bottle, but what had been there now coated her tongue, souring her taste. Still, despite that, Emmi was at peace with drinking it. It felt like she was on the right path; that drinking this had been the right thing to do.

Then the shadows surged up.

Blacker than black, darkness swirled over the room, drowning out the outlines of the furniture, the angles of the walls.

“I’m dreaming already,” Emmi thought, watching the deep black cast long arms toward her. None of this was real. The potion, despite being no more than a few drops, had sent her immediately into a dreamy slumber.

Knowing that the shadows weren’t real made Emmi even calmer, but her heart thumped when she heard a voice calling her name. A voice she knew.

“Puck,” Emmi gasped, leaping off the bed.

She would know his voice anywhere, distant though it was. Puck was nearby, but not in Elspeth’s bedroom. She crossed the room, bursting from the door.

The dream version of her home seemed to be an exact replica of the real thing. Perhaps it was merely because she knew her home so well; perhaps there was magic at play to make the dream so vivid. Regardless, Emmi strode forward, straining to hear Puck calling her. She peeked in the library, then back downstairs to the hearth room.

“Emmi!” Puck’s voice cracked as if he were growing hoarse. Panicked now, Emmi broke into a run, racing toward the front door and throwing it open.

Puck stood on the walkway leading up to the front steps. His eyes grew round as he saw Emmi framed by the doorway.

He didn’t look as she remembered him. When he’d gone through portals with her, searching for shards of the witch bottle, Puck had appeared human, tall and slim with scruffy brown hair and a cut jaw. He was still tall—taller than she’d recalled, actually—but his skin was darker, with a sort of greenish-brown hue to it, as if moss and mud ran under his skin, not muscle and blood.

Puck tilted his face toward Emmi, and she saw two golden-brown horns peeking up from his temple, his dark locks like waves crashing around them.

He was different, but he was the same.

Puck took a step closer, and another, until he faced Emmi in the doorway. His eyes searched hers, asking questions she couldn’t fathom, but then the corner of his lips twitched up, exposing a hint of too-white teeth that were perhaps a little sharper than before.

“Emmi,” he breathed, the sound like relief.

Emmi threw her arms around him. His body was just a little different from before, shaped roughly the same but with corded, ropy muscles that his human form hadn’t had. Emmi stood on her tiptoes, leaning forward, letting her weight collapse against him as his arms snaked around her, hugging her tight.

“Where have you been?” she murmured into his shirt, a roughly woven brown tunic that smelled of damp earth.

Puck chuckled, the sound mirthless, making his chest rumble. “Here.”

Emmi leaned back. Her feet were still on the stone doorframe of the house, and Puck was still on the landing. She noticed that he didn’t try to come inside.

“Where is here?” she asked.

Puck opened his mouth, his lips curving around words that didn’t come. He snapped his mouth closed again, teeth clacking, and raised a sardonically bitter eyebrow at her.

“You can’t tell me.”

Puck nodded.

This was more magic at play, something holding him back from speaking the truth she wanted. “Is it because of a contract? Or because we’re in a dream?” Her eyes slid away, into the murky black beyond her house. While the dream version of her house was precisely accurate to the tiniest detail, beyond the walkway there were only shadows, as if nothing existed within the dream but the Museum of Magic.

“Both,” Puck said, and it cost him something to say that much.

“Is it because you’re not real?” Emmi’s heart skipped a beat. “Are you unable to answer me because you’re a figment of my imagination, a hope in my dream that can’t tell me anything I don’t know?”

Puck reached out, cupping her cheek. “I’m real.”

She wanted to believe him. And when he touched her face, a jolt of electricity shot through her. Enough to make her desire true. She may have little faith in this dream, but she believed in him.

“So, you can’t tell me where you are?” Emmi said, already knowing the answer. “Or how I can reach you in real life?”

“Sorry, no.” Puck’s brow creased.

Emmi couldn’t keep the frustration from her voice. “What can you tell me?”

“Three is the magic number.”

She knew that. Saying Puck’s true name three times had been key in releasing him from the magical contract that had bound him to her house.

“Right. Okay.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t know what’s binding you now, but be free, be free, be free. Come back to me, come back to me, come back to me.”

Even before she was done speaking, Emmi knew her words had not worked. Puck shook his head slowly, his hair flopping over his horns. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“I had to try.”

“We have to hurry. You won’t be here for much longer.”

Emmi wanted to stomp her feet in frustration. “I don’t even know where here is!”

Puck’s eyes lit up. “That!” he said. “That is the right question to ask!”

“I did ask! Where is here?”

“Oh, it’s the right question,” Puck said, his impish smile breaking through. “But I can’t answer you.”

“Augh!” Of course it would have been far too easy for anything about this to be straightforward. Emmi’s rage bled into sorrow. “I miss you,” she whispered.

Puck’s face grew serious. “I miss you.” He reached toward her. Even though they were in a dream, and this house wasn’t hexed, Puck didn’t cross the threshold. Emmi wondered how much the magic stopped him. She grabbed his hand, threading her fingers through his, squeezing tight, but even that much felt…tenuous. There was a tug at her navel, making her want to step back, to break the connection, although she knew she didn’t want to. It was as if the threads of the hex around her home were mirrored here in the dream, weaker but not gone. Not entirely.

“The house is hexed,” Emmi told Puck.

“I know.”

“And Grandfather is back.”

Puck’s lips were pressed tightly closed, but he raised his eyebrows at Emmi.

“He is back?” Emmi said, doubt creeping in her voice.

Puck’s lips were lined in white from how hard he was pressing them together.

“I wish you could tell me.” Emmi’s shoulders sagged in defeat.

Puck wiggled his jaw loose as if it’d been locked painfully and he needed to stretch the muscles. “I can say this,” he muttered out after a moment. “The fae can’t lie. We cannot lie. We can trick and deceive and manipulate you, but we cannot lie. Not without dire consequences.”

Emmi frowned, thinking of what Puck’s words meant, especially when they were butted up against what he couldn’t say.

“Don’t ever forget that, Emmi,” Puck continued. “Words have power. We know they do. So the fae can’t lie, but they will use every trick in the book to make you lie to yourself.”

Emmi’s mind spun, and the more firm her thoughts became, the more the dream around her faded. The doorframe felt softer than stone; the shadows grew darker, swallowing the outlines of the house. Panicked, Emmi whirled to Puck, her eyes wide, her heart thumping. “I don’t want to go,” she croaked out.

Puck stepped forward, cringing as if it hurt to get closer. He tugged at her hand at the same time. Emmi stumbled closer, and then his arms were around her, one palm cupping her head, one hand supporting her back. She arched against him, tipping her face up toward his.

“I love you,” he said, his eyes searching hers, again, again.

Then he kissed her.

He had kissed her before, of course. He’d used his lips to distract her when she was depressed, just as she’d kissed him when he had seemed out of sorts and she’d wanted him to know her heart was true.

But this kiss was different.

This kiss was softer but no less urgent. There was a goodbye in his kiss, and a hello, too. And a promise.

Puck’s arms were solid support, holding her afloat, keeping her from drowning in her own thoughts. Even as the world around her faded, he remained real, present, true. She could feel the dream slipping away, could sense the walls of the dream version of the house drifting into smoke and nothing, but this moment, this place where his lips met hers—it remained real.

Even when her eyelids fluttered open, her mind dredging up from sleep to waking, she could still feel his warmth.

She could still hear his words.

The fae cannot lie.

and

I love you.

Four of Pentacles

Security, gain, self-preservation, and stability

Emmi stared at the ceiling. She could still feel Puck on her lips, his kiss warm, but the feeling of him faded just as surely as the shadows around her. The sun was rising, its red-orange glow burning through the misty morning.

With it came reality.

Emmi let out her breath, focusing on what needed to be done next. She was a prisoner in her own home, and she didn’t trust the man she called “Grandfather,” and she had no idea, none whatsoever, of what to do next.

She only knew that she wanted Puck back.

“Three is the magic number,” she muttered to herself. She needed to do something—ask something, say something, something—three times for the spell or contract or whatever to be broken.

She just didn’t know what.

At least it was still early enough that she felt certain her grandfather—or whoever, whatever he was—would not yet be awake. Emmi stretched as she got off the bed. The mattress was a ship of Theseus recreation of the type of bed her ancestor, Elspeth Castor, had used in the seventeenth century, complete with hay stuffing and ropes to hold the mattress aloft. Emmi longed for her memory foam upstairs, but she’d rather sleep on the floor than spend a night so close to Grandfather.

Emmi’s feet started to take her automatically to the library, but she veered right, toward the botanical room instead. She had no idea what book she might examine for clues, except, perhaps, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, that Shakespearean tale that held a character named Puck and a story about dreams. But she didn’t want Shakespeare’s version; she wanted her own dreams and her own Puck.

The botanical room was where the Museum of Magic stored all of Elspeth’s recipes for potions and notes on herbs. Elspeth was what her grandfather had called a “green witch,” one who collected herbs and used them for spells in a way that was close to medicine. Willow bark brewed in a tea was the medieval version of aspirin; tinctures and poultices Elspeth had developed were the basis of many modern drugs for common ailments.

Science and witchcraft are eerily similar, with the only distinguishing feature often being the era in which the method is practiced and the technology available at the time.

Emmi ignored the map and crystal on the table in the center of the room, remnants from the pendulum dousing she’d used to find Puck before she lost her powers. Instead, she focused on the carefully labeled bottles that lined the little shelves along the wall, the early morning sun making them glow in a way that almost reminded her of magic.

In one corner, carefully protected, were Elspeth’s handwritten journals. Emmi knew them well; she didn’t always like some of the artifacts in the museum, whether they related to her ancestor specifically or witchcraft more broadly, but she knew the books inside and out. Including these.

She flipped open one and located a potion for dreamless sleep. The potion bottle Emmi had drunk from had only been labeled “perchance to dream,” but Elspeth had often used somewhat whimsical names for her brews. This, however, didn’t seem to be the right one.

Some of Elspeth’s spells were superstitious nonsense. Although this one included a tea made of lavender and chamomile, it also required the spell be brewed at midnight under a full moon, stirred with a spoon carved of yew and marked with sigils.

The idea of Elspeth stirring the brew in the dead of the night reminded Emmi of the spoon stirring and stirring in the cauldron of the Shadowlands, the orddu witches each taking a turn.

Shuddering, Emmi looked at the other ingredients: dill, sage, anise, mandrake, angelica, garlic, clove, salt. The combination sounded, frankly, disgusting.

For protection, Elspeth had written in her barely legible scrawl. Do not attempt without.

Don’t attempt to sleep without protection? That seemed ridiculous to Emmi, especially as the spell claimed to give dreamless sleep. What kind of protection did Elspeth hope to give, a ward against indigestion from such a foul mixture?

Emmi kept reading, knowing she was close to the right spell. Sure enough, a few more pages showed the one she was looking for.

The left page in the open book held only three words: Perchance to Dream. Beneath the page, a full diagram had been illustrated with a careful hand. Emmi ran her fingers over the old ink, circling it. The illustration showed a shallow, round dish that had three sigils carved into it, each one connected by a snaking line.

Part of the recipe on the opposite page was dedicated to describing the object illustrated.

Use a silver plate polished to a mirror shine.

Quartz may carve the sigils, or a bit of glass.

Emmi had never seen such an object in the museum, although there were bits and pieces of Elspeth scattered throughout the house. A priceless necklace had been discovered by a plumber in the old cellar, dated to Elspeth’s time. Perhaps if Emmi dug up the yard or took a metal detector to the wall, she could find such a dish.

Gather dew from morning glories before the morning sun rises.

Boil and steep valerian root for seven days and seven nights.

And then, added beneath that in a slightly different colored ink, as if Elspeth had revised her recipe:

Use glass only. No iron.

Highly advised to wear silver before consumption and during sleep.

“Why silver?” Emmi mused aloud. She looked again at the illustration on the other page. She didn’t recognize the sigils there, but they reminded her of the runes Puck had drawn in ash to make portals.

Emmi jumped as she heard the door behind her open. She shoved the book back into its spot and stood up as Grandfather entered.

“There you are,” he said, smiling. “You woke up early.”

Emmi shrugged, trying to appear unbothered despite her erratic heart. She let her hand linger on the atlas at the table, the same one that she had used to try to find Puck, that Grandfather had touched when telling her the magic was gone. “Just…didn’t sleep well.”

Grandfather frowned sympathetically. Emmi hoped that this was a sign that he believed she was lingering on Puck, not on any spell she was looking at in this room.

“Would you like some breakfast?” Grandfather asked.

It was so normal, but that made it worse. Grandfather looked like Grandfather, he sounded like Grandfather, especially now, with his warm, crinkling eyes and his casual conversation. It would be so easy to slip into this life, to believe…

And then Emmi had an idea.

“I can make something,” she said.

“I don’t mind,” Grandfather said, smiling. “Eggs?”

Emmi tapped the map again, hoping it looked like an unconscious action. “No, I want to bake. I want to get my mind off…things.”

His eyes flicked down, then back up to her. “Well, in that case, what were you thinking of making?”

“I’m in the mood for sweet, aren’t you?” She started to the door, and Grandfather followed her to the steps leading up to their attic apartment.

“Mm, sweet!” Grandfather sounded thrilled at the idea.

Emmi gripped the handrail, pausing. Grandfather didn’t really like sweets. He generally had black coffee and maybe oatmeal in the morning, bland oats dressed with nuts and a few raisins, nothing else.

“What if I make baklava?” Emmi said, not turning around as she mounted the next few steps.

“Oh, baklava,” Grandfather breathed. “That would be wonderful.”

Emmi stopped so abruptly that Grandfather crashed into her. She turned on the stairs, ignoring the way she was only a few steps away from the door to their apartment.

“Baklava,” she said flatly.

“Yes?” Grandfather’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

“Baklava,” Emmi said a third time. Three is the magic number.

“What?” Grandfather’s voice was impatient now, a tone Emmi hardly ever heard.

“That’s our word!” Emmi threw her hands up as her voice raised. “Our code word!” Her eyes narrowed. “It’s our S.O.S. Mayday. Drop everything and help. That’s our family word. I texted it to you once at a party, and you saved me within ten minutes. You texted it to me when you thought you were sick, and I was at school, and I got a speeding ticket racing home. It’s our word. Don’t you remember?”

Grandfather’s eyes were wide at Emmi’s outburst.

“Or did you ever know it in the first place?” Emmi snarled. “My grandfather would know, but you? You are not my grandfather.”

A cracking sound splintered Emmi’s mind, loud and echoing, so sharp that she flinched.

Grandfather, however, didn’t seem to notice. He gaped at her, sputtering, but Emmi ignored him.

That sound—cracking like glass. Like a mirror. Emmi shoved past Grandfather, running down the steps two at a time and then sprinting down the corridor. Grandfather shouted at her, but Emmi just slung open the door to the hearth room.

The scrying mirror was whole, not a single crack in it.

I’m missing something, Emmi thought, rage and frustration welling inside her. Grandfather finally caught up to her, and he reached for her arm. She snatched it away, whirling away from him, her hands already bunching into fists.

The fae cannot lie, Puck had told her. Trick, yes. But not lie.

“How could you say I’m not your grandfather?” Grandfather asked, tears welling in his eyes. He looked down at his empty hands, back up to her.

“Are you?” Emmi demanded. “Are you my grandfather?”

“Who else would I be?”

“That’s not an answer!” Emmi shouted. “Just say the words. Yes or no. Are you my grandfather?”

Grandfather’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes went wide. “What did they do to you?” he asked, his tone horrified.

“I—what? Who?”

“The fae. I saw them torture humans. I saw the way they twisted reality around them, until even the most stable person would have doubted their own name. And they’ve…they’ve done that to you, haven’t they, darling girl? They’ve made you doubt me.”

“Of course I doubt you,” Emmi snarled. “You still haven’t answered—”

“Because of baklava? Emmi, didn’t you think that I was testing you? For you to bring it up like that…I wondered if you remembered, I wondered if it was a secret plea for help…I needed to know for certain.”

“Know what for certain?” Emmi asked.

“If you were you. If any part of who you were before the fae tangled up our lives remained.”

Emmi blinked at him several times. “That’s still not an answer,” she finally said, her voice flat. “Yes or no. Are you my grandfather?”

“Emmi, I’ve already—”

“Yes. Or. No.”

Grandfather stuttered, his face twisting in an emotion Emmi didn’t care to decipher. But none of his stammering incoherence gave her a clear answer.

“Three is the magic number,” Emmi said, nodding to herself. She was certain now of what to do.

Grandfather’s face went slack. “What?”

“I need to say something three times for the magic to work. I thought at first it was about Puck, but no. It’s about you.”

She had said twice now that her grandfather wasn’t her grandfather. And each time, she heard a sound like splintering glass.

Emmi looked the being in front of her square in the eyes. “You are not my grandfather.”

Seven of Cups

Creativity, choices, illusions

Emmi watched as the seventeenth-century scrying mirror that had been in her family for generations broke apart in three distinct pieces. The horizontal cracks appeared as if they had always been there, splitting the oval mirror into roughly three equal portions. Golden light like lightning burned on the crackling edges.

Each of the three pieces reflected something different.

The top shard showed a soft, evening glow, the very definition of golden hour. Cottages dotted the hill in the distance, but most of the glass showed a forest with a babbling brook, flashes reflecting off the rippling water.

The second shard was darkness and shadows, but not the kind that happened each night—the kind of shadows that happened in a land that never saw sunlight. Emmi strained to see the dark, shifting shapes of orddu witches and—yes, there—a Cat Síth.

The third shard seemed to blend the two. It showed a place darker than the first, but not as fully black as the second. Outlines of bare trees, their branches cutting through a starlit sky, blocked nearly everything else from view. But deep in the shadows of the trees, out of reach, lumbering through the forest was…

A monstrous form. Horns curving over hulking shoulders, stumpy feet that seemed to indicate hooves…

Rather than feel fear, warmth washed over Emmi. This bare outline was hardly distinguishable through the trees, but she felt certain that she was looking at the monstrous form of Puck.

Her eyes flicked up as the images faded from the shards. The first piece reflected the Otherworld, the territory of the fae. The second piece had shown the Shadowlands. But even as the last shard faded, the beastly form of what just might have been Puck disappearing in the dark, Emmi didn’t know what land it showed.

Each reflection faded into a soft glowing light and then, before Emmi had time to really process what she’d seen, much less how she’d seen it—they were gone.

Not just the reflected images.

The pieces of mirror disappeared, the glass evaporating. All that remained was the silver frame. Emmi gaped at it, crossing the room and touching the warm metal. The glass was just…gone.

She let out a shaking breath, then turned to face the thing that wore her grandfather’s face. His lips were twisted in a sardonic snarl the likes of which Emmi had never seen her grandfather use before. One eyebrow was cocked, but Emmi couldn’t read the emotion behind it.

“Well, hell,” Grandfather said, his voice raspy. “You figured it out.”

“Who—what—are you?” Emmi demanded.

He snorted. “I guess you didn’t figure it all out.”

Emmi was about to shout at the creature, but then it started shifting before her eyes. The hair went from gray to solid, silvery-white, like the moon’s reflection on water, rippling gossamer. The creature’s skin plumped, but its facial bones became more pronounced, giving it an appearance of being both young and slender.

And feminine. Perhaps? More feminine than Grandfather. The being had shortened, but not by much, closer now to Emmi’s size than her grandfather’s. Narrow shoulders, long legs cloaked in silvery material…

When the creature blinked, the pupils reflected in a mirror-like shine.

And that was when Emmi realized the truth.

This was a changeling. She’d met one on Glastonbury Tor, hiking up the hill to get to the gate to King Gwyn ap Nudd’s realm. That changeling had appeared to her as a beggar woman, and she’d given her the coin that had come from Elspeth’s witch bottle. In return, the changeling had given her a riddling rhyme, nothing more.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” the changeling asked.

Emmi frowned. “What other shapes have you used around me?” If the changeling had shifted to look like Puck, she would scream.

Instead, the changeling’s appearance melted a little, rapidly aging again—into the beggar woman. This wasn’t just any changeling. This was the exact same changeling she had met in Glastonbury.

“Old King Gwyn can’t say I didn’t try.” The changeling shifted back to being a lithe, somewhat androgynous being. The changeling paced the hearth room. Now that they weren’t pretending to be someone else, they seemed antsy, constantly moving, as if shaking off the vestiges of their previous appearance.

“Didn’t try what?” Emmi asked. In contrast, she stood stock still, only her eyes tracking the changeling’s movement.

“He didn’t trust you,” the changeling said. They shook their hands, fingertips loosening. “The king. And I owed him. So he sent me to watch you. A man on the inside.” The changeling snorted, and Emmi got the impression that last bit had been Gwyn’s direct words.

Emmi gaped. While the changeling paced and moved, their movements becoming more and more graceful as they readjusted to their more natural form, Emmi felt rooted to the ground, a tree battered by a hurricane, about to crash down.

“The ruse is up now, though,” she said, the words barely making it out in one breath. “So…you can go.” It was the violation that got her, the idea that the changeling had been sleeping in Grandfather’s bed, wearing his clothes. Wearing his skin. “Wait!” Emmi cried before the changeling could say anything.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” they mumbled, frowning.

“Where is Grandfather? Did you—” Horror washed over her. “Did you kill him?”

The changeling paused, shooting Emmi such an incredulous look that she instantly felt relief. “No,” they said, their voice dripping with acid. “He’s fine, actually.”

“But the fae still have him, then—he’s Gwyn ap Nudd’s prisoner. They’re torturing him—” She thought of the images of her grandfather in the mirror, his gaunt face and wild eyes, and then she glared at the changeling. “That was you?” She had just enough uncertainty to make her doubt into a question.

The changeling swept into a bow. “Your grandfather is alive and well and perfectly content. We fae take pride in making prisons pleasant.”

“This isn’t pleasant,” Emmi snarled.

“That’s because you so rudely broke the illusion. Most people are perfectly content to get exactly what they wanted.”

“This isn’t what I wanted.”

“He was being nice,” the changeling said. “You can’t leave, but he gave you your home, your grandfather…”

“Only the fae would think an elaborate illusion is nicer than the truth.”

The changeling seemed baffled by Emmi, but she doubted any of the fae would ever see it her way. A hard truth was better than a soft lie.

She wanted her grandfather back and to not be imprisoned, but she wondered now, if she’d not seen through the changeling’s disguise, what would have happened? Would the prison of her home slowly expand for her to be able to go beyond it? Would other things keep her inside but make her not question it?

It didn’t matter.

She didn’t want a lie.

“I want out,” Emmi said.

The changeling shrugged. “Okay.”

“So…I can go?”

The changeling laughed. “No. You can want out all you want. But this is your prison. It’s a nice house. And the fae, like I said, are good guardians. All your needs will be met. It probably would have been more pleasant for you to have not broken the illusion, though.”

Emmi felt gutted. “But shouldn’t the hexes on the house break since I figured out the illusion?”

“Doesn’t work like that, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart!” Emmi growled in frustration. “It’s not fair. And it doesn’t fit the rules. I gave Gwyn ap Nudd what he wanted; we made a deal.” And she’d lost her magic for it.

“Yeah,” the changeling allowed. “But you cheated.”

“I did not—” Emmi sucked in a breath through her teeth. “The coin.”

The changeling shot her a smile and clicked their tongue, shooting finger guns at her. “The coin.”

Emmi had stolen a single flower petal from the king of the fair folk’s meadow. Except it hadn’t been a meadow, and it hadn’t been a flower petal. It was a treasury and a coin.

“You took something from the king, so he took something from you.”

“A flower petal—a coin—is not worth my grandfather!” Emmi was having trouble finding the right words. “My grandfather is worth more!”

The changeling shrugged again. “Not to old Gwynnie.”

Emmie started to shout in response, but the changeling held up a finger. “Besides, you took from the fae without giving the king a chance to make a trade. So he took something from you without giving you a chance to negotiate. Besides, you took something that appeared to be something else, so he gave you someone that appeared to be someone else.”

“I’ll give him back the coin,” Emmi said. Technically, she sort of had already—she’d given Gwyn the witch bottle she’d made.

“The deals are already done.” There was a finality in the changeling’s voice that made Emmi feel even worse than before.

But then she remembered seeing Puck—not just in the mirror shard that had faded, but also in her dreams. And she remembered how he’d been freed from one contract before. There were ways to break the contract.

There were always ways to break free.

“How do I get out of this house?” she said, half to herself. “How do I break the curse?”

“Even if I told you, you wouldn’t be able to do it,” the changeling said.

Emmi seized on their words. “That means there is a way!”

More shrugging. “There’s always a way.”

“Then tell me!”

The changeling raked their eyes over Emmi’s body, then lifted both brows in a very clear statement: Make me.

Emmi’s fists clenched. She could feel—for a moment, almost—her power. She had been in the Shadowlands, she had seen the very magic of time itself—

But now?

Now she had no magic. None at all.

Her shoulders slouched.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” the changeling said. “A little fight from you is entertaining at least.”

Emmi glared at them.

“Look, I’m stuck here with you. That was my deal with Gwyn—I’m the prison guard.”

“But also a prisoner,” Emmi said.

The changeling nodded. “Eh, it’s just one human lifetime. Then I’m free again, my debt paid.”

One lifetime. Her lifetime. It was nothing to the changeling.

“Although,” the changeling added, “my part of the deal isn’t to prevent you from figuring out a way to escape on your own. If you break out, that’s fine. All fae illusions have a breaking point.”

“Tell me,” Emmi said, her heart leaping into her throat. “Tell me and I’ll get out, and you’ll get out, and—” She stopped. She could see this wouldn’t work.

“Much as I wouldn’t mind shaving off half a century or so of service, I can’t just tell you.”

“Can I make a deal with you?” Emmi asked.

The changeling shook their head. “You have nothing I want.”

Emmi chewed on her lip, thinking. There was a way out of the house, a path to freedom. But the changeling wouldn’t help her. But it was possible.

There was something in that, the possibility.

There was hope.

“No, I won’t aid your escape,” the changeling said. Their lips curved up in a too-wide smile. “But I will say: just because the fae never make a prison that’s inescapable, doesn’t mean it’ll be easy. But I do think it will be quite entertaining to watch you beat your wings against the cage, little bird.”

The grin, already too wide for human lips, spread even wider, teeth showing. Too many teeth.

“Very entertaining indeed.”

Six of Swords, Transposed

Feeling blocked and in a dead-end

Emmi was torn, still unsure of what to do about…anything, really, when Sabrina came in. The cat strode into the hearth room as if she had not a care in the world. Emmi’s breath caught—Sabrina had seemed a little odd since she returned home. Did the cat sense that Grandfather wasn’t Grandfather but instead some fae changeling?

Sabrina tilted her head up at the changeling, who now no longer looked like Grandfather. The cat flicked her tail then curled up in a tight ball, right in the center of the rug.

Cats were, at best, chaotic neutral. And Emmi knew without a doubt that Sabrina wasn’t the brightest kitten in the litter. The changeling could have been a ten-foot-tall demon and Sabrina wouldn’t have done anything but rub against its hooves for back scratches.

Sabrina was such a tight little ball of perfection, an odd juxtaposition of calm right in the center of the tension permeating through the room. Emmi’s head whipped up to the changeling, who seemed at least mildly curious about the cat. Her eyes narrowed.

“Is Sabrina even real?” Emmi spat. “Or is my cat also a part of this cruel, twisted—”

Sabrina farted, the sound audible and the force of it enough to move the cat from her serene position. She mewed, her nose wrinkling, and left the room, but not before casting a disgruntled look at the two of them, as if it had been they, and not her own self, who had disturbed her.

“Okay, fine, at least the cat’s real,” Emmi grumbled. That merited a snort from the changeling. She glared at them. “What am I even supposed to call you?”

“I’m not fool enough to give my name to you, even if you’re no longer a witch,” the changeling said, eyebrows lifting in a challenge.

“Yes, fine, but I have to call you something.” She needed a name to curse. “I could call you…Mirin,” she said finally, landing on a Gaelic form of the word “mirror.” The changeling smirked, the corner of their lips twitching.

No. Mirin wouldn’t do. The changeling liked that name too much.

“Bak,” Emmi said. “Short for baklava.”

“I am not a pastry,” the changeling snarled.

Perfect.

“Bak,” Emmi repeated. “That’s what I’m calling you. Unless you’d like to give me your real name?” The changeling’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t think so. Anyway, Bak—”

“Quit calling me that.”

“—I’ll assume that Sabrina is real. My house is real. I’m not in some different realm. I’m just trapped…here.”

Bak nodded.

Emmi started pacing, thinking, too aware that Bak was watching her. While the changeling had been the one moving around before, their roles had shifted. Bak was silent, watching Emmi in a way that reminded her a lot of Sabrina watching a dust mote she’d mistaken for a mouse. Intent, waiting to strike. It only made Emmi’s heart beat faster, her paces lengthening.

She got to the far side of the room, near the window and the wicker chair, the blanket thrown over the side, and she spun on her heels. Something’s not right. The thought nagged at the back of her mind. She almost cackled at it, hysteria bubbling up her throat. Nothing was right.

She reached the cauldron and turned again, pacing more. “Do you have to watch me, Bak?” she snapped as she passed in front of the changeling.

“No. But I will.” The changeling smiled, but the expression faded into a grimace. “And don’t call me Bak.”

She reached the chair again too quickly, the blanket a spot of color to focus on.

The blanket.

Emmi stopped. She stared at the cloth.

She had draped that blanket over the mirror just the other night.

She turned and looked at the mirror. What was left of it. The silver frame had no glass.

And no cover.

Emmi’s eyes narrowed, looking over at Bak, who was pretending not to notice or care about Emmi now. The mirror wasn’t just a normal one; it was a scrying mirror, one used for communication. Emmi had spoken to the king of the fair folk with that mirror; she’d struck her bargain with Gwyn from it. And it had shown her images of the past that had helped guide her first quest.

Bak must have been using the mirror to communicate with Gwyn ap Nudd, Emmi thought. After all, what use was a spy who couldn’t relay what they had discovered back to the home base? With the mirror broken, Bak may not be able to communicate with the fae any more. But Emmi wasn’t sure how to ask that and get an answer she could trust. She would have to assume Bak still had ways to reach the fae, ways she didn’t know about.

Like the way I’ve seen Puck, despite being trapped here. The thought came unbidden, but Emmi seized on it.

She still had a chance. Everything felt impossible, but that was because the fae wanted her to feel like it was all impossible. It wasn’t. She had a chance.

Slowly, Emmi crossed back over to the mirror. She felt Bak’s gaze on her. Emmi traced the round edge of the empty frame with her eyes.

Not a splinter of glass remained.

But, Emmi realized, the frame had clues she may be able to use. She touched the flat back of the mirror’s frame, usually hidden by the glass.

A rune was carved there.

Emmi knew better than to ask Bak to read it for her, but she didn’t know enough of the fae language to read it herself. Emmi touched the three deep grooves etched into the metal, each strike overlapping at the ends to form a rough triangular shape. Three marks.

“Three,” Emmi whispered.

The magic number.

Behind her, she could just see enough in the shiny silver frame to notice that Bak was leaning forward, intent on what she’d said. Three.

This rune must be the fae version of the numerical value of three. She tapped the rune three times with her finger, her eyes watching the fuzzy, almost comically blurry reflection of Bak. On the third tap, they jumped.

She was right.

Emmi was certain she was right, that this rune meant the number three, and that it was linked to…everything. She tapped the mirror again, thinking. Three shards broke from the mirror and disappeared. Two of the shards had flashed with images from different fae realms, and the third…

The Otherworld.

The Shadowlands.

The…Dream Realm?

Was that a fae realm? And if so, was that where Puck was? Where the third shard had shown…

Emmi’s hand splayed over the mirror. She didn’t trust Bak enough to question them, but she couldn’t help but think that this must be the right path. It made sense. It worked with the idea of three being magic—and the rune for three on the back of the mirror made her think the mirror was designed to allow communication between the human world and the three fae realms. Bak was watching her look at the mirror, nervous at what she may be thinking. All of that gave Emmi certainty, but more than that…

It gave her hope.

Four of Pentacles, Transposed

Setbacks, obstacles, and gambling

Emmi stepped away from the mirror, the empty silver frame shifting on its hook as she turned to Bak.

The changeling smirked at her. Androgynous features blended with skin so pale and cool that it was nearly gray. Their silvered pupils stared right at her.

“What now, human?” Bak asked. They looked positively delighted by the prospect of watching Emmi struggle and fail over and over again. She could almost envision it, an audience to her futility.

Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding down. Without saying a word, Emmi strode out of the room and into the main hallway. Her feet led her up the stairs and to the library.

The only place she felt safe.

But that wasn’t true, either. Because as soon as she stepped inside, Emmi’s eyes went to the far wall, the window that overlooked the side of the house. She could see the neighbor’s house from here, a spot of the sidewalk if she craned her neck. Emmi could see the world beyond.

A world unreachable to her.

This room—every room—was merely a reminder of walls trapping her inside.

Emmi breathed through the rising claustrophobia that clawed at the inside of her throat. The library may not be what it used to be to her, but it was still a place she loved, even if there were invisible bars on the windows.

And it was a place she’d shared with Puck.

Thinking of him, Emmi went to the Shakespearean section of the library. She traced the spines, pulling out A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Emmi had asked Puck once if he’d gotten his name from one of the characters in the play, but Puck had told her Shakespeare had stolen the name from him.

Emmi sat down on the floor, the book splayed open in her lap. She’d read this play before, for her A.P. Literature class, and she knew it decently well. A Midsummer Night’s Dream was one of Shakespeare’s more famous comedies, and it truly was funny—Emmi remembered the way Ms. Parker had described the characters, the mishaps, misfortunes, and mistaken identities.

Emmi flipped through the pages, idly skimming them as she tried to get her mind sorted with a plan on what to do next. In the play, Oberon, king of the fairies, is mad at his wife, Queen Titania. They both want the same human—Oberon wants the man to join the wild hunt with him, and Titania wants him for a lover. Oberon’s servant, a hobgoblin named Puck, helps bespell the man and the queen, so that the man looks like a donkey and the queen falls in love with an ass.

A bright spot of blue ink made Emmi pause. One word was circled: mermaid. But the passage itself seemed rather innocuous, describing a moment where Oberon happened to see a mermaid riding a dolphin and singing. Only that one word was circled in the paragraph, nothing else. No notes scribbled to the side, nothing to indicate why that word was important. Shrugging, Emmi read the rest of the text.

This was the scene where Oberon told Puck his plan to ensorcell Titania. The mermaid was just a by-product of the long speech by the king of the fairies—he described seeing the mermaid, then Cupid shot an arrow at her, but the arrow missed and hit a flower instead. Emmi traced her finger under the words, parsing the Shakespearean phrasing. The arrow hit a flower, changing it from “milk-white” to “purple with love’s wound.”

“Love-in-idleness,” Emmi read aloud, naming the flower. She’d never heard of any bloom called that before. But…Emmi sat up straighter, carefully reading the words:

“Fetch me that flower; the herb I showed thee once: The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid will make a man or woman madly dote upon the next live creature that it sees.” Emmi blinked at the page.

In her literature class last spring, they hadn’t spent much time on this passage, instead focusing on Puck’s reply and what it meant for him to move so quickly. But now, with all she’d seen and done, Emmi couldn’t help but think that this was like a potion. Using a flower to make a spell…That wasn’t that different from what she read about Elspeth making in her craft books.

“What is love-in-idleness?” Emmi wondered aloud. A flower of some sort. Emmi put the copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream back on the shelf and pulled out her phone, looking the name of the flower up.

A pansy.

Love-in-idleness was an archaic name for a regular old pansy.

Emmi left the library, pausing to scratch Sabrina in the hall as she made her way to the botanical room nearby. Elspeth had vials of herbs and flowers; she was pretty certain there would be a pansy.

Bak, she noticed, was nowhere to be found.

Emmi found a glass vial with the powdered, purple remains of a pansy on the shelf, just as she’d presumed. Elspeth had been meticulous and scientific about categorizing different plants. But Shakespeare had written about the “juice” of the flower, and the bottle Elspeth had labeled contained little more than dust now.

It’s probably nothing, Emmi thought as she meandered down the steps, toward the door that led to the backyard. What use did she have for a love potion, anyway, if that’s what pansy juice did? She certainly didn’t want Bak to fall in love with her, or she with Bak.

Perhaps I could make the changeling fall in love with Sabrina, Emmi thought, snorting. It would certainly be a twist on Titania falling in love with an ass. But no. She couldn’t do that to her poor cat.

Sabrina deserved better.

Emmi opened the door, sucking in a lungful of clean, fresh air. It was tantalizing to think that here—almost—was freedom. Almost, but not quite.

Emmi ran down the steps to the stone pavers that made a path between the main house and the conservatory. The dark gray, almost blue nature of the stone reminded Emmi of the big block at the front door of the house, the enormous stone that was so unique it had garnered a feature in an architecture magazine all on its own, without the historical context of witchcraft. These pavers, Emmi assumed, were literally chips off the block that had made the entryway to the house.

That must be why Emmi could step on the stones. They still counted as part of the house.

Pausing in the middle of the path, Emmi carefully put one foot out onto the grass.

Instantly, light stabbed at her eyes, and her stomach twisted. Emmi withdrew her foot, heart racing, and pressed her heels firmly on the stone paver.

The sick feeling faded.

The hex was still very much in effect.

Emmi tilted her head back, closing her eyes as the hot sun beat down on her. Perhaps she would have to make stone shoes out of the pavers and walk around with them, clunking everywhere she wanted to go, feeling sick the moment she took them off. That felt like a fairy-tale thing, a fitting twist of torture for an unworthy human girl.

Her eyes cracked open. Bak stood at a window on the second floor, looking down at Emmi.

She flicked her middle finger at them.

It didn’t do anything other than make her feel better, but that was something, at least.

Turning her back on Bak, Emmi ran to the conservatory, shutting the door firmly behind her. The sweltering heat from behind the glass panels was enough to make her struggle for breath, but Emmi forced herself to look around. She didn’t know the conservatory nearly as well as she knew the library; Emmi was more comfortable with pages instead of petals. But Grandfather had maintained the area, touting it to local clubs to encourage gardening. And Grandfather had also believed in the same meticulous labeling that Elspeth had used.

The plants were not in order by alphabet. They were grouped by usefulness. The big bright sprigs of purple lavender called her to the right spot. Nearby valerian blossomed and morning glory vines wound up and up toward the window. These were herbs from the spell Elspeth had written, “perchance to dream.”

And in a little pot beside them, bright purple-tinged pansies.

Eight of Cups

Emotionally drained, needing renewal, change of heart

Emmi grabbed a basket from the conservatory—Grandfather kept loads of them in order to easily transport fresh flowers or hothouse tomatoes from the glass building back into the main house. Working quickly, she grabbed whole pots of flowers that were needed for the spell to make the “perchance to dream” potion her ancestor had developed. The terracotta pots clanked together, but she crammed them in, smushing down the tips of the valerian plant.

The purple and white pansies winked up at her. Emmi heaved a sigh as she reached down and plucked two blooms from the ends of the delicate plant, holding them over her eyes. She idly wondered if, perhaps, she could do something with those flowers. She could maybe make a potion, like the one in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. But…what would be the point? The flower made the character of Titania fall in love with the first living being she saw—in Shakespeare’s play, a man with a donkey’s head—and that hardly seemed like something that would help.

She tossed the two plucked blooms in the basket and then heaved the heavy handle over her arm, lugging the flowerpots to the door. Emmi was careful to only step on the paving stones. She paused halfway to the house, switching arms with the basket. If she put the basket down on the grass, would she be able to pick it back up? If she dropped it and the flowerpots rolled out of reach, could she retrieve them? It suddenly felt foolish to have taken them all. She couldn’t exactly leave and fetch more from the local greenhouse.

As she made sure the basket was secure on her arm, Emmi glanced up, just in time to catch Bak, looking down at her from the same second story window. They had an inscrutable look on their face, somewhere between surprise and…fear?

Good.

Once inside, Emmi went up to the botanical room on the second floor, unpacking the herbs and flowers from the basket. She grabbed the journal Elspeth had recorded the potion recipe in and read over it.

The first step was to get the silver dish Elspeth had sketched in the book. Emmi had no idea where such a dish could be located, but at least her ancestor had given her instructions for how to make one. She needed a silver plate that was highly polished—to a mirror shine, the book said—and then she had to use a quartz crystal or a bit of glass to carve the sigil.

She didn’t have silver, but she did have a crystal. Emmi went over to the table where the atlas had been when she had used it for pendulum dousing. The crystal had swung over the map erratically until the changeling, disguised as Grandfather, had broken the spell.

Emmi picked up the quartz now, the stone cold in her palm. Despair washed over her, grim and starving, eating away the trace strands of hope that somehow lingered.

She was no witch.

Not any more.

There was no way this spell would work.

“I have to try,” she whispered. Emmi forced her shoulders down, her head up.

She had to try.

Emmi strode out of the botanical room, down the stairs. Bak ran into her in the dining room and followed her toward the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” they asked.

Emmi ignored them and pushed open the door, stepping into the lowest point in the house, the kitchen tiles pressed directly into the earth. A big fireplace was in one wall, but it had long ago been bricked up—a fire hazard that would have made the house’s insurance far too expensive. Everything else in the old kitchen had been recreated to match the Museum of Magic’s authentic, seventeenth-century appeal.

“Are you trying to make a spell?” Bak asked, a sharp-toothed smile twitching over their lips. They lounged against the doorframe in an indolent manner that would have made Sabrina—or any cat—impressed, if cats could be impressed.

Emmi continued to ignore Bak as she slung open the cabinets. They were mostly empty but there was a silver platter that Grandfather used for a Thanksgiving decoration…there. She lifted it out and held it up to the light.

Emmi cursed. Her memory had deceived her; the platter was tin, not silver.

“I could help, you know,” Bak said.

Emmi threw the dish on the counter with a deafening clatter. “Will you help me?”

“Oh, no,” Bak said, grinning. “I could, though. But no. No. I won’t.”

“Useless fae,” Emmi grumbled, shoving past the changeling and then stopping in the dining room. She knew there was no silver plate in the kitchen attic upstairs. She and Grandfather ate on cheap dishes that had come from the thrift store, not anything antique, and certainly not silver. The dining plates on display on the old mahogany table were serviceable pottery ware, not precious metal.

She needed something silver. With a mirror-shine polish.

Emmi groaned. She knew exactly where there was silver like that. Bak started to stroll up to her, but Emmi took off at a run, veering down the corridor and to the hearth room.

The remains of the shattered mirror still hung on the wall. And while Emmi had tried to remove it before, she remembered now—it had shifted after the spell had broken the glass. Whatever magic had kept it stuck fast was gone. She crossed the room in three long strides—stepping over sleeping Sabrina in the process—and ripped the mirror down.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Bak mused.

Emmi examined the silver of the mirror backing. It was old, but still shiny. There was the rune carved into the back, but perhaps she could trace Elspeth’s sigil on the other part of the mirror, or…

“Looking for silver after visiting the conservatory,” Bak said, their eyes watching Emmi even if the rest of them seemed disinterested. “You are trying to make a spell. Or a potion? Yes, that makes sense.” Bak snorted. “It won’t work.”

Their words were so much like Emmi’s own self doubt that, for a moment, Bak took the wind out of her. Their smile grew, long and fanged.

“Have you forgotten, little girl?” Bak said in a sing-song voice. “You have no magic left.”

Emmi’s face dropped down, her hair covering her expression. She hoped. She didn’t want Bak to see her defeated. But by looking down, she looked straight into the shining silver of the mirror back. It reflected her face, her furrowed brow, her tight-lipped frown, her worried eyes.

It reflected her.

And she took a moment to see herself. To recognize herself. Her fears.

“My magic only helped me to see,” she told her reflection.

“Pardon?” Bak called, still in that mocking tone.

Emmi whipped her head up and glared at them. “My magic helped me to see. That was all. I could see magic when I used my powers. I gave up my magical sight, and…” Her voice trailed off, and she flicked her eyes over Bak. “That’s why I didn’t realize you weren’t my grandfather for so long. If I’d still had my powers, I would have seen instantly what you are.”

“But you don’t,” Bak said, a harder edge to their voice now. “You don’t have your powers, witch. Former witch.”

Emmi shrugged. “So I’ll work blind. I don’t have to see the fae to know they’re real. I already know it. Puck couldn’t always see the fae, either. Didn’t stop him. Won’t stop me.”

Bak’s eyes widened slightly, and when Emmi strode toward the door, they stepped out of the way. “Why are you doing all this?” they asked as they bounded up the stairs after her. “You don’t have to. You can have a nice life here. I can make illusions that you already know you won’t be able to see through. It could be nice.”

Emmi stopped on the top stair.

“Is your freedom worth that much to you?” Bak had a gentle tone in their voice now that almost sounded sincere. “Will you beat against the bars of your cage until your wings break?”

“It’s not just my freedom I’m fighting for.” She kept going, back to the botanical room. She deposited the silver mirror frame on the table by the quartz and checked the recipe. She needed dew from morning glories, harvested before the sun rose. She grabbed the pot and headed back to the stairs.

“Up and down, up and down,” Bak grumbled, but they kept pace with her. “You know, I could argue with the king. Tell him you’re powerless—which you are. He may grow bored of your grandfather. He may give him back to you and call me home. You don’t have to be so boring about it all, so endlessly rushed.”

Emmi ignored them. Bak reached out and grabbed her arm when she reached the foyer. Emmi jerked free, but paused long enough to look at the changeling.

“It seems bad now,” Bak said, “but we fae get tired of humans, especially dull ones. Gwyn ap Nudd will forget about his grudge. He’ll probably call the whole thing off.”

Probably.

“So, you see, you don’t have to be so dull about this.” Bak waved a hand over Emmi, lingering his attention on the potted plant in her arms.

“It’s about more than me and Grandfather,” Emmi said, shaking her head in wonder that Bak still didn’t understand. “Puck is trapped, too. And…”

Her eyes grew distant.

“And?” Bak prompted.

She shook her head, not answering him. She thought of the sprites, the ones the red caps had killed in the Otherworld outside of Glastonbury. She thought of the Cat Síth that had been trapped at Holyrood. There were more fae like those than the ones like Bak and Gwyn. She had thought, for a brief moment, that she may be able to help the fae that needed help.

And that had given her a sense of purpose and hope that she’d never felt before. She liked history, but she didn’t love it, not the way Grandfather did. But hopping through portals, freeing trapped fae, protecting innocent ones…that had seemed worthwhile.

That had made her feel like she could be a part of history, rather than just an outside observer.

But Bak didn’t need to know that.

Emmi threw open the front door, relishing the fresh air. She only needed the plant to get some morning dew, but she knew better than to push it too far out. There was a safe little alcove by the front step, all of it carved from the same giant boulder that had been hollowed out for the massive doorframe. Emmi knelt down, honing her focus on this one thought: I don’t want to escape, I just want the plant to get some light and air and dew.

Her mind drifted. She wanted the dew so she could make a potion so she could escape and—

Bile rose up her throat, and Emmi swallowed it down. With the morning glory vine draping down the stoop, petals perfectly positioned to catch dew, Emmi pressed the flats of her hands against the stone stoop.

The nausea passed instantly. Her fingers splayed over the cool stone, the same grayish-blue from the pavers leading to the conservatory. Whatever this stone was, the hex recognized it as an inherent part of the house.

Or this stone is somehow exempt from the hex…Emmi thought. She pushed up from the ground and stood up.

Bak’s eyes were narrow, their silvered pupils flicking from the stone doorway back to Emmi.

Emmi ignored them. Back to the botanical room. Bak muttered behind her, but Emmi focused on Elspeth’s journal. “Steep the valerian root for seven days and seven nights,” she muttered, reading aloud.

Bak, however, heard her. “Ha! For all your rushing up and down steps, you’re stuck for at least a week!”

Emmi ground her teeth. It was getting harder to ignore the fae. She would take the valerian plant to the kitchen in the attic apartment, the one that was used for actual cooking. Meanwhile, she could still work on the silver dish and scratching the sigil on it. Emmi set the valerian aside and turned to the silver backing, Elspeth’s journal in one hand, the sharp-tipped quartz in the other.

Bak moved over to the table where Emmi had deposited the plants. Emmi tried to focus on the sigil, but she heard Bak moving things. “Don’t mess with the basket!” she shouted, whirling around.

Bak had picked up the two pansy blossoms, one in each hand. They stuck their tongue out at Emmi and held the blossoms in front of their eyes, just as Emmi had done in the conservatory.

So they were watching me, Emmi thought, wondering how much Bak could see from their vantage point and through the glass ceiling of the conservatory.

Sabrina mewed as she stepped inside, curious by all the rushing about. Bak bent over, flowers still in front of their eyes, and made clucking noises to Sabrina. “Don’t fall in love with my cat,” Emmi muttered, turning back to the sigil markings in the journal.

“Fall in love?” Bak asked, sounding confused.

Emmi sighed. “It was in the Shakespeare play. If your eyes are rubbed in juice from the flower love-in-idleness—a pansy—you fall in love with the first creature you see.”

Bak barked in laughter. “What?” they asked, incredulous. “What kind of spell would that be? You could fall over in a meadow and then lose your heart to a toad!”

“I didn’t write the play,” Emmi grumbled.

“But you believed it!”

“I did not!”

“You picked the flowers!”

Emmi growled and slammed herself around to the table, trying to focus.

“Is that what you think magic is, girl?” Bak asked, looking over her shoulder. “Flowers and recipes?”

“Could you possibly quit mocking me for five consecutive seconds?” Emmi snarled.

“I could.”

“But you won’t.”

“Of course not.”

Emmi’s jaw tightened, which made Bak giggle, and the more she tried to force herself to be calm, the less she was actually capable of being so.

“As if ingredients alone would do anything at all,” Bak said, laughing merrily. “Magic requires intent.”

Emmi froze.

Intent.

Like intent when leaving the house and breaking the hex—if she intended to escape, the hex went into effect. When Puck made portals, he signified his intent to go to a certain place with a sigil. There was magic all around, it was simply a matter of intending to use it.

It was easier when she could see it.

But maybe there was a way to focus her intents without seeing the visual strands of magic. Her fingers brushed over the sigil her ancestor had scratched into the journal with a quill. The potion was called “perchance to dream”—this sigil must signify an intent to dream. And all the laborious steps were a part of focusing that intent, really setting into stone—or in this case, silver—a desire for the magic to work.

She didn’t need the potion.

She needed to figure out how to hone her intent to get exactly what she wanted—Puck’s freedom as well as her own and Grandfather’s.

But the language she needed to use was fae. Rarely written, because when it was written, like in Puck’s contract, it became unbreakable magic.

Bak was babbling behind her, their tone mocking, but Emmi was so focused she barely heard them. “Oh, just shut up,” she growled, and to her very great surprise, they did.

She needed to write down what she wanted—her intentions—in fae language. And…

“The Mabinogion,” Emmi muttered. The book that had been on Elspeth’s nightstand, the one that had been translated to the fae language…It had been that book that had given her Gwyn ap Nudd’s true name, powerful enough to summon the king of the fair folk to her.

She just had to hope the book would give her something else she could use.

The Lovers

Relationships, harmony, and choices

Decision made, Emmi threw down Elspeth’s journal on the table and raced toward the door.

“Fantastic,” Bak muttered. “Let’s go run up and down the halls some more.”

Emmi ignored them, heading down the stairs and toward her ancestor’s bedroom.

“Interesting,” Bak said from the doorway as she entered the room. “Very…quaint.”

Emmi went straight to the nightstand. The last time she’d read the Mabinogion, she’d had a dream in this bed and the book was beside her. Puck had tipped her off that it was written in fae, and she could use it. But it was…

“Gone,” Emmi whispered.

Despite prattling on, Bak paused. “Something missing, you say?”

There was an odd hitch in their voice that made Emmi freeze. She straightened slowly and turned to the changeling.

“Do you have it?”

“Have what?” Bak said in a sing-song voice. “Not a book written in fae language that no mortal should have, surely.”

“What did you do with it, Bak?” Emmi snarled.

“Must you call me that?”

“Answer the question!”

“Well.” Bak pushed up from the doorframe, slinking into the room. “Let’s just say, shall we, that the king of the fair folk didn’t quite enjoy being called up by a witch. Let’s just say that, as a personal favor to him, I helped him.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t leave,” Emmi protested. “You’re as trapped as me.”

“Just because I can’t leave doesn’t mean a book can’t.”

“You gave Gwyn ap Nudd the book?!”

Bak held their hand to their chest. “What’s the point of a personal favor if I can’t leverage it for something more?”

So. They had the book. Just…hidden.

Emmi scanned the room. She got down on her hands and knees, lifting the quilt up and looking under the bed.

Bak chuckled.

Emmi stood. If Bak had hidden the Mabinogion, they wouldn’t have tossed it under the bed. She didn’t know if the changeling could open portals or not, but…Bak could just chuck the book out the window, and if it fell far enough away, she couldn’t run out and get it. But one of their fae allies could. If they had allies.

Regardless, judging by Bak’s smirk, she was wasting time.

Emmi shoved her shoulder into Bak purposefully, not even hiding her satisfied grin when the changeling staggered.

“Back upstairs?” Bak asked, jogging to catch up her.

“You don’t have to follow me.”

“It’s amusing.”

Emmi considered running all the way up to the attic apartment and back just to see if Bak would still find that “amusing,” but she was getting tired, too. She went back to the botanical room and pulled Elspeth’s journal to her.

The “perchance to dream” potion would take a week to brew. She didn’t want to sit in her own home, imprisoned with a changeling for a week, but…

Emmi glanced up. There was a predatory look in Bak’s eyes, and she realized then—if they could take away the Mabinogion, they could take away this book, too. She would have to keep it on her at all times.

Emmi tried to turn away from Bak as she flipped through the pages of Elspeth’s journal, stopping when she saw a giant stylized eye taking up most of a page. She flattened the book out, feeling the old ink that had been used to etch the enormous open eye, swirling lines artistically forming the pupil.

Something about it felt…off.

Elspeth had been a witch, just as Emmi was. Or, at least, as she used to be. And the point of being a witch wasn’t casting spells—it was the ability to see magic and the fae. Emmi didn’t have any powers beyond her sight, and apparently Elspeth had been the same, only writing spells using the tricks she picked up from seeing the fae and copying their sigils.

So why would a witch who had the ability to see need a spell for her eyes?

Emmi leaned down, reading the ancient scrawl.

She sucked in a breath, sharp and quick.

“Something interesting?” Bak asked.

Emmi didn’t answer, but she read the words on the page again: A Heartsease Spell.

Heartsease. The old name for pansies. Like the ones in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Bak moved closer. Emmi tried to jerk away, but Bak was too quick, catching the words on the page. “That is not a spell for a witch to have,” they said dryly.

Emmi scanned it quickly. It seemed simple enough—grind pansy petals in a mortar with a pestle, mixing in “tears of true emotion” until a liquid was formed. A sigil—Elspeth had recreated it carefully on the next page—had to be written over the top of closed eyes, and the potion had to dry fully before the person opened their eyes.

When they did, they would see the thing that would “make their heart ease of pain, whether it be a lover, a friend, or a place, even if such were hidden.”

A corollary directly under that: “Only a pure heart, that which truly loves, will make this spell work.”

And finally, a warning, one underlined multiple times: “Do not attempt to use to see that which is dead alive again.”

“Hey.” Bak’s voice was grave. Emmi looked up to see them staring at her, their eyes deadly serious. “Don’t mess with that spell.”

“Why not?” She couldn’t keep the challenge from her voice.

“That’s a fae spell. That is intended for the fae to use, not humans. Magic like that…it can blind you. Or drive you mad.”

Emmi had grown used to ignoring Bak, but now…there was something about the pitch of their tone that made her hesitate.

“It’s powerful.” Bak’s voice was barely a whisper. “And in the wrong hands…” The changeling snorted, “Or, in this case, in the wrong eyes…”

Emmi’s brow furrowed. The Hunters only hunted witches to use them for their sight. If the Hunters had this spell, witches would be safe—the Hunters wouldn’t need them to hunt the fae they couldn’t otherwise see.

But if the Hunters could see the fae…

“Are you saying that the Hunters could use this?” Emmi asked, heart hammering, hoping it wasn’t true. “That if a Hunter used this spell, then they could…” Her words dried up in her throat. Her fingers gripped the edges of the book, and she had to remind herself this was an ancient text, a historical book, hundreds of years old, invaluable, and—

“Yeah.” Bak’s voice was emotionless. “So, what are you going to do? Give it to the Hunters?”

“No, I would never—”

“Oh, right, you’ll sell it to them. That’s what your kind does, right?”

“No!” Emmi roared, glaring at Bak. “No.” She shook her head, looking down at the book. It was a priceless relic, but… “You’re right. I have to destroy it.”

“Oh?”

“Maybe not the whole book, but this page? The Hunters can’t have this spell.” She pinched the two pages with the spell in her fingers and started to rip them from the binding, the old paper crumbling.

“Okay, wait!” Bak said, holding their hands up. “A Hunter couldn’t use that to hunt fae.”

“Really?” She didn’t let go of the page.

“Really. It’s a heartsease spell. The Hunters may want the fae, but they don’t love them. It won’t work without love.”

At that, Emmi did release the pages, setting the book fully back on the table. She re-read the spell, carefully memorizing the sigil.

“Why are you still looking at it?” Bak asked, an edge to their voice.

“I’m still going to use it on myself,” Emmi said.

“But it is dangerous. Blind or mad if it goes wrong,” Bak reminded her in an impatient tone.

“All I need are pansy petals, which I have, plus some tears, which I can make, and enough time for it to dry. That’s better than waiting a week for the perchance to dream potion.”

“Mad. Or. Blind.”

“Or it could work.” Emmi closed the book and slipped it into her back pocket. She hadn’t forgotten that she did not dare risk letting Bak hide it from her.

“It won’t work if your love’s not strong enough,” Bak said, moving to block her.

Emmi stepped around the fae. “It’ll work,” she said, both her voice and her heart calm at the idea. There was little she was certain of, especially after the last few months.

But she did not question her heart.

The Queen of Cups

Compassion and intuition

Emmi headed down the stairs, Bak at her heels.

“You…you’re actually going to go through with this?” they asked incredulously.

“Of course.”

Bak grabbed for Emmi as she approached the bottom of the steps, but she slipped out of their reach. “You’re willing to risk blindness or death to prove a point?”

She barely knew what to say. “What point do you think I’m trying to make?”

Bak seemed utterly flummoxed. Their silver eyes blinked at her as they seemed to struggle to come up with words to say.

Emmi had lost all patience. It was clear Bak had manufactured a scenario in their head about all humans, and she had no desire or time to argue with them. “Whatever,” she said, throwing open the back door and heading to the conservatory. She was relieved when Bak didn’t follow her.

As soon as she was inside the glass building, Emmi swung the door shut and leaned against it, taking several deep breaths. Why did the changeling have to rattle her so much, shaking her confidence when she had no other options?

She picked up a small dish on the table by the door, dumping out the fluffy dried marigold seeds that had been in it. She stomped over to the pansies, ripping the petals of the flower off and shredding them into the bowl until her fingers were stained purple.

Emmi slammed the bowl on the table, her arms tense, her jaw tight. None of this was fair. She hadn’t asked for powers, and she hadn’t wanted to give them away. She’d only done what she’d thought was right. And that’s what she was still doing. She didn’t have many options, and she was doing the only thing in front of her to do. She hadn’t wanted any of this to happen.

None of it.

None of it.

The walls of the conservatory were glass, but they suddenly felt claustrophobic, bearing down on her, shadows streaking across her vision rather than sunbeams. The humidity weighed on Emmi’s lungs, the scents of flowers cloying and sickening. Sour acid burned in her throat. She didn’t want this.

And suddenly, the only thing she could think of was the last time she smelled blooms like this, the last time she was surrounded by grief and flowers, the last funeral she attended.

The first.

Emmi bent over double, the memories linked to the scents so strong that it overwhelmed her. A choking sob escaped her lips. She had felt like this before, like her lungs were drowning in sorrow, and the earthy smell of grass, and Puck surprising her with a kiss, and hysteria bubbled over the grief. Emmi rocked back on her heels, sinking down to the ground, the earthy tiles cool and oddly comforting.

She wiped her eyes, tears mixing with the purple on her fingertips. It jolted Emmi up—her tears were too precious to waste, the second ingredient to the potion. Emmi knelt up, grabbing the dish with the torn petals and holding it up to her eyes, scraping her tears into it. As soon as she tried to focus on collecting her tears, her emotions shifted, her focus drying up her sorrow.

Emmi pulled the dish away from her face, slowly sinking back to the ground. There was, maybe, enough to make a paste. Enough to have a chance.

She set the dish on the ground beside her, then leaned down and traced the sigil in the dirt, practicing. Bak’s warnings echoed in her memory.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Emmi screamed, making Bak—who’d entered the conservatory silently—shout in surprise as well. She wasn’t sure why she had thought that Bak wouldn’t follow her here. They could go anywhere she could go. But she still glared at them as she scrambled up.

Bak, however, was more solemn. Their silver eyes lingered on the tear tracks on her face. Bak had not changed from what Emmi supposed was their natural appearance—grayish skin, white hair, silver eyes—but they looked more human now than before. There had been an element of the uncanny valley when Bak appeared human, even as Grandfather. But the worry lines between their eyes, the tight press of their lips, the intense gaze…It made them seem human. For a moment, at least.

“Need help?”

Emmi snorted. “Like you’d help me.”

“Hey, I’m neutral, not evil.”

Emmi shrugged.

“Also,” Bak said, “you did that wrong.”

Emmi looked down at the sigil she’d drawn in the dirt. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.” Bak didn’t sound smug, just sure. “See? There.” They pointed to a spot in the dirt, and Emmi checked it against Elspeth’s book. Shoot. She had done it wrong.

“It has to be perfect.” Bak’s tone was gentle, their silver eyes beseeching.

“I know,” Emmi snapped. Then she sighed. “I know.”

She traced it again. Bak nodded. She tried a third time, more carefully.

“Are you really going to do this?” Bak asked.

“Of course.” Emmi glanced up at them.

Bak opened their mouth, prepared to argue. Emmi stared at them unblinking. Finally, Bak just shrugged. “Well,” they said, “don’t mess it up.”

“No pressure,” Emmi muttered, grinding the ripped flower petals into a paste.

She thought of the sigil one last time, picturing the pattern with her mind. Then she closed her eyes, dipped her finger in the paste, and—

“Remember!” Bak interjected. “Intent matters!”

—and she thought of Puck.

Puck, who showed her magic.

Puck, who kissed away her tears.

Puck, who had been trapped like she was now, who still was trapped.

Before she could let herself back down from fear, Emmi rubbed the paste over her closed eyelids, carefully recreating the shape of the sigil.

“Did it work?” Bak asked.

Emmi opened her eyes.

And saw nothing but black.

The Fool, Transposed

Sudden change, fear, and resistance

Emmi blinked several times, but the blackness filling her vision did not change.

“I did tell you not to mess with fae magic,” Bak said sardonically. Emmi turned toward their voice and took a tentative step forward, knocking her hip into the table. Panic flared in her mind, and she whirled around, hands outstretched, smacking her knuckles painfully against a potted plant. It made her spring back, hitting the table she’d just bumped into. Off-balance, Emmi dropped to the floor on one knee, the reverberations of the crash jarring up her body.

She could hear Bak moving closer, but Emmi tried to stand on her own, cracking her head on the table. Bak grabbed her hand, pulling her to a safe spot to stand.

“Why am I blind?” Emmi said, frustration making her angry.

“The potion was designed by fae, who naturally see beyond the veil. You gave up your magical sight, so now all you see is the veil. And since you don’t have magic, it’s all black.”

Emmi jerked her hand away from Bak’s gentle grip. “Am I going to be blind forever?” She didn’t like the fear lacing through her voice, but she couldn’t hide it.

“I…don’t think so?” Bak said. “The potion should wear off as soon as it dries completely, and then I think your vision will return to normal.”

“You think?”

Emmi felt Bak, still standing nearby, shrug. She turned instinctively in that direction.

And saw…something.

Emmi moved forward. Bak grabbed her, pulling her away from hitting something else in the crowded conservatory, and Emmi walked on, arms outstretched, until she reached the door. Even before she opened it, she could see sparkling, glimmering light through the glass. That glow was emphasized as she swung open the door.

“The steps,” Emmi said. She pointed. “The stone steps. I can see…a glow around them.”

Bak stiffened beside her. “Interesting.”

Emmi’s eyes drifted up to the outline of the house. She couldn’t see details, but the place where her house should be was utterly black, a deep darkness devoid of anything, somehow, impossibly, blacker than the emptiness of her vision.

“Why can I see the stones?” Emmi asked, breaking free from Bak and taking a tentative step on the first one. “I was thinking of…” Her voice trailed off. “Well, not rocks.”

“Puck?” Bak guessed.

No point in lying. “Yes.”

“Fae magic is tricky.” Bak was walking behind her now. “You have to work for it. Puck’s not right in front of you, so the magic may be showing you a way to get to him instead.”

That thought made Emmi run the remaining steps up the path, toward the house. Even though the glimmering light stopped once she was inside, Emmi walked by memory down the corridor, toward Elspeth’s bedroom. Every time she’d seen Puck since he’d been taken had been in her dreams. She ignored the way she bumped into furniture she’d forgotten about, the way she stumbled over things. When she finally reached the bedroom, Emmi groped for the light switch before she remembered that it wasn’t dark because the power was out; it was dark because she’d blinded herself.

“Do you see any light?” Bak asked from behind her.

Emmi shook her head, dejected.

“The potion should wear off in an hour or so,” Bak said. “Once it all naturally flakes off…”

Emmi’s brow wrinkled. The stones had glowed, but they’d only led her into the dark house. Nothing else sparked even a shimmer of light.

If the stones weren’t leading her to Puck, then why…

“The doorway,” Emmi gasped, whirling around and smacking into Bak.

Bak held her back by her shoulders. “What about the doorway?”

“Not this one, the other one.” Emmi pushed past Bak, bumped into the wall, and then started down the hall. She didn’t realize that muscle memory had taken control, giving her an easier walk to the front of the house, until she reached the entryway.

The stone doorway shone so bright it hurt her eyes.

Bak ran up behind her. “This one?” they asked.

Emmi nodded. “This door. The paving stones on the path outside are made from the leftovers of carving this door.”

She sensed Bak moving around her, closer to the door, and she could hear them rubbing the stone, feeling it. “Doors and portals are pretty significant to us,” Bak muttered.

Emmi remembered the way Puck had talked about Glastonbury Tor and the massive doorway leftover from some ruins that marked the passage to Gwyn ap Nudd’s kingdom. The entry into the Otherworld could happen at any point—under a rock, behind a tree, in a cave—but the fae liked the drama of a door with two meanings.

“I’ve tried to go through this door before, though,” Emmi said, her eyes roving over the only light they could see, a perfect rectangle illuminated in the dark. “All it did was make me sick.”

“Fae work with illusions.”

Emmi wished she could see Bak’s face right now. They spoke in a low undertone, and there was something there that they weren’t saying.

“If you want this door to get you somewhere,” Bak continued, “you’ve got to work with it and manipulate the illusions.”

Emmi reached for the doorknob blindly; although she could see the stone frame, the wooden door was nothing but empty blackness to her eyes. It felt weird to grope for something, see only black despite the glimmering light, and then to actually feel what she knew had been there all along. She swung open the door.

At first, nothing changed. It looked exactly as it had with the door closed—a black rectangle surrounded by glimmering stone.

Puck, Emmi thought.

And the light started to bleed from the doorframe, stretching into the dark, thin gossamer tendrils weaving slowly together, almost like spiderwebs lacing in around each other, criss-crossing.

One section of the web glowed brighter than the others. Emmi reached for it. Now that she could see the strands, she could feel them, whisper-thin, barely perceptible but there.

Emmi stretched the brighter section of the light-web apart. Through it, hazy and faded from the residual light of the magic, was…

A land. Not her front yard, which was supposed to be on the other side of the door. No, this was somewhere else, somewhere dark but not black-dark. Just before dawn or just before dusk, when the sky turns navy and a few stars speckle it. A field, perhaps, with something large and looming just out of sight.

If the stones in the backyard were a sign for her to find Puck, a trail leading her here, and this glowing section of the spiderweb was also another step closer to him, then there was only one thing left for Emmi to do.

She had to stretch the opening big enough to step through it.

“Are you going to go?” Bak asked. Their voice, again, sounded strange. Choked up a little.

Emmi didn’t bother turning to them; she couldn’t see the changeling. “Of course,” she said.

“Remember—your potion will only work until it flakes from your eyelids. When it’s gone…you could end up trapped in another realm and also blind at the same time. You can no longer see fae as you did before without that potion.”

Emmi had manipulated the spiderweb of light enough now that it primarily showed the dusky, dawny land beyond.

“I’ll have to find Puck quickly, then,” she said. “Could I bring him here, do you think?”

“I don’t know what other contracts that boggart had,” Bak said.

Emmi paused. Boggart? Puck had been a brownie, not a boggart.

She took a deep breath. “Well, no time like the present,” she said, and she started to step through.

The Devil

Fear and guilt

It was almost too easy, sliding between worlds.

Emmi looked around, eyes wide. She had emerged on a grassy area with towering rocks nearby. She whirled about, and could just see a glimmering circle of light—her way back to the house. Wherever she was, she could at least return home.

Somewhat comforted by that idea, Emmi allowed herself a deep breath and a longer look. She was in the center of a huge formation of standing stones arranged loosely in a circle, and through the arches of these mammoths, she could see a second circle of stones. Her brow furrowed as she stepped out of the inner ring, looking at the wider outer ring of rocks.

She recognized the pattern of stones arranged with two pillars and a lintel stone resting across them, forming the rough shape of a doorway—or, rather, a series of doorways making a circle.

“Stonehenge,” she breathed.

She’d only ever seen pictures of it, but it was recognizable, even if she was looking at it from the inside rather than the more famous pictures of the standing stones taken from a distance. The sky was dark, the first spattering of stars overhead, but Emmi could also tell that there was something…off.

Not only were there no tourists, but there were no paths for them to walk on, no signs saying not to touch the stones. No mark of modernity at all. Emmi wasn’t sure what Stonehenge looked like when one reached it by bus instead of portal, but she was willing to bet there would be something nearby that marked it as the tourist attraction it was. She squinted in the darkness, her eyes straining. She could just make out rolling hills covered in meadow flowers and grass, but there was no modern road in sight, no parking lot, nothing to indicate humanity. The harder she looked out into the fields, the blurrier they became, almost as if she was staring at shifting clouds on the edges of the horizon, not grassy fields.

This was Stonehenge, but not the same Stonehenge in the pictures, despite appearances. This was some sort of Otherworld version of it, she guessed. Knowing this, Emmi inspected the rock formation more closely, moving slowly to the outer circle of standing stones. As in the real version of Stonehenge, some of the rocks had fallen, no longer forming the framed rectangles, the giant bluish-gray rocks on their sides. This meant that there was one curved row of what looked like three doorways on one side of the circle, a few crashed pillars, and two extra doorways off to the side, soldiers standing at attention over their fallen brethren.

Emmi approached the closest stand-alone set of pillars with an intact lintel connecting them. The space between the two pillars really did look like a doorway, and considering it was a magic stone doorway that had led Emmi here, she didn’t think that was an accident.

Her hair swung over her shoulder as she leaned over, peering through the open space.

A blast of warmth hit her skin, even if she saw nothing but the meadows through the door. She could smell something she couldn’t quite place, a soft scent, reminiscent of burning beeswax and crackling fires. Instinctively, Emmi knew she could step between the pillars and go…somewhere. Somewhere other. But just as surely as she knew this, her gut told her not to try it.

Near this doorway were some of the fallen stones. Despite laying on the grass, they were so tall that Emmi couldn’t see over the top of them; the sheer enormity of these rocks stunned her, even more so than the standing ones. Emmi reached out to the stone, but then snatched her fingers back, her skin stinging. The rocks here were so cold that it burned, more frigid than ice, a painful sort of cold that left her breathless.

Carefully moving back, Emmi went to the series of standing stones that were linked, forming a trio of doors. Unlike the first one, when Emmi stood directly in front of the opening, she could see more through it than the fields.

The first door was darker than the twilit sky here; so dark that the black shadows inside were almost imperceptible. If Emmi had not already been to the Shadowlands, she would not have recognized this space. Her eyes bore into the darkness, and her magicked vision sharpened in focus.

Dark eyes made of black smoke blinked at her.

Emmi smiled, recognizing the Cat Síth that watched her.

She walked to the next door. Her eyes adjusted to the somewhat brighter light through that portal, the sweet scents of flowers and soft morning dew pricking her nose. Something small and bright darted by, larger than a firefly, quicker than a hummingbird. She didn’t recognize the exact spot here—one bit of forest often looks like every other bit—but Emmi was pretty sure this portal showed her the Otherworld, the land of the fae, ruled over by Gwyn ap Nudd.

Her breath caught as she approached the last door.

This one also showed a forest, but a darker one, an older one, the branches heavy with the scent of evergreens, long needles barely lit by an unseen moon. There were many creatures here, each one vivid and different, a parade of monsters and mayhem.

It was like looking through a two-way mirror; Emmi could see each creature as it passed by, so clear that she could count the ridges on a fawn’s horn, could see the individual iridescent hairs on a hobgoblin’s chin. But even though she was standing right there, even when she gasped aloud, nothing turned to look at her, nothing showed even the faintest glimmer of awareness that Emmi was watching.

More than a dozen different fae creatures lumbered by, most unrecognizable despite Emmi’s knowledge of folklore. They really did seem to be half-dancing, half-marching in a parade. There was clear purpose in their path, and when Emmi stepped even closer, she thought she saw flashes of gold at the head of the line. She had missed the main event, clearly, catching only the tail end.

The last of the entourage was passing through now, slower creatures, some rushing to catch up, others lingering on purpose. Emmi felt a tug in her heart—she could almost feel the intoxicating rush of being in such a party, and an overwhelming urge to leap through the portal pulled at her muscles.

And then one more creature passed in front of her.

It was one of those unnamed beings, so strange and unique that Emmi wasn’t sure it even had a name. Small horns crested over the creature’s shoulders and down his back, pointing out like armor, and larger, ram-like horns curled over his head. The being’s nose was flat but narrow, giving it a boxy shape, and his eyes were golden-yellow flecked with black, peering through the dark over sharp cheekbones and dark lips. He walked with an odd gait, as if he were not used to his own feet, and Emmi wondered if he was like the fawn, part animal beneath his loose brown trousers.

The creature paused, so close to Emmi that she knew she could touch him if she just reached forward—

His head twisted, peering over his shoulder, eyes searching in the dark without focusing on Emmi.

Eyes she recognized.

“Puck,” she whispered. There were glimmers around him, faint but visible, like the same glowing nature of the stones that had led her here.

“Puck!” Emmi screamed.

But he could not hear her or see her.

The Devil, Transposed

Blocked paths and redirections

Already, he was turning away. She had seconds to act.

Emmi didn’t hesitate.

She reached through the portal with both arms, making sure her feet were grounded, and grabbed Puck’s right wrist, wrapping both her hands around it. The front half of her body was through the portal, and when Puck, startled, whirled around, his eyes widened in shock.

“Emmi?” he gasped.

“Come on!” Emmi said, pulling harder. Beyond Puck, the other monsters and fae creatures had outpaced him, and none turned to look back at Puck, lingering.

“I can’t—” Puck started to say, even as he took a step closer to her.

How long would the portal stay open? How long would the potion on her eyes keep working? Already her vision was blurring, but as she strained, tugging Puck closer, she could almost see—

A faint golden light, like a string, connecting Puck to something far, far ahead, at the front of the parade of monsters.

“Just come with me,” Emmi said, straining with all her weight to pull on Puck. Her feet slid. It was so…disjointed…to try to ground her feet in one world while pulling someone out of another.

“I want to,” Puck said, “but I can’t.” His feet stumbled closer, but even then, the golden string of light seemed to pull tauter.

Emmi narrowed her eyes at it. If Puck wanted to come with her, but was trapped, then she wouldn’t give up. Not now with him so close.

Her feet slipped again, and Emmi felt carefully for the edges of the rocks. One was too far away, but the huge standing stone to her left was just close enough for her to jam her foot against the base, using it as leverage. The golden string looked tight enough to bounce a pebble off, but Emmi shifted her vision from it to Puck. His eyes were still the same, even though the rest of his body was transformed into something monstrous.

He cringed in pain. “Don’t…quit…” he gasped out. “Almost…”

With a heave and burst of strength, Emmi yanked, hard, and the golden string of light—

Snapped.

Puck came tumbling through the portal with a shout, one that almost drowned out an echoing cry, a sound of fury from far away, ricocheting through the dark forest, along the parade, bouncing around the trees and carrying into the in-between place Emmi and Puck both stood in now.

“Come on,” she said, still holding his wrist. “We have to go.”

“Where are we?” Puck gasped as he trotted after her.

“I…don’t know.” Emmi could tell her vision was fading, the edges of her sight black, foggy outlines of the rocks only visible when she stared directly at them. She picked up her pace, jogging around the heavy stones.

“This isn’t Stonehenge,” Puck muttered. “But it is?”

“Hurry!” Emmi cried. She still hadn’t released his wrist from her grip, and together, they raced around the stones, ducking into the inner circle.

There—it was barely specks of light glimmering as her sight was nearly gone, but Emmi didn’t hesitate. She dove into the portal, dragging Puck with her, the last remnants of the spell on her eyes flaking away and leaving her, for a moment, in utter black.

They crashed through the front door of the Museum of Magic, a heap of arms and legs and horns and hooves.

“Oh,” a voice said dryly. “You’re back.”

Emmi struggled to disentangle herself from Puck. She raised her eyes to see Bak staring at her. They had a coffee in one hand and a sardonic look painted over their pale face.

Then Bak’s eyes narrowed. “Why did you bring that trash back with you?”

“Trash? Who are you calling trash?” Puck growled, the sound more fierce thanks to his monstrous shape. Puck stood up at full height, horns scraping the ceiling, and glared at Bak. “Why do you have a changeling?” Puck asked Emmi without taking his eyes off Bak. “And how did you get me back here? What is going on?”

“Puck, this is Bak,” Emmi said.

“Not my name,” Bak snarled.

“Pleasure, Bak,” Puck said.

“I said, it was not my name—”

“And Bak, this is Puck.”

“I don’t need to be introduced to a boggart,” Bak said. “Just throw it back through the portal and be done with it.”

“Can I punch it?” Puck asked. “I’d like to punch it.”

“No, Bak is our…” Emmi paused. Friend would be a step too far. Prison mate was more accurate. She stared at Bak, unsure of what to say, and then what they had said hit her. “Wait, why did you call Puck a boggart? He’s a brownie.”

Bak snorted. “Not any more. Just look at it.” He emphasized the pronoun, glaring.

Emmi turned to Puck. There was no denying that Puck’s appearance had changed, but that didn’t mean what he was had changed, did it?

Puck gave her a rueful smile. “The changeling’s right. A brownie without a home becomes a boggart.” He leaned in closer, his words just for Emmi. “I told you before. Names are important because they define you. A fae can change.”

She hadn’t realized the change would be so literal. If all that was needed to change Puck’s body was for his home to become different…

“But…” Emmi’s voice trailed off. What she’d wanted to say is, But you’re home now, but that felt too presumptuous. Just because the museum was her home didn’t mean it was his. And just because she felt more at home with him by her, didn’t mean he felt the same way about her.

“A changeling,” Bak said with an air of superiority, “is a creature that will appear to you in any form they choose.” Bak strode closer, and with each step changed appearance—Grandfather, an old crone, Emmi, a bodybuilder, and finally, back to their original form—grayish-pale skin, silvery eyes, and white hair. Even their clothing changed as they moved. “But a boggart…” Bak sniffed in contempt. “A boggart has no control. They only appear as what the person who views them fears.”

Puck sighed. “A brownie feels best at home; the whole goal of ‘home’ is safety and joy, and that’s what a brownie does.”

Emmi nodded. That’s how her ancestor, Elspeth, had trapped Puck—by forcing him into a witch bottle for the “protection” and “safety” of not just the Museum of Magic, but also of all the fae. It had backfired, but she could see why Puck had resigned himself to it, and almost why her ancestor had devised the trick.

“But if you take away the brownie’s home—say, with a contract that forces it to change realms—then the brownie becomes the twisted opposite of safe. It becomes a monster, meant to terrify you even if you feel secure in the building you call home.”

“It takes the shape of fear,” Bak added.

“What do you see when you look at Puck?” Emmi asked.

Bak blinked several times.

“Yeah, what do you fear, changeling?” Puck added, grinning with all his teeth. It was so strange to Emmi—to her, Puck appeared monstrous, complete with fangs. But now that she looked at Bak, she realized that their eyes were focused in a slightly different place from where she saw Puck’s eyes.

Bak looked away. “I just see an idiot.”

“No, please—what do you see? Because I see Puck as someone who’s almost a…” She bit back the word when Puck turned to her, but at his prompting, she concluded, softly, “A monster.”

Puck frowned, his black lips turning down over the protruding fangs. But at Emmi’s tone, Bak actually met her eyes. “I just see someone I used to know,” they said. “But they’re gone now.”

“You see me as a monster?” Puck asked, louder, drawing Emmi’s attention back to him. “What kind of monster? Are you scared of monsters?”

Emmi shook her head. That was the thing—Puck didn’t really look like any specific monster, much less one of her nightmares. And she didn’t really fear monsters; up until a few months ago, she didn’t believe in them at all. And she wasn’t scared of Puck’s form. Yes, he had horns, and claws, and fangs, but that didn’t frighten her; she knew Puck would never attack her.

No, what she was scared of was—

Emmi gasped, covering her mouth with her hands.

“What?” Puck prodded gently.

“I…I think I was just afraid of a Puck who was too different from me to…” She couldn’t voice it. But that was her fear. Not of monsters. Of a Puck who was too strange, too different, too fae to ever be with her, even as friends. She had known Puck when he looked human, and the fear that she’d been unable to express, even to herself, was that even when he was in human shape, perhaps he was too…other…to be with her, even as a friend. She had forced herself to trust Puck, she had chosen to trust him, even when her instincts warned her of his different goals and values, but she had weighed her options and decided to trust him anyway.

But other feelings, ones beyond trust? Those had not been a choice. Those other feelings she’d started to have for Puck had simply grown, like a wildflower, all on their own. And her fear had grown alongside them.

Emmi raised her eyes and saw Puck watching her intently. She shook her head. “No,” she said finally. “I’m not afraid of you, even as a monster.”

She blinked. “Didn’t you have two sets of horns before?” she asked. She glanced down. Puck didn’t have hooves, just bare feet. When she looked back up, the horns on his shoulders were gone. Emmi rubbed her eyes. The dried bits of flower petals that had still clung to her skin flaked off. The spell was definitely gone.

Puck’s lips twitched up. “If you have nothing to fear, then I’ll just appear to you as you see me.”

“That, or the boggart feels at home and is reverting back to his brownie state.” Bak rolled their eyes. “Humans, honestly. You have entirely too many emotions to deal with the fae.”

For some reason, that made Puck bristle, and Emmi realized that almost all the remnants of Puck’s monstrous form were gone, save a pair of button horns on his forehead and a slight pointed twist of his ears poking out from his shaggy brown hair. The end result seemed to be a blend of Puck’s brownie and human form.

Had Puck still appeared to be a beast, the look he was giving Bak now would have been terrifying.

“So, did I break the contract for you?” Emmi asked, purposefully distracting Puck from Bak.

Puck shook his head. “No. I think you just…bypassed it. If I go back to the Dream Realm, Oberon will definitely catch me again.”

“Oberon?” Bak snorted. “Damn, you did get yourself in a mess, huh?”

Puck growled—literally—at the changeling.

Emmi put her hand on his elbow, drawing his focus again. “That means I just moved you from one prison to another, then. This house is hexed—”

“I know.”

Emmi blinked. “You know?”

Puck nodded. “I tried to warn you.”

The dreams.

“But all I did was give you a new prison,” Emmi said.

Puck leaned forward, so close she could feel his breath. “Don’t worry. I prefer this one.”

“All the gods save me from this drivel,” Bak groaned.

Emmi felt a little relieved. Puck may still be trapped under a fae contract and they all might still be constrained by the hex, but at least they could figure things out together.

“Come with me,” Emmi told Puck. “I need to show you something.”

Page of Cups, Transposed

Repressed intuition, overly emotional, and refusing good advice

Bak trailed behind Emmi as she led Puck to the hearth room. “It was the mirror that started it all,” she said, stepping over Sabrina, asleep in the center of the floor. “I heard it cracking several times before I realized the hex, and then once I broke the illusion, I saw the pieces of the mirror disappear…”

Her voice trailed off as she turned and saw Puck kneeling in front of her cat, stroking her ginger fur. Sabrina stretched, all of her toes spread as her whole body seemed to elongate, and Puck chuckled, scratching the cat’s belly as if Sabrina were a dog, which she loved. Sabrina rolled over, threading herself around Puck’s ankles as he stood.

Bak watched with narrowed eyes from the door. Then they squatted down. “Pss, pss, pss,” Bak said, making scratchy gestures with their fingers to attract Sabrina.

Sabrina ignored them.

Smirking, Puck stroked the top of her head. Emmi could hear the cat’s purr all the way across the room.

“Stupid cat,” Bak muttered, standing up again.

“Don’t be rude!” Emmi snapped.

“The cat was rude first,” Bak said.

“She’s a cat,” Emmi said. “It’s in her nature.”

“Same.”

“Anyway,” Puck said, crossing over to where Emmi stood with the empty mirror frame. “This is all that’s left?

Emmi nodded as Puck picked up the heavy silver frame. His eyes skimmed over the engraved rune on the back, thinking. “A hex has to have a focus,” he explained. “The source of the hex on the house is the mirror.”

“The mirror’s broken; shouldn’t the hex be broken?” Emmi asked.

Puck shook his head. “You’re going to have to remake the mirror. That’s what’ll actually break the hex.”

Emmi glanced over at Bak, who was pretending to not pay attention. The changeling unhelpfully offered no advice.

“I’m betting the king put the hex on the mirror because you angered him with it,” Puck added thoughtfully. “You used his real name to contact him, and that would…be grating.”

It made sense. The king had also made Bak steal the Mabinogion, where Emmi had figured out the name.

“He’s such a baby,” Emmi said, rolling her eyes. “Pitching a fit and cursing me just because he didn’t want to communicate?”

Bak snorted from the doorway without adding any further comment.

“Well, the good news is that all hexes can be broken,” Puck said.

“Like all fae contracts?” Emmi watched as Puck’s mouth tightened into a grim line at that comment. His contract with Oberon was not one he liked, and it would not be easy to break.

“The fae reward cleverness and tricks,” Puck finally said, shrugging. “Given that the king only sent a changeling as your gatekeeper, he probably expects you to break it fairly easily.”

“Hey!” Bak said, pushing up from the doorway, “only a changeling? I had her tricked—”

“Yes, for what, a few whole days?” Puck rolled his eyes. “So impressive.”

“I’ve kept humans lured for their entire lifetimes, I’ll have you know,” Bak snarled.

“Yeah, well, I’ve protected humans for generations,” Puck said.

“Guys,” Emmi said flatly. “Focus.”

“Well, if it’s such a simple task to break this hex, surely you two will figure out how to retrieve each piece of the mirror without any hassle whatsoever.” Bak rolled their eyes and then tilted their face to the ceiling. “I should go put a kettle on; you’ll probably have this solved by tea time.”

Emmi ignored the changeling, turning to Puck. “One piece for each realm,” he said, his lips skewing as he thought about it. “And the realms are pretty big.”

“How big?” Emmi dared to ask.

“They’re not whole separate places, not really. They sort of run parallel to this world.”

So. Three realms, each potentially as vast as Earth itself.

Right. Simple.

“Hey,” Puck said softly, ducking to meet her gaze. “Remember: all hexes are breakable.”

Emmi nodded, her throat tight. “And all contracts can be broken.”

Puck offered her a rueful smile. “Speaking of that,” he said, “how did you even find me in the first place?”

Emmi remembered Elspeth’s journal in her back pocket. “I found a spell in here.” She flipped to the page and offered the book to him.

Puck’s mouth dropped open. “Emmi, this was a really dangerous spell to use.”

“I told her that!” Bak called sullenly from the doorway. Sabrina mewed and rolled over on her back, upset that no one was paying her attention now.

Puck’s frown deepened. “Also, it shouldn’t have worked. This is fae magic, not human.”

“Told her that, too!” Bak said.

Emmi shrugged. “My ancestor wrote it down. Elspeth was human.” Emmi paused. She had been human…right?

But Puck nodded along, reminding Emmi that he had known her. “Elspeth was definitely human. A witch, but human.” He still looked a strange mix of both confused and concerned. “But while she recorded this spell, even she was afraid of trying it.”

“It worked, though,” Emmi said quietly, remembering the way she had seen the glowing glimmers on the stones, the path that led her to Puck. “Am I partly fae? Is that why I could use the spell?”

Bak sniffed contemptuously. “Ew. No. You’re absolutely human. You stink of humanity.”

Emmi rolled her eyes.

“He’s right,” Puck said.

“I smell?!” Emmi gasped.

“No, I mean, he’s right that you’re human.”

“And that you smell,” Bak added.

Emmi sniffed her shoulder.

“You’re human, and you were a witch, both by blood and practice,” Puck said, contemplating. “Maybe you still have magic in you.”

“I gave it up to Gwyn ap Nudd,” Emmi protested.

“Perhaps not all of it.” Puck’s eyes flicked over her shoulder, and Emmi caught the barest hint of a glance between Puck and Bak, something significant.

Something neither of them told her.

When Emmi widened her eyes at Puck, he dropped his gaze to the mirror frame. He wasn’t talking. Emmi frowned; there was something happening that she didn’t like, but she knew better than to try to squeeze the truth out of either of the fae before her.

Instead, she wondered if, perhaps, she had the ability to define herself. Puck’s physical shape and, presumably, his abilities, altered based on how he was defined, the names and labels that stuck to him. Could the same be true for her? Was it truly as simple as just claiming witch powers to be a witch?

Sabrina got up from the rug, mewed for attention, and, when she got none, stalked out of the room.

“Well, regardless of what happened or what may happen in the future, the next thing we need to do is figure out a way to find all the mirror pieces so we can get out of this house,” Emmi said.

One from each realm—the Dream Realm, the Shadowlands, and the Otherworld.

“If I go back to the Dream Realm, Oberon will claim me again for sure,” Puck said.

“Go there first,” Bak said immediately.

“No,” Emmi said. But she wasn’t sure which of the other two lands she should attempt to find the mirror piece in first. The Shadowlands had been where she’d felt safest—but that was when she’d potentially been an orddu witch. Puck had always been terrified of that land, and now, without her power, Emmi wasn’t sure if she should be, too.

The Otherworld was ruled by Gwyn ap Nudd, who absolutely had a grudge against Emmi. If the king found her, he may add more to the hex, or give her another one. But going there might give Emmi a chance to see her grandfather, maybe even rescue him…

“I know where we need to go first,” Emmi said.

Ace of Swords

Breakthroughs, triumph, and new ways of thinking

“Isuppose we should go to the Otherworld,” Emmi said finally, looking from Puck to Bak. “We may see Grandfather, and—”

“And you may see King Gwyn,” Bak said cheerfully.

Emmi swallowed uncomfortably.

“We just have to be smart about it,” Puck said. “Keep a low profile.”

“Yes, exactly, a runaway boggart and a supposed-to-be-imprisoned former-witch will absolutely not stand out in the Otherworld.” Bak rolled their eyes.

“At least we know a way out,” Emmi said. “I can make more of that eye potion, and we can go through the stone door portal…” Bak was scoffing, loudly. “What?”

“Oh, I was just thinking that the only way it would be better for you bumble around the Otherworld would be to do it blind,” Bak said. “Please, go right ahead.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?”

“I can still make portals,” Puck offered.

“Oh.” Emmi felt a blush staining her cheeks. That was an obvious answer and a far safer option.

“I don’t trust that door,” Puck muttered. He met Emmi’s eyes. “It wasn’t here before, with Elspeth. At least, not at first.”

He headed to the hallway, and Emmi followed him as they made their way back to the front of the house. It was so odd to think about how Puck knew her ancestor from so many centuries ago, how many years he lost while powering the witch bottle that had previously cast Emmi’s family and the fae in protection.

When they reached the door, they stopped. Emmi blinked in surprise. She no longer needed to squint or tilt her head to barely see the magic strings. Now, they wove in front of her like a spiderweb cast in golden silk, clearly visible and glinting in the sparkling sun. Emmi flexed her fingers, longing to touch the web, to pull it apart, to discover where else it could take her. As she peered closer, she caught glimpses of other worlds—the alternative Stonehenge, yes, but more, all tantalizingly bright.

The door was a portal to magic.

“I just don’t understand it,” Puck said, touching the stone. He completely ignored the glimmering magic inside the doorway, and Emmi realized that he didn’t see it, not as she did. His hand passed through the lines of light; he didn’t feel it, either. The doorway was still just a doorway to him.

“Oh, yes, what a mystery,” Bak muttered. They leaned against the desk in the foyer, the one where Emmi would usually greet guests to the Museum of Magic.

“What do you know of it?” Puck snapped.

Emmi took a step closer. She agreed with the others that it would be safer and more direct to use Puck’s portals made of ash sigils, but she wondered at how clear the magic was in the doorway now. Or, rather, how clearly she could see it and feel it. How could she be growing stronger in magic if she’d given it all up to Gwyn ap Nudd?

“Don’t be blue, boggart,” Bak said, sneering. “Just because you can’t see what’s a stone’s throw away.”

Emmi started at that—did Bak see the finely woven lines of magic stretched over the door? She didn’t think so, watching Bak cross the foyer and tap the stone frame.

“Blue…stone…” Bak stared at Puck, then sighed, exasperated. “Bluestone?”

Emmi looked back at the frame. Much like the paving stones leading to the conservatory outside, this stone was grayish blue, with cool undertones. The stone had never really called her attention before, but now…

“Are you suggesting that this is the same type of stone that Stonehenge was made of?” Puck asked.

Bak rolled their eyes again, harder. “I’m saying it shouldn’t take you this long to figure out the obvious.”

Emmi took another step closer. There was no actual pull of magic, not like when she had the potion made of pansies on her eyes, but she felt a calm certainty in her core, a rightness to this.

It is magic, she thought. She wasn’t sure why she could see something she had no power to see any more, but she could. She did. And she knew, unquestionably, that it was magic.

“What are you doing?” Bak’s voice came out clear and harsh, rising through the chattering of their arguments with Puck.

Emmi turned. “Just looking.” She touched the stone frame, not the empty area where the net of magic was stretched.

“Go make your portal, boggart,” Bak told Puck, although they kept their eyes on Emmi. “Before this one does something stupid.”

Emmi stepped away from the door, but she couldn’t help wondering just how much Bak had seen.

Puck grabbed a brochure from the foyer, one of the ones advertising the outlet mall down the interstate. With a flick of his fingers, the paper burned to ash. He cupped the soft gray powder, but didn’t draw a sigil.

“The Otherworld is pretty big,” he said, glancing at Emmi. “Where, exactly, are we trying to go?”

“Should we enter by Glastonbury Tor again?” she asked.

Puck’s lips twisted as he considered it. “That would bring us closer to Gwyn ap Nudd. Although, if we go to his realm, he’ll be hard to avoid anyway.”

“And he has Grandfather,” Emmi added.

“But he’s also not going to be too pleased to see us,” Puck concluded.

“He might invite you to tea, you don’t know,” Bak said. “Kings can be pleasant.”

“He might also try to have us killed by red caps,” Puck pointed out.

“Like I said, pleasant.”

“Anyway,” Emmi interjected. “Maybe we need to just go to him, rather than lurk about. The fae reward cleverness and boldness. We could just go to him, and—”

“Bold, yes,” Bak allowed. “Clever? Ha.”

“Yeah, just waltzing right up to him crosses the line between brave and foolish,” Puck said.

“That’s rather eloquent,” Bak said. “Coming from a boggart, I mean. But bravo, using big words and metaphors like that.”

“We could bring a gift,” Emmi said before they could start bickering again. “Fae like gifts, yes?”

“Yes,” Puck ground out.

“By all means, shower the king of the Otherworld with your riches.” Bak swept his hand out, indicating the desk and the display of brochures. Somehow, Emmi didn’t think that a pamphlet about an outlet mall would appeal to Gwyn.

“There’s other stuff in the house,” she grumbled. “At best, we amuse him and he helps us find the mirror shard we need.”

“At worst, he turns you into a bat for your insolence.”

Emmi glanced at Puck. She expected him to be dismissive of Bak’s threat, but he actually seemed to consider it a possibility.

“Well, we may not run into Gwyn anyway,” Puck said. “The named royals like to keep moving.” Gwyn ap Nudd had his hunt. Joan the Wad had the wills-o’-the-wisp. And Emmi had pulled Puck out of some sort of parade…

“We need a piece of the mirror to break the hex,” Emmi said. “We don’t know where in the Otherworld it could be, but we do know where Grandfather is—with the Wild Hunt.”

“We’re going to purposefully find the king?” Puck asked.

“Excellent idea,” Bak said, clapping sardonically. “Pure brilliance.”

“I’m so glad you think so,” Emmi snapped, “because you’re coming with us.”

Ace of Swords, Transposed

Wayward paths, wrong directions, being blocked

“I’m coming with you?” Bak asked, eyes wide.

“He’s coming?” Puck asked, glaring at them.

“Obviously.” Emmi headed for the hallway, and both the fae followed her, still bickering, shoving each other to get through the door first. Puck won by stomping on Bak’s foot.

“We don’t need them!” Puck shouted, running to catch up. Sabrina strolled by, ignoring them all. “Plus, it’s dangerous.”

“They can change shape. Gwyn won’t know they’re with us,” Emmi said.

“Yeah, but I won’t,” Bak huffed. “Will you just be still? Why are you always walking back and forth around this house?”

“I need to get a gift.”

“A gift?” Puck asked.

“For the king. To make him maybe like me more.”

“Gwyn doesn’t like anyone,” Bak said, at her heels. “Except maybe when he captures them in the Hunt?”

“You mean before he kills them?” Puck asked.

“Well, that is the point of the Hunt.”

“Maybe if I give him a present he won’t be inclined to kill me,” Emmi said. “Or curse me again.”

“Or maybe he’ll stab you and take the present anyway,” Bak said pleasantly.

“Why are we taking Bak again?” Puck asked. “I like chaos, but this is a bit much.”

Emmi had reached the upper level of her apartment, and she went straight to her grandfather’s bedroom. He had a coin collection—if Gwyn ap Nudd was so mad at her for taking a single flower-petal coin from his field treasury, perhaps he’d forgive her at least a little if she gifted him a coin. She yanked open Grandfather’s bottom drawer in his dresser, shifting aside a layer of woolen undershirts to find the box that held his coins. Most of them were wrapped in hard plastic covers. Emmi knew they had various values, but she grabbed the shiniest, most golden-colored one and pocketed it.

“A little bribery never hurt anyone,” Emmi said. “Let’s go.” She tossed Puck some scrap paper from the bedside table, and he ignited it, pooling the ash in his palm.

“You and me,” he said, and for a moment, she got lost in his eyes.

“And me, apparently,” Bak said, shattering the moment.

“I thought you didn’t want to go.” Puck shot them a look.

“Well, no,” Bak admitted. “But you also don’t want me to go, so now I want to go.”

Puck started to protest, but Emmi cut him off. “Two against one, Bak’s coming.”

“This is a horrible idea,” Puck grumbled, but he still made the ash sigil, sparking a portal.

Emmi recognized the landscape through the portal—the large, grassy hill that was Glastonbury Tor, the stone doorway at the top that was the remains of an ancient building—and the secret passageway to the Otherworld. Puck was able to get them closer this time, the portal opening up near the top of the hill.

Emmi went first, then Bak. When Bak set foot on the Tor, they changed into the shape of the old beggar woman who had met them so long ago, singing a song of sixpence. Puck emerged next, the portal closing behind him.

“Give me a break,” he said, rolling his eyes at Bak’s new appearance.

“A break? Where? Your leg or your arm?” Bak said lightly.

“It’s an expression,” Emmi said. “Honestly, are you two going to fight the whole time?”

“I was just trying to give him what he wanted.” Even Bak’s voice had changed, higher pitched to match the image of the old woman. It was so odd to see them in a different form but to know that they were still Bak.

Bak leaned back, looking up at the Tor and squinting. “The barrier that had been here before…You really took it down?”

“Yes,” Emmi said. She had lost her magical sight, but even if she hadn’t, she knew she wouldn’t see the silvery, ethereal glow of an enchanted barrier that had enclosed the gates at the top of the Tor. “It had looked different from the others. The other barriers were more golden; this was silver. And it had a different…a different feel from the others.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” Bak said. “You took down barriers made by Elspeth. This barrier, the one around the Tor, it had been made by another witch. Long ago.”

Emmi cocked her head; Bak spoke as if they knew more than they were saying.

“She was an orddu,” Bak continued. They shifted form again, growing taller, hair streaking out, body thinning. The feminine form Bak now wore was elegant and lithe. Bak’s cheekbones were higher, and while their eyes still shimmered in silver—the only trait that gave them away as a changeling—the shape of their eyelids grew narrower. The image before Emmi now was a tall, slender woman with such a regal bearing that it took her breath away.

“Did you know her?” Bak asked, gesturing to the body they now wore.

Emmi shook her head silently. She’d been to the Shadowlands before, and she’d seen many orddu witches, but she didn’t recall this one.

“You knew an orddu?” Puck asked.

Bak sneered. “Obviously.”

They changed appearance again, this time shifting into the form of a teenage boy, one that was at least three inches taller than Puck, with bouncy hair, pale green eyes, and broad shoulders. Bak wore a shirt that was tight enough to show the clear definition of muscles in their arms and chest, and when they ran their fingers through their hair, it was clear that Bak had purposefully taken a shape that was just a little bit more than Puck in every way.

“I can’t let Gwyn see that particular witch,” they said, ignoring Puck’s glare and instead chatting with Emmi. “I think he’d react poorly.”

“I don’t want to start on the wrong foot,” Emmi said.

“It would be slightly more of a faux pas than that.”

“A kill-us-all-on-sight faux pas?” Puck asked.

“See, I knew you were smarter than you looked,” Bak said.

“Anyway!” Emmi said, grabbing Puck’s hand and pulling him toward the door. “Through here, yes?”

Although Emmi couldn’t really see the Otherworld in the ancient ruins, that was how they’d entered before. Bak shouldered their way to the front, leading the way. Emmi thought she saw a faint shimmer of gold as she lifted her foot, about to step through. Her foot touched the ground—

—but it wasn’t ground. Or, not the same ground. The hard-packed dirt at the top of the Tor had been replaced with springy, moss-covered earth, damp and soft. There were trees, but they seemed young, not quite towering, with branches that reached out and tangled with each other rather than stretching high into the sky. There was a spring-like newness all around—pale green leaves, wildflowers that were just beginning to open up, shoots of plants that promised more to come.

“This isn’t the same place we came to before,” Emmi told Puck.

“The portal takes us to the Otherworld. The Otherworld is ruled by Gwyn. So, the portal takes us close to Gwyn.”

“They’re connected, ruler and land.” Bak’s voice held a hint of reverence.

That had been true of the wills-o’-the-wisp as well; they had drawn Emmi to Joan the Wad. The portal to the Shadowlands had taken Emmi to the cauldron with all the orddus.

Before Emmi could think on this more, she heard a crashing sound—something, many somethings, running through the woods. A hunting horn sounded, closer than she would have thought. Puck grabbed her, pulling her behind a bramble hedge and ducking down. Bak strolled leisurely to them, despite the cacophony erupting nearby, and gently sat down, just barely hidden by the thorny bush.

Peering through blackberries and leaves, Emmi watched as the Wild Hunt burst into the clearing they’d been in a moment ago. No—not the Wild Hunt. These were people. Emmi squinted. Perhaps they were people? They were human-shaped, although a few walked with an odd, loping, four-legged gait, hands stained with mud as they rushed through. They were a mix of men and women, clothes torn and ragged, most with cloaks that were so stained with forest litter that Emmi couldn’t guess what color they’d originally been. They had stringy green moss in their hair and sticks that looked like horns protruding from the matted mess.

One of the wild men stopped close to the hedge, sniffing the air like a hound. He tilted toward Emmi, his blank eyes not focusing on hers. And she saw those eyes were different now—the pupils were larger, darker, and there was no light of humanity in them.

He looked like a beast.

Her breath caught. Puck slipped his hand in hers, squeezing her fingers and cautioning her to silence. She turned to look at him, and he nodded grimly, lips tight.

The wild man nearby made a sound like a braying dog, then scampered toward his companions, heading in the direction of a nearby brook, splashing through the shallow water.

“That was Greybeard,” Emmi whispered in a strangled voice. “Those people…they were the Witch Hunters…”

She had done this, somehow. The realization sank in her gut like a stone. Emmi had negotiated with King Gwyn to ensure he no longer hunted innocent people—that he only hunted the people who would hunt and kill him and his kind. The Hunters had become the hunted.

“They’re reverting to a fae form,” Bak said dispassionately.

“Serves them right. They’re becoming the things they hated, and they’re feeling what it’s like to be hunted.”

Emmi knew she should feel sympathy for these men made monsters. But when she poked at her heart on the subject, she felt nothing but a calm acceptance. The Hunters had been cruel and ruthless, willing to kill her, willing to torture Puck.

“Oh, there’s a little malice, a little fae justice in her,” Bak said, smiling at Emmi in a way that was almost as feral as the Hunters had become.

Moments later, horses and dogs burst through the clearing, close on the trail of their prey. Emmi recognized the king, but there was a variety of other fae with him, all shouting and beating their weapons, blowing horns. Some—like the red caps—were on foot.

Emmi started to stand. She needed Gwyn; she should gift him the coin, beg for help—

Bak grabbed the back of her shirt and yanked her down. She turned, thinking to protest, but the sheer terror on his face silenced her.

Through the thorns, Emmi saw one of the red caps stop. He turned toward them. Beady eyes stared into the brambles.

The horns sounded again, and the Hunt raced over the brook, glittering water spraying. The red cap hesitated a moment, then joined his compatriots.

Emmi was wound so tight that when she heard a sound of someone else approaching, she froze in place, like a rabbit.

But the last person in the Hunt, trailing behind everyone and everything else, was Grandfather.

Emmi leaped up, and even as Bak and Puck tried to pull her back, she shook them off, barreling through the thorns, ignoring the pain as she raced to him. “Grandfather!” she screamed, stagger-running.

He didn’t turn to her. He seemed oblivious to everything, twirling around, humming softly, almost dancing as he meandered through the broken tree limbs and crushed grass that marked the Wild Hunt.

“Grandfather.” Emmi’s voice was more subdued. He still didn’t acknowledge her.

“He’s—” Puck started, but Emmi ignored him. She stepped in front of Grandfather’s path.

He started to shift, dancing away, but Emmi grabbed his arm, yanking him to her. “Grandfather!” she demanded.

His eyes settled on her, but they were unfocused, distant. He hummed a tuneless sound, his head rolling in time to music only he could hear. A manic giggle escaped his lips, and he slipped from Emmi’s grasp, tripping and skipping and following the Hunt, oblivious to the sob that ripped from Emmi’s throat.

The Star, Transposed

Disconnection, misdirection, despair

Grandfather kept humming, words sometimes escaping past his dry lips. His eyes roved, focusing on things Emmi couldn’t see.

Puck slipped beside Emmi, his fingers trailing down her arm and finding her hand. She clenched it, as if he were the lifeline keeping her from drowning. “He’s okay,” Puck whispered, his low voice raw. “I know this seems bad, but this isn’t that different from when you were in your house and didn’t know that anything was wrong.”

I knew, though, Emmi thought. I wasn’t able to voice it, but I knew. There wasn’t anything wrong, but nothing had been right, either.

“He’s not in pain,” Puck continued, “He’s not even sad.”

That much was true. Grandfather grinned in a blissful way that Emmi had never seen before, a total lack of concern or worry, and that, too, almost broke her. To think that being trapped in a mad fae dream was the first time she’d seem him really happy like this.

“It’s merciful.” Bak’s voice was more solemn than Emmi had expected, but by speaking, the changeling reminded her that they were a part of this cruel world, that they had done to her what Gwyn’s mind trap was doing to Grandfather. She cut them a ferocious look, and even if she knew Bak wasn’t entirely to blame for everything, the changeling took a step back, raising their hands in a plea of innocence.

“He’s right,” Puck admitted, even though Emmi knew it cost him something to say that. “It is merciful. He’s a prisoner but doesn’t know it.”

“And Gwyn’s done…other things before to prisoners,” Bak added, and Emmi was reminded of the Hunters and the way they were almost, but not quite, feral now, trapped in a part-human, part-monster in-between place.

Still…Emmi lunged forward, grabbing Grandfather’s hands, trying to pull his focus back to her. His gaze bounced around, oblivious, but now that he wasn’t traipsing around, he seemed focused enough to turn his humming into singing. Emmi kept her grasp strong, holding Grandfather still while she listened to the words of his little song.

Cloaked in salty water,

Then you cannot see her.

Break the spells and twist the truth,

But don’t fall for the fae lure!

He paused, and Emmi thought he was done, but then he burst out, operatic:

Catch her if you can!

Slip on by the man!

Grandfather escaped from Emmi’s numb fingers, the words blending into the tune as he twirled close to the bubbling brook nearby.

Emmi trailed behind him, turning to Puck. “What does that even mean?”

Puck shrugged. “All fae prisons can be broken, even mental ones,” he said, “but the trick is to know what the riddle means.”

Emmi repeated the words in her mind, but she couldn’t grasp anything significant. Grandfather knelt by the little creek, dipping his fingers into the cool water and splashing it, seeming to focus on the glittering water droplets as they arched and fell.

“The trick,” Bak said gently, “is to focus on the hexes you can break before you become overwhelmed by the ones you can’t.”

“Yet,” Puck added quickly. “The ones you can’t break yet.”

Emmi wanted to glare at the changeling, but the fight melted out of her. They were right. She couldn’t save Grandfather right now, and he was relatively safe here. At least happy. What they could do was break Gwyn ap Nudd’s other hex, find the mirror piece hidden in this land, and then figure out what to do next.

One thing at a time.

“Salty water!” Grandfather said, flicking his fingers through the brook again. They were words from his song, but he said them so loudly in contrast to his mumbling that Emmi bent over, tasting the water. Fresh, not salty.

We keep coming back to salt, though… she thought. Salt had been used to trap the Hunter that had been trailing them, the iron in their weapons made useless when exposed to it. And there had been that photograph of the box that Grandfather had been interested in at the English museum of magic, the one that had included tiny vials. There had been sand in one vial, but hadn’t there been something to do with salty water, too? Emmi shook her head—no, not salt water. A mermaid hair. Maybe it’d been a scale instead? She needed to check it again.

She squatted at the edge of the brook, on eye level with Grandfather, closer to him than Bak or Puck. Only because of that nearness she heard Grandfather whisper, “Catch her if you can.” It wasn’t sung, but said with such gravity that Emmi turned her full attention to him.

He wasn’t talking to her.

He was grasping at the water even as it slipped through his fingers, as if there was someone under the sparkling surface he could capture.

“We should go,” Bak said. They were trying—valiantly—to sound bored, but Emmi caught a hint of sadness in their voice. Perhaps they weren’t so impartial to the cruelty of the fae as they’d seemed before.

Emmi started to stand as Grandfather cycled back into the song.

“It has to be important,” she told Puck as he helped her up. “It’s the same verse, over and over again…”

“Verse! Verse!” Grandfather said, clapping gleefully. “Reverse! Reverse!”

Without warning, he started singing again, bellowing the words out, but backwards:

Slip on by the man!

Catch her if you can!

Don’t fall for the fae lure.

Break the spells and twist the truth.

Then you cannot see her,

Cloaked in salty water.

Emmi narrowed her eyes as she watched Grandfather dancing along the edge of the brook, still singing the song backwards. “The meaning changes,” she said. “A little, anyway.”

“There’s definitely something there,” Bak agreed. “Reversing the song. You know.” They gave Emmi a significant look. “Reversal. Like in a mirror’s refection?”

Emmi’s eyes rounded. Gwyn had made the curse on the house using her ancestor’s scrying mirror, and now Grandfather was singing the song in reverse, like a reflection. That had to be connected.

“Remember, Emmi, the fae can be tricky,” Puck said gently.

“Ugh, he’s right.” Bak sounded utterly disgusted. “Either way, you don’t know how to solve this, but you do know you need the mirror piece.”

One thing at a time, Emmi reminded herself. “But how can we find the mirror?”

As if he’d been listening to her, Grandfather squeaked in glee, leaping at the brook. He stood in the center, water rushing past his knees and seeping into his bedraggled pants. “Follow! Follow!” Grandfather said gleefully, kicking at the rolling stream of water, splashing like a child. “Follow!”

“Well, that’s one answer,” Bak said.

“But is it the right one?” Puck asked.

Before they could say anything else, the king’s hunting horn sounded. A great bellowing of hounds followed, mingling with the sound. Grandfather cocked his head, listening, then scampered off in the direction of the sound.

“Wait!” Emmi cried weakly, but she didn’t try to hold him back. He was gone before she had fully processed what had happened, nothing but the sound of water left in his wake.

Judgement

Enlightenment, insight, new perspective

Emmi’s shoulders slumped. The futility of it all tore her up inside; how could Grandfather have been so close and yet so unreachable?

“I got drunk on nectar wine mixed with absinthe once,” Bak said. “Was off my rocker for at least a month, just like that. Had the best time of my life, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t,” Emmi said bitterly.

Bak shrugged and turned to Puck. “They call absinthe ‘the green fairy’ because of me, you know.”

“They do not.”

“They do!”

“What are we supposed to do now?” Emmi asked, mostly to herself, but Puck and Bak both turned toward her.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Bak asked.

“No.”

“Follow the stream.”

Emmi looked up and down the brook. It twisted around, speckled by the shadows of the leaves in the trees overhead, glittering from the warm sunlight. It was a beautiful creek, just deep enough for little fish to flash their scales in.

“Do we go that way?” Emmi asked, pointing upstream. “Or that?” She turned the opposite direction, following the path of the water.

When neither Puck nor Bak answered, Emmi looked over at them. Bak shrugged their shoulders. “I’d say flip a coin, but coins haven’t exactly been lucky for you here.”

“I can’t just leave this to chance!” Emmi said, panic rising. “Grandfather’s being used as—I don’t know, some sick form of entertainment on the Hunt, but anything could happen to him out here, and he wouldn’t even know it! I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. I thought—” Her voice choked. She’d thought she would be able to reason with Gwyn, to bargain with the fae king. But this was cruelty on a whole new level. Emmi was certain that, no matter what Bak said or whatever reasoning the fae applied to their punishments, this was torturous to Grandfather, deep down. And it was torturous to her, right now. Not only because she had to see him like this, but because she knew of no way to help him, to change this fate…

“Hey.”

Emmi looked up to see Puck staring into her eyes. She’d been so lost in her own panic she hadn’t seen or heard him approach. She focused on him, and a small smile curved his lips. “There you are,” he said softly.

“I don’t know what to do.” As grounding as his presence was, Emmi could still feel the fear rising inside her, like a low boil that shakes the kettle lid.

“I don’t know how, but you still have some magic. Use it,” Puck said.

“I don’t! I can’t!”

Puck raised his eyebrow. It was such a quintessential Puck move that Emmi snorted, and that, it seemed, broke her panic. She took a deep breath. Closed her eyes. Opened them. She looked upstream, following the water downstream.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

But…

“Let’s try downstream.”

Puck nodded, full of confidence despite Emmi’s doubt. Together, they headed downstream, following the winding brook, as Bak trailed behind them.

“Do you really think I still have magic?” Emmi asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“But…”

Puck slipped his hand in Emmi’s and squeezed. “You gave it up. I know. But you’ve already broken through one hex, saved me from another, and now you’re traipsing through the Otherworld. After using a fae spell—very dangerous, I might add—that worked perfectly for you. I don’t know where it’s coming from, Emmi Castor, but you’ve got something magical about you.”

Emmi shot him a smile.

“Do I have to listen to this as we traipse all over the Otherworld?” Bak groaned. “Ugh.”

“You’re right,” Puck said, a malicious glint in his eye. “We should stop. And not talk.” He leaned in closer to Emmi as if he were going to kiss her, which absolutely ruined the mood. Laughing, she shoved him away.

“Rejection!” Puck said, clutching his heart as if Emmi had struck him with an arrow. “Now I shall have to spend the entire rest of the walk—miles and miles, most likely—attempting to woo you back!”

“No, you don’t!” Emmi giggled at him. Then she sobered. Miles? She supposed he was right—how long did this brook run? How much time would they lose trying to find the end…and what if Emmi had chosen the wrong direction?

Puck, oblivious, continued wailing. “What shall I do? Recite poetry? Sing ballads in your honor?”

Bak tossed a pebble that bounced off Puck’s head.

“I know!” Puck said, whipping around, a huge grin smeared on his face. “A duel! I’ll duel for my lady! Have at thee, rogue!”

Bak, supremely unamused, shape-shifted into Emmi, down to the exact same t-shirt. Bak lunged for Emmi, grabbing her hands and spinning around before stopping.

“Why did you do that?” Bak, in Emmi’s form, asked.

“Me?” Emmi gaped at them. “Why did you do that?” Then she groaned. “Oh, you’re pretending to be me to confuse Puck.”

“No,” Bak said in Emmi’s voice. “You are pretending to be me.”

“I hate this,” Puck said. “For the record. Really hate this.”

“Then promise to quit being such an idiot all the time,” Bak said, still in Emmi’s form.

“Ah, right, so you’re Bak.” Puck reached over and grabbed Emmi’s hand, pulling her close to him.

“Wait, I think you’re an idiot, too,” Emmi said.

“Yeah, but you don’t mind if I keep being one.”

Bak transformed back into their regular androgynous form. “Can’t we just get this all over with? Let’s use quick lines.”

“Quick lines?” Emmi asked.

Puck blinked at Bak in surprise. “You can use quick lines?”

Bak rolled their eyes and knelt on the ground, sifting their fingers through the pebbles by the creek. While they concentrated, Puck explained to Emmi that quick lines were ways to rapidly move through the Otherworld. One needed to have a specific end goal in mind—the end of the brook in this case—and magic specific enough to pull at the lines that connected one place to another. Roads were easiest; they were designed to get a person from one place to another, so it was easier to focus the intent. Moving water likewise had a clear path to work along, but it was a little trickier.

“Ready?” Bak said, fingers gripped around…something. Emmi squinted; she could almost see faint silvery lines leaking from their fingers.

Puck grabbed Emmi’s hand, pulling her closer to Bak so that they both touched one of the changeling’s shoulders. Bak jerked their hands back, and Emmi felt her stomach swoop, the breath knocked out of her, wind blinding her eyes.

By the time she blinked away her blurred vision, they were in a different spot.

“What is this place?” Emmi asked.

Bak stumbled, but ignored Puck when he offered a hand. The changeling stood up, looking a little drained. “The end of the brook.”

Emmi could see the thin trickle of water that ended in a large pond. The meadow they were in now was bright and sunny, and a row of daffodils lined the edge of a pond, each bright yellow head dipped toward the water, reflected back in the clear surface.

The perfectly clear surface. There wasn’t a ripple or a bit of movement on the water, not even the open spot where the brook emptied out into the pond. Emmi could see the water tumble off a large flat rock into the pond, but the surface didn’t change. Emmi walked forward, stepping into the trickling brook and heading toward the stone. It seemed perfectly positioned, just wide enough for her to step on or even kneel on so she could look into the water. How could there not be a single ripple on the pond’s surface? She’d never particularly noticed pond surfaces before, but the oddity of this one made it stand out even more. There was a gentle breeze, and the daffodils all bobbed their heads, but the water didn’t change. Weren’t there fish in a pond this large? And bugs to dance along the surface? How could any water be this still?

Almost like a mirror…

Something hard grabbed Emmi and spun her around. She met Puck’s eyes, wide with fear. “What?” she asked, startled.

“What were you doing?” Puck’s voice was fierce.

“Just looking.”

His eyes narrowed. “Look at where you are.”

He didn’t release his firm grip on her hand. Emmi slowly looked around. She was standing atop the large flat rock that the brook trickled over before landing in the pond, her toes inches from the edge. One more step, and she would have been in the pond itself.

Would I have made a splash? she wondered, a little too calmly. A hysterical giggle left her lips as Puck pulled her away.

“You have to be careful,” he said. His toe edged something hard and white on the grass at the junction between the stream and the pond, and it took Emmi a moment to see that it was a skull. A human skull. The sweet, sparkling water of the brook mingling with the bright daffodils made the skull almost beautiful, a pearl amidst citrines and emeralds.

“What is this place?” Emmi asked, unable to take her eyes off the skull.

“An undine pool,” Bak said darkly.

Emmi couldn’t have grown up in the Museum of Magic without knowing what an undine was. Any fae creature that lived in water—mermaids, sirens, nymphs, selkies—they were all undine.

“I’m guessing this undine likes to test victims,” Bak continued, gesturing to the daffodils. “If you’re vain or evil, then when you look into the water, you’ll see yourself in the reflection.”

“That’s not so bad,” Emmi muttered.

“And your reflection will be such an enticement that you’ll keep staring at yourself until you starve to death. And then when you die and fall in the water, the undine eats you.”

“Okay, so that’s bad.” Emmi looked out again at the pool of water. “Do you think it’s salt water?”

“What? No,” Puck said. Then, “No.”

“It’s just—it kind of matches the rhyme, doesn’t it?” Emmi said, eyes darting between Puck and Bak. “Cloaked in water so you can’t see the undine. And this is like, the very definition of a fae lure.”

“None of the rest of your grandfather’s rhyme fits,” Bak said.

“I can’t believe I have to say these words out loud but do not attempt to capture an undine.” Puck glared at Emmi. “Undine aren’t like other fae. They’re their own thing. And they’re vicious. Do I need to point out the skull again? The human skull that the undine ate the face off of?”

“I don’t want to capture her.” Emmi paused. The line in Grandfather’s verse had said, “Catch her if you can.” Maybe she should try to capture the undine.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s a bad idea,” Puck said.

“You don’t know what I’m thinking!”

“I know it’s a bad idea!”

“You are forgetting the other option,” Bak said.

“No.” Puck growled.

“It’s an option!”

“A terrible one.”

“What option?” Emmi asked.

“If one would risk death by looking in the pond’s reflection, why do you think people do it?” Bak asked her.

Emmi’s breath caught.

“This is a terrible idea,” Puck grumbled.

“It’s because,” Bak said, “if you don’t fall for the trap, when you look into the water, you’ll find what you need.”

The Star

Hope, guidance, and faith

“If I don’t fall for the undine’s trap then I get what I want?” Emmi asked.

“Yes,” Bak said.

“Emmi, no,” Puck said in a warning tone.

“Then I’m definitely going to try.” Emmi spun on her heels and headed toward the water.

“Emmi, I said no!” Puck chased after her, grabbing her arm.

She yanked it free. “We have to do something.”

“What, exactly, are you hoping to get from the undine?” Bak asked as if they could not possibly care less. Which was perhaps true.

“The mirror shard we need to break the house hex?” Emmi said. “Something to cure Grandfather and save him? Answers? Take your pick.”

“There are too many variables, and undines…Emmi, you have no idea how dangerous this is,” Puck started.

“So, time to find out.”

Puck opened his mouth to argue more, but Emmi cut him off. “I’m not stupid,” she said. “I have a plan.”

“Oh?” Puck’s eyebrows shot up into his hair, near the little buds of horns that were nearly hidden there.

“You hold one arm,” she said, then turned to Bak. “You hold the other. If the undine tries to grab me and pull me under, well, pull me in the opposite direction.”

“You’re not a rope in a game of tug-of-war,” Puck said flatly.

“It has an Odysseus-like quality to it,” Bak mused. “I like this plan.”

“And I hate it,” Puck said.

“Odysseus?” Emmi asked Bak, ignoring Puck.

“He had to face the sirens, so his men tied him to the ship so he wouldn’t drown himself after hearing their song.” Bak looked contemplative. “You know, it might work. Sirens are a type of undine.”

“I hate this plan,” Puck said again, miserably.

“You’ve mentioned that.” Emmi grabbed his hand and dragged him over to the brook. “But do it anyway.”

She stepped into the creek, approaching the flat stone where the water spilled into the pond. Cold seeped into her shoes, and when Emmi knelt on the rock, her pants were instantly soaked through. Puck crossed over, grabbing her left arm with a firm grip, and Bak deigned to kneel by the grass and take her right hand. “A little harder than that?” she asked the changeling. They shrugged and tightened their hold.

Emmi took a deep breath and peered down. But rather than look into the pool of water, her eyes focused on the smooth flat rock. The stone was slick not just with water but a fine layer of muck and moss—all except for eight long gouges. Perfectly spaced for human fingernails, as if someone from the pond had tried to claw their way back up the rock.

Emmi suppressed a shudder, closed her eyes, leaned over the pond’s too-still surface, and opened her eyes.

She saw:

Herself.

Herself, but not. Her face was narrower, her eyes sharper. She looked intelligent and beautiful and deeply aware of both traits. Emmi tilted her face; her reflection mimicked her. Dimly, she was aware that Puck or Bak was speaking to her, but she didn’t focus on the sound of their voice. This face in the water—it was the face of someone who knew what to do. It was confidence, the type she had never had, had always longed for.

It’s not real, she thought. I don’t know what to do. I never know what to do.

She blinked, blinked again. The thing was, she could see herself, her real self in this reflection. The truth of her was under the illusion. And, somehow, that helped to break the spell. She wasn’t this confident person. Not yet. But because she could see herself behind the false mask, it helped her to think that, maybe one day, she could still become that person.

“Emmi?” She heard him now. Puck.

Emmi let out a breath. “I’m still here.”

“What do you see?” Bak asked as if he were just making small talk.

“Me, but…” She almost said better. “Different.”

Emmi squinted at the water. Now that she had come to accept that the illusion wasn’t real, wouldn’t be real if she fell for the trap, she was starting to see something else. A jagged line, right over her face. Or, under her face. Under the water. Growing larger as it grew closer.

Emmi sucked in a breath. “The mirror shard.”

“You can see it?” Puck and Bak were both pointedly looking away from the water.

Emmi’s arm jerked as she reached instinctively for it, but Bak kept a firmer grip on her than she’d expected of the changeling. “Don’t just take it, human,” Bak said, making that word—human—sound like an insult.

Now Emmi could see the definite shape of the mirror. The bottom was rounded, where it would fit into the base of the mirror, and the top was splintered, an uneven and sharp crack that glittered in the clear pond.

But she could also see something else.

Webbed fingers gripped the edge of the mirror, the pointed fingernails black and ridged. Emmi had seen a spider crab at the aquarium once, and the fingers here reminded her of the monstrous crab’s long legs with backward joints. The fingers were too long, spreading over too much of the mirror’s surface, spindly but clearly strong. Emmi could believe that these fingers could wrap around her thigh all the way, and that she’d never pry them free.

As the mirror—and the hands holding the mirror—drew closer to the surface, Emmi could see more of the undine’s fingers. Dark green moss and algae clung to the grayish skin, drifting off like smoke in the water. The nails were thick, more like a bear’s claws than human fingernails, black and strong. Emmi had always pictured mermaids in the Disney style, but this?

This was more alien than any fae Emmi had seen yet.

Bile rose in her throat as the mirror shard crested the surface of the water. Long tendrils of soft seaweed dripped down the undine’s wrist. While narrow, Emmi had no doubt this creature could snap her bones like twigs.

She peered into the water, past the mirror that was now tantalizingly close. The arms faded into the darkness. They were so long, longer than a human’s leg, and it made Emmi wonder just how massive this undine was. What was the rest of its body like? Did it curl like a snake at the bottom of the pool of water which, now, seemed far too small for such a creature?

“Is that the mirror?” Puck asked. He kept his face averted, but he dared a glance.

“Yes.” Emmi’s voice was very small.

“Take it! Let’s get out of here!” Bak said.

Emmi reached for the glass.

The undine released the mirror with one hand, and drew that free hand closer to Emmi. Her heart thudded in her chest. The undine flexed its gray, slimy fingers, each one as long as Emmi’s forearm but spindly and knobbed.

The undine curled its fingers closed in a fist, then extended its index finger out, beckoning for Emmi to come closer.

Page of Wands, Transposed

Bad news and rash decisions

“It’s a trap,” Puck said flatly.

“Definitely a trap,” Bak added.

Perhaps Emmi should have paused when both the fae agreed with each other for once, but all she could see was the mirror shard. If she could break even a piece of Gwyn’s hex against her, that would mean she could break the hex against Grandfather.

That piece of the mirror was hope.

She shook loose from Puck and Bak. Puck seized her wrist again, hanging on tightly, but Bak just let go, palms up, stepping back and clearly letting Emmi decide her own fate. With one hand free, Emmi reached for the mirror in the undine’s webby, mossy hand.

It was almost out of reach, and Emmi had to strain against Puck, muscles taut. She let herself glance down once, and saw only the sky and the clouds and her own image on the reflective, still surface of the pond. She focused on the mirror, her fingertips barely slipping over the smooth surface. The undine held the mirror at a tilted angle, so Emmi had to grab the sharp, jagged edge of it. She got her palm across the top, then hissed in pain as the glass sliced open her skin.

Three drops of bright red blood dripped from her hand down to the water. The crimson spread into the clear water, smoking out and disappearing, but not a ripple disturbed the surface.

“That’s a very good idea,” Bak called from a spot several paces away from the edge of the pond. “Let the bloodthirsty, human-eating undine get a taste of your blood. So intelligent. Exactly what I would do.”

Emmi grappled with the smooth surface of the mirror. While she now had a decent grip on it, the undine still didn’t let it go.

“Why isn’t she just giving it to me?” Emmi ground out through clenched teeth. Then she gasped, startled, as the undine’s other hand shot up through the water and gripped her wrist, long fingers wrapping around her arm, claws digging into her skin.

The undine let go of the mirror, and Emmi was left holding the sharp glass while the undine’s other hand kept her from moving. Puck tugged; Emmi may as well be glued to a wall.

The undine turned her free hand around, palm up.

“Nothing is ever free to the fae,” Bak commented idly.

“But I passed the undine’s test!” Emmi protested. And I’ve already accidentally given her some blood, she thought.

“There’s nothing to say that an undine has to play by any rules,” Puck ground out. His knuckles were white around her wrist, and between his grip and the undine’s, Emmi felt like she was being ripped apart.

“What else am I supposed to give her?” Emmi snarled. Hopefully not her hand. But even if she had something, how would she get it now? The undine wasn’t letting go, and Emmi refused to drop the mirror shard, not now that she had it.

“I know!” she said, eyes widening as she realized what she could actually offer. “The gold coin!”

“The what?” Puck’s voice was strained with exertion.

“The gold coin—the one I took from Grandfather’s collection. I was going to give it to Gwyn, but—”

“Yeah, no, that’s a great idea. Where is it?” Puck asked.

“Left front pocket. Let me go, and I can—”

“I am not letting you go,” Puck said, but he did release one hand from his viselike grip on her wrist. Emmi felt Puck patting her pocket, then awkwardly reaching in and pulling out the coin. Before she could say anything, he threw the coin in the water, hurtling it right at where the undine was. It cut through the pond like a knife, not even splashing.

“I think she wanted it in her hand…” Emmi started, but the undine’s free hand sank under the surface. Emmi caught a glimmer of gold flickering between the long, webbed fingers.

Then she felt something else—something that made the glass change under her grip. Emmi stared in wonder as the surface of the mirror became encrusted with…something. Something white and powdery that almost looked like frost on the mirror’s surface, but felt gritty, like sand…

“Whoa!” Puck said as the undine suddenly released Emmi. Without the undine’s grip as a counterbalance, Puck and Emmi stumbled back, crashing into the brook. Emmi scrambled up, holding the mirror piece high as she fumbled her way back to solid ground.

“What is that?” Bak asked, leaning over and looking at the mirror.

“Thanks for all the help back there,” Puck growled.

“You’re welcome.” Bak beamed at him.

“I was being sarcastic!”

“I think it’s salt,” Emmi said. She wasn’t quite willing to touch some of the white grains to her tongue and taste the substance, but it looked like salt, felt like salt. She sniffed it. Was it her imagination, or did it smell like salt?

“Salt?” Puck stared at the mirror.

Emmi’s gaze followed his. His reflection was nothing more than blurry colors under the salt. “Cloaked in salty water, then you cannot see her,” Emmi whispered, repeating her grandfather’s rhyme.

“It’s salt, but not salty water,” Bak pointed out.

“Semantics,” Emmi said.

“Semantics matter when it comes to fae riddles and contracts,” Puck said.

Emmi frowned. He was right, but…there was something here. Salt and visibility and reflections and hidden meanings…If she could only fit the jigsaw pieces of this together, then perhaps she could save Grandfather…

“Can we go yet?” Bak sounded bored, but there was tension in their eyes as they looked over at the undine’s pond.

All the daffodils that circled the pond had previously had their heads drooped toward the water. But now, every flower pointed at Emmi.

They’re just flowers, Emmi tried to tell herself, but it was unnerving nonetheless.

“Yeah, time to go,” Puck said, grabbing fistfuls of grass. He lit them on fire and used the puddle of ash in his palm to make a portal back to the Museum of Magic.

Once inside the hearth room, Emmi went straight to the silver mirror frame.

“Your hand,” Puck started, and only then did Emmi remember that she was cut.

The wound throbbed, but she ignored it. “This first.”

Emmi slid the mirror piece back into the silver frame, pressing hard to get it into place. As she did so, the salt melted away, catching a ray of sunlight from the window and momentarily blinding her. Emmi flinched and blinked, and she almost thought she saw—

A rocky beach.

Crashing waves.

Gray skies and—

But then she blinked again, and it was just a mirror.

Puck grabbed her hand, gently turning it upward to show the cut on her palm. “We need to clean this up.”

Emmi shook her head. “I need to figure this out. Salt and water keep coming up.”

“There’s time for that later—” Puck started.

Emmi snatched her hand back. “Tears in the vision potion. The undine. Grandfather’s riddle. Salt against Hunters—you remember!”

Puck nodded, lips tight. Of course he remembered how they dumped a Hunter in the Atlantic Ocean to stop his weapons from being a threat. The salt water rendered them useless.

“Salt…salt…” Emmi started pacing.

“Obviously, salt,” Bak said dryly.

Emmi whirled around to them. “What do you know?”

“More than you.”

“Tell me!” Emmi demanded.

Bak raked their eyes over her. “No,” they said simply.

Emmi remembered then that the changeling wasn’t really on her side. They were on no one’s side but their own.

She growled in frustration, then turned on her heels to pace some more. Puck stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop.

“You need a break,” Puck said in a gentle tone, as if he were soothing a wild animal. “And I need to bandage your hand.”

“It does hurt,” Emmi allowed, her voice sullen.

Puck led her out into the hallway. Emmi cast one look behind her. Bak was looking not at them, but at the mirror, with an expression on their face that unnerved her. It reminded her, oddly, of the same way the daffodils had all turned their flower heads to her.

Once in the hall, Emmi took the lead, bringing Puck up to the attic apartment. She grabbed a first aid kit from under the sink. Puck stared at it. Emmi remembered that Puck was fae, his blood was green, and he had no idea how to heal a cut on a human. Rolling her eyes, she ripped open an alcohol pad, swabbed the cut, and then spread some antibiotic ointment on the cut before putting on a bandage.

Puck grinned at her ruefully. “Better?”

“Some,” Emmi confessed. Then she sighed. “I still don’t know what to do.”

“Want to know a secret?” Puck asked. He leaned in closer, so close that Emmi’s breath caught in her throat and all she could do was nod. “No one ever knows what to do. We’re all just fumbling around in the dark, hoping for the best.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” Emmi said with a smirk.

And then he kissed her.

The High Priestess, Transposed

Revealing secrets and repressed intuition

Puck definitely thought the kiss would delay her. She could see it in his self-satisfied smile, that look in his eyes that clearly stated, There, all I had to do was distract her.

And perhaps Puck was right. Emmi was obsessing about what to do next, in part because she suspected she already knew. And Puck probably guessed that, too.

She had to go to the Shadowlands.

It was the only logical conclusion. She needed a mirror shard from each of the fae’s three different realms, and no one was ready to go back to the Dream Realm, where Puck could be seized again and forced to serve the king, Oberon. However, while the Shadowlands were dangerous, Emmi had been there before.

Puck hadn’t, though, and he couldn’t risk the Dream Realm. He had deep reservations he’d never fully explained about the Shadowlands, and he wanted to distract Emmi from going to either place.

But Puck wasn’t the only one who could play games.

Emmi smiled sweetly, blinked her eyes as if utterly dazed by Puck’s kiss, and then plotted her escape. For the rest of the day, Emmi didn’t bring up her fears about what to do next.

Not out loud.

But she knew exactly what she needed to do by the time Puck was snoring in Grandfather’s room, and Bak was…somewhere else, Emmi wasn’t sure.

If Puck saw her trying to leave again, there was no doubt in her mind he would try to stop her, just like he hadn’t wanted her to risk the undine’s pool. This was a dangerous game, she knew, but she also knew the only way to save Grandfather was to play it.

Emmi didn’t turn on her light. She could hear Puck snoring, but Bak…did Bak sleep? She assumed so, but assumptions hadn’t been doing her any favors lately. She slipped her phone in her pocket and looked around the room, trying to figure out what else to take with her.

The orddu witches of the Shadowlands didn’t care about gold coins. They stirred time—literal time—in their cauldron, and they were focused on their tasks, managing the veil between life and death. Emmi had nothing she could give as a bribe, nothing she could do to sway the orddu witches if they had to be bargained with.

No real way to find the mirror shard in that realm.

Perhaps I should make the eye potion, Emmi thought as she slipped out of her room, carefully avoiding the patch of floor that creaked. She opened the attic apartment door and backed out, pulling the door shut behind her with the softest click of the latch that she could. The eye potion would bring her to exactly what she would need to find, if she set her intentions strongly enough, and—

“Mrow!” Sabrina screamed in protest as Emmi, distracted, stepped right on top of her cat. A blur of ginger fur flew down the steps, and the cat stopped only to throw Emmi a dirty look full of disdain and indignation.

“I didn’t see you!” Emmi hissed through clenched teeth. Sabrina flicked her tail like a whip.

Emmi rushed down the steps—Sabrina had been loud enough to wake up Puck, and if Bak was nearby, she was doomed to be caught. So much for a potion; she didn’t dare risk heading to the conservatory in the dark, gathering ingredients, and making it. Sabrina meowed as Emmi ran past her, obviously still mad.

Emmi paused at the hearth room—still dark, and Bak wasn’t there, at least. Maybe no one had heard Sabrina. It felt weird going into a fae realm with nothing. Without giving herself a chance to question it, Emmi raced inside, found Elspeth’s journal where she’d last left it on the mantle, and crammed it into her back pocket.

Now to make it to the front door.

No lights came on. The house was eerily quiet.

Puck’s innate fear of the Shadowlands mixed with Bak being not entirely helpful with her mission and seemingly convinced she would end up killing herself with a misstep made Emmi doubt just how smart it was for her to continue. But that was the danger of this all—the hex, Grandfather’s curse—it would be easy for her to just…stop. Ignorance was bliss, and Grandfather in the Hunt was proof of that. Emmi could almost see herself talked into not risking everything to break the hexes around her and her grandfather.

So she couldn’t stop. She had to keep going.

Emmi drew herself up short at the front door, surrounded by the solid blue-gray stone. She squinted. Before, she could see the lines like a spider’s web criss-crossing in the doorframe, tantalizing glimpses of other worlds through the hollow spaces.

Now?

Nothing.

She stared harder. She couldn’t let her own failures and lack of magic stop her now. Especially because she still had some magic. Wasn’t that what Puck had said? Even though Emmi was supposed to have lost it all in giving Gwyn the witch bottle, she had seen the golden light before. Pain stabbed at the back of her eyes, but then—

There.

Emmi’s shoulders sagged with relief. She could see it. She reached for the threads, spotting immediately the dusky fields and the shadows of the Other Stonehenge, the strange in-between place where she’d found Puck. Without another moment’s hesitation, Emmi pulled apart the threads of reality and stepped through.

The shadowy liminal place with the almost-but-not-quite Stonehenge was exactly as Emmi remembered it. The towering stones, some toppled, some still standing, were an exact replica of the real Stonehenge.

But when Emmi approached the pillars and lintels that seemed to create three doorways, she saw the three different realms of the fae through each. Twilit Otherworld beckoned her closer with green-speckled leaves waving in a breeze she couldn’t feel here. The Dream Realm was darker, as if the sun were almost fully set, a sprinkling of stars in the sky above a grassy lawn where fae seemed to be gathered around a bonfire, dancing.

Emmi turned to the last opening, the one that showed the Shadowlands.

Through the stones she saw nothing but pitch black.

She let out a shaky breath and stepped into the unknown void.

Nine of Cups, Transposed

Difficulties and obstacles

On the other side of the portal was—

Nothing.

Emmi blinked several times, but it didn’t change the fact that she couldn’t see anything. She was standing on something—pebbly ground at an uneven slope—but she spread her arms out wide and felt nothing.

Emmi remembered her phone then, and its flashlight. She fumbled for her pocket, ripping it out. The screen illuminated, and she turned on the flashlight feature, but it didn’t help. She could see the brightness of the light on the phone’s screen and the bulbs in the flash, but it didn’t cast a single beam into the night.

She saw only black. She couldn’t even smell anything; it was like she was standing in the middle of a void.

And then—

Something.

She felt a whisper in the wind, first, and then—something soft as smoke, but denser, almost like…fur? Emmi’s heart thudded in panic, and if she wasn’t already blind in this pitch black darkness, she thought she might just pass out from terror.

A low rumbling filled the silence, almost like…

Purring?

Emmi’s eyes widened, not that it did any good. But her one constant companion in the Shadowlands had always been the Cat Síth she had saved at Holyrood. Emmi’s fingers curled, and while the softness leaked through her hand like smoke, she was certain it was the strange cat-like creature’s fur.

I am going to give Sabrina so many fish treats, Emmi thought, hoping that a good deed to her cat—especially to make up for stepping on her accidentally—would trickle down to this fae feline.

The Cat Síth took a step forward, and Emmi kept her hand on its back, following it. Slowly, stumblingly, Emmi made her way over the rocky ground, the Cat Síth waiting patiently any time she misstepped. And while she couldn’t see anything distinctly, Emmi was starting to see a faint glow in the direction the Cat Síth was taking her. The light formed into an image, and soon Emmi could see flickering flames cut off by the round bottom of a cauldron, illuminating the single woman stirring the iron pot.

Emmi stopped in front of the cauldron. Despite the fire, she felt no heat. When she turned, blinking away the light, she saw only darkness. The Cat Síth was gone.

The witch stirring the cauldron watched her.

“Hello?” Emmi said awkwardly. Before, the only other time she’d ever been to the Shadowlands, the orddu witches magically took turns stirring the cauldron, each one swapping places with one another at every rotation of the spoon.

But this woman didn’t change.

Emmi’s gaze flicked down to the pot. Before, she had seen time itself, stirred into constant motion.

Now, the cauldron might as well be empty. Emmi couldn’t see the end of the spoon; it was like it faded into the abyss.

The woman stirring the seemingly empty contents wasn’t beautiful, Emmi could tell that much, but she exuded power in a way that utterly captured Emmi’s attention. She was statuesque; she was noble; she was handsome, but not beautiful. This was the type of woman who would have poetry written about her, but none of it would be a love sonnet.

“Why have you come?” the woman asked. “You are no longer what you once were. You should not be here.”

Something broke inside Emmi’s chest. Ah, there it was. Confirmation that she had truly lost her powers as a witch.

“What am I, then?” she asked, hating the whine in her voice. “I…I can see some magic. I saw the way to get here.”

The woman didn’t answer.

Emmi stared up at her. It was impossible to look away, not only because she had such a commanding presence, but because there was nothing else to see here except the fire below the cauldron and whatever it illuminated.

The woman’s face…shifted.

First, a late-middle-aged woman whose head had been roughly shaved, her eyes wide. Then another woman, her face twisting in temper, then another—an older woman with a long nose and a slight hunch to her back…

Emmi gasped.

Agnes Sampson.

Joan Wytte.

Ursula Sonthiel.

Their faces repeated a few more times, and each time, each woman focused on Emmi. Agnes’s shock and fear were replaced with gratitude. Joan’s anger melted to kindness. And Ursula’s eyes seemed to see right through Emmi, every secret in her heart revealed, and even then, her wrinkled face broke into a smile.

Finally, the visages settled back to the first woman. “The witches you helped have decided to help you,” she said. “It is rare to have one of you.”

“One of me?” Emmi asked.

“An orwen.”

Emmi couldn’t help but smile at the name. Her favorite books growing up had been the Prydain Chronicles by Lloyd Alexander. In them, there were three ancient witches—Orddu, Orgoch, and Orwen. She knew the author had relied on the Mabinogion and other Welsh myths to craft his novels, and she couldn’t help but feel like this was fate, pulling the strings, giving her a title and a power that reminded her of home.

“You have proven yourself, not only to the witches you helped, but also some others,” the woman said, stirring the cauldron at the same even pace. “And those witches have each given you a bit of their power. A great gift.”

Emmi had been an orddu witch, but she’d given her power up—all of it. The power she had now came from being an orwen, a witch who was made by the gifts of other witches.

“I…” Emmi felt both powerful and burdened by this knowledge. “How can I thank them?”

That seemed to be the right answer. The woman’s face changed again, shifting to a woman who didn’t look too much older than Emmi. She had a sharp jaw, a pointed nose, and long hair. Her eyes reminded Emmi of Grandfather’s eyes—kind but clever. Emmi stared at this woman, unable to place who she was until…

“Elspeth?” Emmi asked. She was used to seeing renderings of her ancestor as an older woman, one who’d already borne her children and lived her life. This Elspeth appeared to be closer to her own age.

She grinned. “Hello, daughter,” Elspeth said.

Emmi bit her tongue. She was something like five-times Elspeth’s great-granddaughter, but it didn’t seem like the time to break out a family tree.

“Tell Puck that I’m glad he’s found a home at last,” Elspeth said. Her smile now seemed almost sad.

“He’s been in my—our, your—house for centuries,” Emmi said immediately. Even when she and her parents or grandparents hadn’t known Puck was in the witch bottle, he had been, his magic used to protect witch and fae alike.

Elspeth, however, was shaking her head. “I did not refer to the building.” She paused, considering. “Although, speaking of the house, it’s nice to see that the bluestone served its purpose. It was…difficult getting it to America.”

“How?” Emmi said, her voice rising. “How did you know, all those centuries ago, to put that specific type of rock as the doorframe into the house?”

Elspeth laughed. “I did not start as an orddu. In fact, I wasn’t even that powerful of a witch. But as my powers refined, I found myself doing things I didn’t understand. Some of my actions…I didn’t always know the reason of why they must be done, only that they were necessary.”

All the time Elspeth was talking, she was also stirring the cauldron. Her body shuddered, and Emmi got the impression that another witch was trying to take over.

“Once Puck entered into his contract with the house and went into the witch bottle,” Elspeth said, talking faster now, “I had a feeling that I needed stone for the door. Apparently, it was for you.”

“What else is there?” Emmi asked quickly. “Are there more spells or other magical items that you put into place for me to discover and use?”

Elspeth shrugged. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

“What?” Emmi gaped at her. “How can you not know?”

“That’s the point. I laid out pieces for a game I knew I wouldn’t play. What cards will you pick up, Emmi? What numbers will the dice roll for you? That’s between you and fate.”

Emmi’s mouth fell open as she struggled for words. Before she could do more than sputter, though, a new face and a new body replaced Elspeth’s. Her time with her ancestor was up.

But Emmi didn’t know who this woman was. She was familiar, though. Emmi stared at her. The woman was short, perhaps thirty or forty years old, with bouncy hair and clear eyes that crinkled as her smile broadened.

It was the smile that threw Emmi off. When she had seen the woman before, she had not been smiling. But also, when she had seen the woman before, she had not been that woman—she had been Bak. In Glastonbury, when Bak was telling her and Puck about the woman who’d made the first magical barrier around the Tor, blocking off a major entrance to Gwyn ap Nudd’s kingdom—it had been this woman.

She laughed when Emmi’s face registered recognition. “Tell the changeling I’ll see him again soon,” she said, and before Emmi could respond, she started to fade away, turning back into the powerful-looking woman.

But that woman, too, was different. Now she was far, far older, her face nearly unrecognizable through the wrinkles, her back hunched over. She stirred the cauldron with the spoon as if the spoon were a cane keeping her upright.

“You cannot stay here, orwen,” she said, and there was a tone of admonishment and—perhaps—pain in her voice. “This is no longer a land that welcomes you. Your access to magic is a gift, and while some of the witches who blessed you were orddu witches, not all were.”

That must be how Emmi got to the Shadowlands but why she couldn’t fully see everything. She had a hint of orddu power; enough to get her here, but not enough for her to stay.

“You must leave,” the old woman said, and there was a command in her voice.

“Wait!” Emmi cried. “Please! I need one thing, and then I’ll go.”

The crone focused on Emmi. Some emotion passed on her face, but Emmi could not begin to guess what it meant.

“You may have one thing,” the witch said, “but because you are not an orddu, you must pay for it.”

Emmi swallowed. She hadn’t thought to grab a coin or, well, anything really. Perhaps Elspeth’s journal would serve as a trade—

“A memory,” the witch said. “You must give up a joyous memory.”

“I…” Emmi’s voice trailed off. “How?”

“Allow me to take it, and I will,” the witch said. “And you shall have the mirror shard you need.”

Emmi hadn’t said she needed the mirror shard, but that didn’t matter. She did need it. So, she nodded.

“You must say the words,” the witch said. Was it Emmi’s imagination, or did the witch sound sad?

“You may have a joyous memory of mine,” Emmi said. “And…then what happens? Will it hurt? How will I know—”

“It is done,” the witch said.

Emmi blinked several times. It was done? Already? She thought, hard—she could remember hugging Grandfather. The time she went to Disney World with her family when she was eight. Her first kiss. Her friends at school. Eating birthday cake. She had all her happy memories.

Didn’t she?

“But,” the witch continued, eyeing Emmi, “you gave too great a memory. I now owe you more. You may ask one question of time, and you may see the answer before you. Then our accounts will be even. And you will go.”

Emmi sucked in a sharp breath. She could ask one question. And she knew exactly what she wanted to discover.

The Moon

Illusion and deception

Emmi looked up at the orddu witch, squaring her shoulders. “I need one more mirror shard after this,” she said. “Where—specifically—is it?”

Emmi knew it was in the Dream Realm, or, at least, she had a pretty good idea of it. But the fae kingdoms were vast. She was lucky that the Shadowlands still knew her, and that the witches here wanted to help her.

“You will have to take it from Oberon himself. He keeps it with him, always,” the orddu witch said. “But be warned—he will protect it. Without it, he is no king.”

Emmi bit her lip, thinking. So, she would have to face the fae king of the Dream Realm in order to get the last mirror shard. That might prove…challenging.

“Our accounts are now even,” the orddu witch said. “You paid me. I have paid you.”

Emmi opened her mouth to protest—the location of the shard in the Dream Realm was only part of the payment. The other part was the gift of the shard that was here, in this realm. But before she could say anything, her left hand filled with a cool, solid weight. Emmi looked down at it. The middle mirror shard rested in her palm, the flames of the fire under the cauldron flickering in its reflection.

“Thank you,” Emmi said.

The orddu did not respond.

She started to turn away, but the orddu witch called back to her. When Emmi looked up, she wore her ancestor’s face. “Remember, my child,” Elspeth said gravely, “you are an orwen now, blessed by all the witches. And we will do all we can to help you, because you have already done the same for us.”

Emmi wanted to express her thanks; she wanted to say something. But her words stuck in her throat. The idea was almost too much to bear, a gift she did not feel she deserved.

Elspeth smiled knowingly. “And that is why it is given to you,” she said. Emmi’s eyes widened. She shouldn’t be surprised to know her thoughts were so easily plucked from her mind, but still. Elspeth looked down at the pot, the spoon stirring and stirring and stirring, constantly orbiting the interior of the cauldron. Emmi followed her ancestor’s gaze, mesmerized by the circular movement.

Until she started to feel sick.

I am not meant to be here, she reminded herself, and when she stumbled back, away from the cauldron, no one called her back. It was bittersweet. She was honored to have any magic at all, especially a magic that was given to her. But this place had almost called to her before. It was a dark place, a place of death, but it also had a peace to it, a promise of life.

No matter what the Shadowlands were, though, it was clear they were not for her. Not any more.

Emmi blinked, and realized she could no longer see the cauldron, the outline of the witch stirring, nor even a glimmer of the flames. Everything was black. She groped ahead, her empty hand outstretched. Maybe the Cat Síth could help her again…but her fingers touched nothing but air. Panic welled inside her, and she stumbled a few steps forward—

And crashed into her house.

Emmi went sprawling, blinded by the lamps in the foyer, her knees skidding across the floor. Instinctively, she tucked her left hand against her body, protecting the glass shard. She blew hair out of her face and saw Sabrina blinking back at her, mildly curious about her sudden appearance. Using the desk at the front entrance to pull herself up, Emmi stood, mind spinning from the abrupt change in location.

“Ah. There you are.” Bak sounded bored as they looked down at her. Sabrina got up and wove herself between Bak’s legs, flicking her tail at Emmi.

It felt like a lifetime ago, but Emmi remembered how, when she was leaving her house, she’d accidentally stepped on her cat. She squatted back down and stretched her hand out to Sabrina, rubbing her fingers together. The slight sound had the cat’s attention, but she made no move to leave Bak’s legs.

“I’m sorry, Sabrina,” Emmi said, exhaustion laced in her voice. It had been a long night. Sabrina sniffed but deigned to step closer, butting her head against Emmi’s outstretched fingers. Emmi sagged in relief, grateful her cat had forgiven her.

“Am I to assume you went traipsing through the Shadowlands alone?” Bak asked, supremely uninterested.

“Yes.” Emmi held up the jagged mirror shard. “And I was successful.”

Bak clapped their hands three slow times, a sardonic gesture. “Saving the hardest task for last, I see.”

Emmi was about to protest—how could the Dream Realm be even more difficult? But then she remembered what the orddu had told her. The last shard was in Oberon’s possession, and the king would not part with it lightly.

She stood up. “I suppose so,” she said. “But I’m still going to do it. And then the hex will be broken, and I’ll find a way to save Grandfather.”

“Perhaps,” Bak started. They clearly intended to taunt Emmi more, but she cut them off.

“By the way, I met a witch in the Shadowlands.”

Bak froze.

“An orddu,” Emmi continued.

“Obviously.” Bak’s voice had no bite to it. Their hands twisted nervously. “And she said…?”

“She said, ‘Tell the changeling I’ll see them again soon.’”

All the air left Bak’s lungs in a giant whoosh. Their whole body seemed to melt with relief as they groped for the desk, leaning against it before their knees gave out.

“Good news?” Emmi asked, surprised.

Bak nodded silently, silver hair bobbing.

Emmi, still gripping the mirror shard, left Bak there. Sabrina trailed along behind her as she turned down the corridor for the hearth room. The hearth room was dark, the shadows long, but Emmi didn’t bother turning on a light. It reminded her of where she’d just come from, and that was a comfort. Carefully, she went to the broken mirror and slid the shard into place. For one instant, it looked as if the glass reflected not the dark room, but somewhere gray and stormy, the shadows shifting into clouds, but as soon as Emmi blinked, it was nothing more than a broken mirror with one piece missing. She gently traced the crack between the two shards—the two pieces had not magically sealed together again.

Emmi closed her eyes. Elspeth and the orddu witches had promised to help her even more than their gift of magic, but she wasn’t sure what that would mean. Elspeth had given her the stone doorway that turned into a magical portal; she had written the vision potion in her journal. Both of these things had happened hundreds of years before Emmi—or Elspeth—had known how she would need them.

Help from an orddu witch could come at any time in the past or future. She wouldn’t necessarily see it as help. She just had to see it as an opportunity.

The next morning, Emmi woke up late. Little wonder—between escaping to the Shadowlands after dark and troubling thoughts about what to do next, she hadn’t exactly had a restful night. After a quick bite of breakfast that may as well be lunch by that point, Emmi found Puck in the library.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

He sat sprawled in the middle of the floor, taking up the entire aisle with his body and the hefty book. He sat up, then struggled with the awkward weight of the book to show Emmi The Complete Works of Shakespeare.

“If he’s going to steal my name, then I want to see what he’s writing about.” Puck flipped a page.

Ah—he was reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the play that Puck claimed was written after him.

“Find anything worthwhile?” Emmi asked. She sat down on the floor across from him.

“Not really. He’s right, though.”

“About what?”

“What fools these mortals be.”

Emmi didn’t rise to the bait. “Well, speaking of foolish…”

“What did you do?” Puck asked instantly.

“How do you know it was me?”

“You’re the only mortal in the house.”

“Sabrina’s a mortal.”

“I stand corrected,” Puck said, “you’re the only foolish mortal. So, what did you do?”

Emmi took a deep breath. “Let me preface this by saying that I actually succeeded, and all’s well that ends well.”

Puck’s eyes narrowed. “What. Did. You. Do?”

“I went to the Shadowlands alone last night, but I got the mirror shard and it’s already in place, and nothing bad happened; it’s all fine, and also I know where the next mirror shard piece is, so everything went just perfectly. Don’t. Be. Mad.” Emmi shot him a huge, toothy grin.

“You went to the Shadowlands alone last night?!” Puck erupted.

“There were a lot of other words after I said that; you need to pay attention to them.”

Puck shook his head, as if trying to sort out all the information. “Wait, so—”

“I got the mirror shard and everything’s fine.”

“Define fine.”

Emmi threw up her hands. “I got the shard! And a decent location of the next and last piece!”

Puck tossed the book to the side. “But what did it cost?”

“Who says it had to cost anything?” Emmi said.

“You did, with that sentence. But also, the fae always have a price.” Puck leaned in closer, his eyes intent on hers. When he spoke again, it was a raspy whisper. “What price did you pay, Castor?”

Emmi let out a huff of a sigh. “Nothing important. Besides, you’re forgetting to ask what else I gained.”

“More than the mirror shard?”

“More than that. I found out that I do still have magic. A gift from the witches of the past. I’m not an orddu; I’m an orwen.”

Puck’s eyes grew round. “An orwen? I’ve heard legends, of course, but…” He raked his gaze over her. “Wow.”

“Right? I had no idea it was even possible to be an orwen.”

“Outside of your book,” Puck said.

Emmi blinked at him, confused. “My book?”

“The one you lent me. The Book of Three by Lloyd Alexander? It had an orddu and an orwen. And orgoch, too, but I suspect the author may have made that one up.”

Emmi blinked again, still confused. “What book?”

Puck grew still. “The Book of Three.” He leaned up, reaching for his back pocket, and pulled out a small paperback volume. It was worn and ragged.

And Emmi had never seen it before in her life.

“You must have picked that up somewhere else,” she said. “That’s not mine.”

The book fell from Puck’s fingers, landing on the floor between them. “Emmi,” he said, his voice tight. “You said you didn’t pay anything important to the witches. What did you give them for the knowledge of the mirror shards?”

Emmi shrugged. “A joyous memory. But I don’t feel any different…”

Her voice trailed off at the way Puck turned green.

“It wasn’t just a joyous memory,” he said, horrified. “It was the first time you felt joy after your parents died.”

“What are you talking about?” Emmi asked. Mentioning her parents’ death was a low blow.

“You read this book after they died. It helped you bond with your grandfather. It reminded you of joy after grief.”

“No, I didn’t,” Emmi insisted. “I have never even seen that book before.”

“How did you get over your parents’ deaths?” Puck insisted. “How did you come to accept this new life with—”

“How can you ask me that?” Emmi said, standing up and taking a few steps back from him. “You don’t just get over something like that.”

“But what makes the emptiness bearable?” Puck got up, too. His eyes were wild. “It’s not just time. We have to find hope after something like that happens; we have to find at least a spark of joy to remember that joy is possible.”

Emmi prodded at that memory in her heart.

And she came back with nothing.

Eight of Wands

Acceleration, excitement, and goals within reach

When Emmi decided to head straight to the Dream Realm, Puck was hesitant to let her go. What neither of them had expected, however, was for Sabrina to hop into the portal after them.

“I have to admit, this may not be a bad thing,” Puck said.

Sabrina made a noise in her throat somewhere between a purr and a growl, the sound reverberating enough to rattle the trees.

“Did you know this would happen?” Emmi asked. “Also, is she going to return to normal when we get back home?”

Sabrina was no longer the size of a normal house cat. She was what Puck called a Cath Palug, a term Emmi had never heard before, but which apparently meant monster-cat-big-enough-to-eat-you. Emmi had seen horses smaller than the form Sabrina now took, and they also hadn’t had claws the size of her hand and fangs that glistened in the dark.

“I think this is just the Dream Realm playing with our senses,” Puck said. “You have to remember that nothing here is as it seems.”

Emmi looked down at herself. “Except me.”

“Well, humans in this realm aren’t that unusual. Dreams are an access point; it only takes someone who’s a particularly lucid dreamer to come here. They just rarely notice they slipped between realms.”

Hopefully, if they ran into any of the full-time residents of the Dream Realm, they wouldn’t see that Emmi was more than just someone asleep.

Something rustled in the forest, and Puck froze. Sabrina’s ruff went up, making her seem even larger than her enormous size, and Emmi felt her heartbeat thudding in her chest. “It was probably nothing,” she whispered.

Puck didn’t seem eased by the idea. “Oberon is crafty,” he said. “He has spies everywhere.” He looked at Emmi, who appeared doubtful still. “Everywhere,” he repeated. “All he needs is a dream, and he can access the other realms, human and fae.”

“I know,” Emmi said. Puck had already told her as much; it was why, as soon as they came up with the plan for how to find the mirror shard, they had immediately set off for the Dream Realm. No time to wait—no time to nap and have Oberon uncover all their careful strategy.

So far, the plan was just to get close to Oberon. They hadn’t had the time to think beyond that. The orddu witch had told her that Oberon had the mirror shard with him, even though Puck assured her it wouldn’t look like one.

She had tried to press Puck for details—what did Oberon look like? Did he have something new that he carried with him all the time that could be the mirror shard? Could the mirror shard be a part of his clothing or perhaps look like a book or maybe be small enough to fit in his pocket…?

“It’s not a good enough plan,” she muttered. Getting to the king of the Dream Realm was only half the battle.

“I agree entirely,” Puck muttered, casting a look at her. Sabrina bounded ahead, each step landing like a small earthquake. The forest was dense, illuminated by fireflies and faeries, a twinkling golden glow that made Emmi feel tranquil. The air was warm and sweet, the moss soft underfoot.

Emmi wondered what would happen if she dreamed within the Dream Realm.

“It’s not a good plan,” Puck said, louder, and Emmi realized that she’d let her mind drift gently in the near-night air.

She shook herself. If she even started thinking that something was different, the Dream Realm would provide her with images to match her idle thoughts. She had to stay focused. “We need to target…it,” she said, careful to avoid using the word “mirror,” just in case Puck was right and they were being spied on.

“It could be anything,” Puck said with an uncharacteristic tone of defeat.

“True, but…” Emmi thought about what the orddu witch had told her. Oberon would not be a king without it. She sucked in a breath.

“Do tell,” Puck said, cocking an eyebrow.

“What makes a king, a king?” Emmi said, lowering her voice just in case. “A crown.”

Puck nodded, considering it. “That could be it. If the mirror shard was disguised as Oberon’s crown…it fits what the witch said. But it also makes everything that much harder to get.”

“Maybe.” Emmi chewed on her bottom lip. “Maybe not.”

“Oh, you’re right, let’s just ask him to hand over his crown,” Puck said. “Kings notoriously love to just hand random humans their crowns.”

“Not that.” Emmi scowled. “It’s that play. A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“The one with ‘Puck,’” Puck said.

“Exactly. Everything in the play is topsy-turvy—the fairies get love potions mixed up for the wrong characters, everyone’s wandering around in chaos, and a donkey is raised up to the highest position in the court.”

“I don’t like the look on your face.” Puck’s voice was flat and droll.

“I’m just saying…if an ass in a play can sit beside the queen of the fae, maybe another ass can get the crown in real life.” Emmi swept her arms at Puck.

Puck tilted his chin. “You think I’m an ass?”

Emmi grinned awkwardly, showing all her teeth.

“Ugh, fine, I can be an ass.”

“I knew you had it in you.”

“But I fail to see how this can get the crown.”

“That’s going to take some work,” Emmi said, then remembered to lower her voice. “In the play, it’s kind of linked to May Day, the day when everything’s backwards. This would help a lot if you had seen The Hunchback of Notre Dame. May Day is like the Festival of Fools.”

“So Puck is an ass and a fool?” Puck puffed his chest out, clearly proud.

Sabrina circled back, knocking leaves out of their boughs as she stomped back toward them, tail flicking hard enough to knock over a sapling. Emmi stretched on her tiptoes to scratch her cat-turned-monster under the chin.

“Right, so, the point is—we need to convince Oberon to play along. The lowest fool can be king for a day. It’s all a mockery. And then he gives you the crown, and—”

“He could just give me a paper crown,” Puck pointed out. “Or one made of flowers, or something like that.”

Emmi frowned. The plan had too many holes in it, she knew.

“We just have to get close,” she said finally. “If worse comes to worse, punch him in the face and take it. We can run.”

“Run fast enough to escape an entire horde of dreamers?”

“With a portal?” Emmi said. “Yes.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe’s all we got.”

Puck shook his head. If they had had time to make a good plan…but any thoughts lingering could turn into dreams, and dreams could be unwrapped like a present with Oberon’s power. They had to hope half-baked was better than fully-revealed.

They kept down the same path, hoping that it would lead them to Oberon’s wild parade. The portal into this realm had dumped them on a path, and Emmi had to hope that it was the hands of the orddu witches guiding her.

They heard the music before they saw anything. Flutes with deep, resonant notes, woody and melancholy, wove into the perkily plucked strings of lutes and harps and guitars. The sound had no real rhythm and meter, but it did seem to revolve around a repeated chorus, one that made Emmi’s steps bounce. Despite the quick pace of the song, she found herself yawning.

“Careful now,” Puck said, his lips close to her ear.

Emmi forced her eyes wide open and nodded tightly.

Sabrina growled and moved behind Emmi. A few more steps, and the path spilled out into a clearing. The scent of clover filled her nose. Fawns and satyrs tromped in a circle, playing their instruments or waving ribbons in a dance that was both chaotic and perfectly timed. There was spontaneity in their erratic movements, but they all blended together in a way that never happened outside of imagination.

This is nothing like the Wild Hunt, Emmi thought. That had been all baying hounds and charging mounts, a reckless race through nature that crushed everything under hooves and heels.

Then Emmi saw some humans amidst the fae dancers. Their eyes were glossy, their lips parted in silent laughter, and even when the music stopped, they kept dancing. This is exactly like the Wild Hunt, Emmi thought bitterly, her fears turning to cold iron in her blood.

When she turned, eyes angry, she looked into the eyes of the king.

Sabrina pressed against her back, and despite the cat’s now terrifying form, Emmi could feel Sabrina trembling beneath her raised fur.

“King Oberon,” Emmi said, ducking into something like a curtsy. She kept her eyes raised, locked on his face.

Oberon was tall with sharp features. His skin was bluish-black, the color of the sky just before the stars burst into view. There was no color in his eyes, none at all, just black orbs that seemed to catch everything. It reminded Emmi of Bak’s silver eyes, and she wondered if Oberon was something of a changeling, shifting to match each person’s dream.

Oberon walked the line between dream and nightmare. She waited, breath caught in her throat, unsure of which she would get. She could almost see how terrible he would be in wrath, black hair furling, dark lips showing fangs as his seven-foot frame towered over her. But then the king smiled, and she knew he was giving her the other side of him, the sweet dream, even if it were a lie.

“You brought me back my fool,” Oberon said, onyx gaze slipping past Emmi and toward Puck. Puck stood nervously behind her, one hand on Sabrina’s flank.

“I brought you back an ass,” Emmi said, and that merited a chuckle from the king.

Her eyes slid to his crown. It was silver, the metal so shiny that she could see her reflection in it. The crown curved around his head, the top of it as jagged as a broken mirror.

Oberon’s attention was on Puck. “You left me. Rude.”

“Apologies,” Puck said in a voice that sounded anything but regretful.

All around them, the fae that had been merrily prancing through the Dream Realm stopped to watch. All except the human dancers, lost in music only they could hear.

Emmi cleared her throat. Oberon didn’t notice; Puck did. His jaw clenched. He ducked his head. “My king, it’s boring if there’s never anyone to challenge you, no?”

Oberon tipped his head back to the dark sky and barked a laugh. “Is that what you running away is? A challenge?”

Puck dared a grin. “It was amusing, no?”

“It was frustrating. I need a fool.” Oberon swept his hand toward the dancers. “Humans are so tiresome. They’re not even creative in their dreams. Entertain me, fool.”

“No.” Puck’s shoulders were squared, his eyes set.

Oberon turned his full attention to Puck, eyes cold. “No?”

“I’m not your fool. I’m the king.”

Emmi’s breath caught. This was the plan. Convince the king to pass him his crown as a jest, a lark, and then run.

“You? King?” Oberon barked in laughter.

“The mortals do it. A festival of fools, a May Day lark.”

“We are not in the mortal realm.”

“But we’re in the place where dreams are made real. If the dreams of humans bore you, king, wait until you see what I could dream if I wore the crown.”

Another laugh, but this one with a hint of amusement. “Oh, you think you have something?”

Puck swept into a bow.

In one swift movement, Oberon stepped in front of him. “Stay down,” the king ordered as he lifted the crown from his head. It flashed with darkness and the sparkling golden light of the fae twinkling in the shadows.

Behind her, Sabrina growled, fur standing on end. The warning zinged through Emmi—no, this is wrong, something’s not right—but before she could call a warning to Puck, Oberon set the crown on his head.

Puck stood, eyes triumphant, as he looked to Emmi. But Emmi’s mouth dropped open in horror. From the crown, hundreds of tiny spiders sprang out, dropping from Puck’s head to the ground, strings of spider silk pouring over him. Startled, Puck stepped back, waving at the spiderwebs that caged him in.

Oberon smirked.

“You think anything is said in my realm that I do not hear?” he said in a low voice. “Wear my crown, Puck, but also wear my chains. Because while I can take back my crown any time I want, you are bound to this realm forever. You can never break free from this trap, Puck. Never.”

Puck reached for the spider silk, tugging on it.

“I made this cage for you, no matter what name you use, no matter what form you wear, you are still the same being. And you are trapped now. Mine.”

Puck looked through the spider silk to Emmi, shoulders slouched, utter defeat cast around him like a cloak.

Ten of Cups

Happiness, excitement, and celebration

Oberon’s onyx eyes glittered in triumph.

But that triumph soon turned to annoyance and then confusion as Emmi and Puck started laughing.

“What?” he growled. “You dare to mock me, even when bound?”

“Who’s bound?” Puck laughed. He started to pull the threads of spider silk off him, and while the sticky stuff clung to his skin, it didn’t keep him trapped.

“Impossible!” Oberon roared. “I had this spell crafted specifically for you!”

Puck snorted. “See, the thing is, I’m not me.”

Puck’s body grew taller and slightly broader. His skin faded to paper-white, his hair paled to the color of snow, and his irises turned silvery.

Puck had never been in the Dream Realm with Emmi.

It had always been the changeling, Bak.

And Bak was laughing so hard at Oberon’s impotent rage that Emmi thought they would actually fall over. The more Bak howled, the more Oberon’s face twisted in anger. But just when it looked like Oberon would literally attack, Bak sobered, straightening up abruptly enough to still the king’s hand.

“And we have the crown,” Bak said, eyes on Emmi. They ripped the silver crown off their head and gripped it in their left hand as they grabbed Emmi with their right hand, yanking her into a run. Sabrina leaped up, the sheer size of her as a Cath Palug making several of the nearby fae scream in terror and flee, and the monstrous cat chased after Emmi and Bak.

“Seeing the look on that tyrant’s face made it worth being stuck in that degenerate’s body,” Bak said. “Please remind me to tell Puck that his very shape and form is abhorrent to me.”

“Let’s get out of here first.” Emmi twisted her head back. Although Bak’s quick action had bought them time, and while Sabrina had startled some of the fae, there was still a pretty large number of creatures chasing after them.

Oberon was in the lead.

His blue-black skin was flushed silver, his ebony eyes were narrowed in hatred, and Emmi could just see the hint of fangs peeking over his lips. He had two legs, two arms, and the general form of a man, but Emmi had never seen a creature more feral than Oberon in this moment, even including the red caps that snapped sprites in half for fun.

“Not much further,” she panted. Golden fairy lights twinkled around them, literal fairies blending in with fireflies in the dim light. Puck had opened a portal for them some distance away, far enough that they wouldn’t be immediately seen, they’d hoped. All Emmi and Bak had to do was get back to the portal and then—

Emmi screamed as her head was jerked violently back. Oberon had his fingers in her hair, yanking her whole body back so violently that black dots danced in front of her eyes. She scrambled for Oberon’s hands, but his grip on her hair was impossible to break. Her nails couldn’t even scratch his cold skin. He pulled hard, forcing her into a standing position with her back to his chest.

“No one makes an ass of a king without paying for it,” Oberon snarled, his lips close to her ear. She felt one of his hands loosen from her hair, moving to her neck.

“Emmi!” Bak shouted, but he was too slow.

It was Sabrina who whirled around, her big paws sending up a spray of leaves and dirt. As a house cat, she would have been trampled in this wild race, but as a Cath Palug? Sabrina roared, the sound more resonant than any lion could make. More than half the fae that had joined Oberon in the chase ran away, screaming senselessly, and the remaining half looked too terrified to move.

Emmi could feel Oberon tense. His breath quickened.

He’s afraid, she thought.

And then, Good.

Sabrina growled, low and terrible, so loud that Emmi could feel it shaking the ground. The Cath Palug raised one massive paw, black claws extended, clearly intending to swat Oberon down. Emmi had one moment to panic that her cat would miss and hit her—after all, Sabrina may look like a fierce beast now, but she was still the same cat who once got lost in her own litter box.

Oberon shoved Emmi into Sabrina, clearly hoping that it would give him the chance to escape before the Cath Palug attacked. As Emmi crashed into the beast, Oberon skittered back, retreating. Sabrina’s growl turned into a purr, and Emmi buried her face in her cat’s fur, her panicked heart rattling inside her chest.

“We got to go,” Bak said. They grabbed Emmi by the waist, lifting her up onto the cat as if Sabrina were a horse. In a moment, they swung up behind Emmi, kicking Sabrina’s flanks. The Cath Palug growled again.

“Please,” Emmi said. She glanced at Bak. “She’s not used to following orders. Any orders.”

But Sabrina saved the day for a second time, lurching forward and loping through the forest, back down the path they’d come. They’d put ten or twenty yards between Oberon’s fae and themselves when Emmi and Bak slid off Sabrina’s back in the clearing radiating even more tiny, twinkling, golden lights.

“Hurry up,” Bak reminded her, eyes on the path.

There were dozens—hundreds of lights. And only one of them was the portal back home to Puck. Emmi whirled around, eyes desperately searching. She should know this. It should be easy. She had magic, a gift of it, and she knew it, and she should know this, but—

The fae were charging in, and at the head of them was Oberon. He’d gotten a weapon, somehow—not a sword, but a blade on a staff that shone with sharp edges and seemed to spark lightning. All around, the forest seemed to melt from the stuff of dreams to a nightmare landscape. The trees grew taller and ominous, the shadows grew darker. There were eyes in the night, and fangs—

“Focus!” Bak shouted.

Emmi whirled around back to the twinkling fae lights. And, “There!”

She grabbed for the glittering gold orb of light, the portal Puck had made and Bak had disguised. Emmi clung to a fistful of Sabrina’s fur, and Bak grabbed onto Emmi’s elbow, and suddenly, the Dream Realm melted away, darkness swirling into light into—

Home.

“You made it!” Puck shouted, rushing for Emmi, who’d stumbled onto her knees on the hardwood floor. Beside her, Sabrina was a cat again, ginger and contemptuous of the death grip Emmi still had on her scruff. Emmi let go, and Sabrina trotted off, flicking her tail.

“You’re okay.” Puck crashed to his knees in front of Emmi, helping her lift up from the floor.

“We’re okay.” Emmi grinned at him.

“Also, we have the third mirror shard.” Bak tossed it in the air. Much like Sabrina had changed from Cath Palug to house cat, the crown had changed into the shard, flat and slim and sharp enough to cut.

“Don’t drop it!” Emmi said, starting to get up and wincing.

“I won’t.” Bak sighed, then tilted the reflective surface toward their face. “I’m so glad I’m not wearing your body, brownie. That was truly disgusting.” Bak lifted their chin, finding the best angle. “I was constantly nauseous, the whole time.”

Puck ignored Bak completely. “You’re really okay?” He tucked a lock of hair out of Emmi’s face.

She nodded.

And before she could say anything else, Puck crushed her in a kiss. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight, his hands at her lower back so she arched into him. He kissed her as if she were air, as if she were hope, as if she were salvation. Their lips parted, and she tasted his desire, felt the groan in the back of his throat.

This was a kiss that was true, and it held every promise of every realm. It was more powerful than any fae contract, and Emmi knew—he was hers and she was his, and no Wild Hunt, no monstrous king, and no old bonds could ever take Puck from her again.

“Oh, good, we’re going this now,” Bak muttered.

Emmi barely registered their voice; barely registered anything at all. When Puck finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers. “All I could think was that you didn’t know how cruel and tricky Oberon can be. To him, every living being exists for his entertainment. His dream is control over everyone and everything. That’s why he’s king.”

The back of her head still throbbed from where Oberon had ripped hair from her scalp. “I know now.”

“I wanted more time, I wanted to think it all through, I wanted to go, too—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Emmi said. “We couldn’t wait and fall asleep and risk him spying on a dream. And it was risky, but it worked—”

Before she finished her sentence, Puck pulled her in for another kiss. Softer this time but somehow more desperate.

“And it’s still happening,” Bak said, louder and with growing impatience.

Emmi chuckled, pushing Puck away and standing. “Fine, fine, let’s deal with the mirror.”

Together, they all went to the hearth room. All except Sabrina, who stalked off down the corridor, her legs a little wobbly, as if she was still a Cath Palug in her mind.

Emmi carefully set the mirror frame with the two broken shards already in it on the rug in the center of the room and knelt before it. The jagged line between the first and the second piece worried her—what would she do if she put the three pieces together and…nothing happened?

Bak handed her the last mirror shard, the piece that had once been worn as a crown by the king. Holding her breath, Emmi carefully slipped the last curved edge into the frame, pressing down on the crack that connected it to the second piece until it fit seamlessly. Before she had a chance to exhale, the mirror glimmered in golden light, shining from within as the broken edges sealed together, reforming the mirror into one.

Still on her knees, Emmi peered down into the mirror.

As the light faded, an image rose to the surface like a photo floating up from the bottom of a cold lake until the entire landscape filled the frame. Emmi sat up on her knees, staring straight down into the glass that showed—

A rocky seashore with the barest hint of sand near the sea.

Crashing waves in the distance.

Water so cold it was grayer than the stormy sky above.

And a flicker of movement, a flash of something—

And then it was gone. Emmi stared into her own face, her reflection’s eyes wide, hair falling over her shoulder.

Page of Wands

Good news and trusted messages

Rather than be fascinated with the brief flash of a different location in the mirror, Puck and Bak were both staring, their gazes shifting over the walls.

Puck looked down at her. “The hex. It’s broken.”

Emmi stood up. “Did you see? In the mirror?”

Puck’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “No, but…I never did before, either.”

Magic manifested in different ways for different people. Before, Emmi could see things in the mirror Puck couldn’t. And, without great effort, she had never really seen the hex on her house, not like the fae did.

Emmi felt a flutter in her chest. Her magic, the gift of sight that was special to her, was back. She had been worried it was gone forever, but thanks to the gifts of witches past, she could see again. And it felt good. Right.

“We knew the hex would fall once Emmi fixed the mirror,” Bak said. “But seeing something in the mirror? That wasn’t part of the hex.”

Emmi shook her head. “It’s not. It’s part of my magic.” Her magic. She wouldn’t take that for granted again.

“Well, what did you see?” Bak asked.

Emmi described the beach, the gray skies, the stormy sea. When she finished, she added, “And I’ve seen that place before.”

Bak looked only mildly interested, but Puck’s eyes were sharp. He caught the tone of wonder in her voice. She stepped a little closer to him. “Remember when you first showed me magic?” she said. “The very first portal you opened for me.”

“Scotland?” he said.

Emmi nodded.

“We need to go back to North Berwick?”

That was the first place they’d travelled together. A tiny coastal town in eastern Scotland, with an old church and a dark history. There had been ponies there—one of whom was named Oberon, Emmi suddenly remembered, awed at that link so early in her story that she hadn’t truly realized was significant. But that wasn’t the place she had seen in the mirror.

“You showed me a portal before I really believed in magic. We didn’t go through it,” Emmi said. “But you drew an ash sigil and showed me a cold ocean and rocky beaches and…”

Puck frowned in confusion. It had been such an insignificant moment to him. He’d just been showing off his power, convincing her of her power.

But it had been the first time Emmi had seen a portal, the first moment Emmi had started to realize that Puck was going to change her life.

“The Orkney Islands,” she said. Puck shook his head; he still didn’t remember. That moment had meant nothing to him.

But it had imprinted on her soul.

She looked over to Bak, utterly confident. “The mirror showed me the Orkney Islands. And I recognized it only because Puck had shown me that exact same image before. The first day I met him.”

Bak glanced at Puck. “What’s in the Orkney Islands?”

“No idea,” Puck said. “I just picked a place at random.”

“No.” Emmi shook her head. “It wasn’t random. It was a gift. From the orddu witches. They stir the cauldron of time, and they told me they’d help me on this journey. But their version of help doesn’t come in a linear way. They gave that clue before I even knew I needed a clue.”

“That’s…” Bak started doubtfully.

“—exactly how those bonkers old hags work.” Puck’s mouth was a flat line. “I have no idea how they pulled the threads to make that happen, but yeah. That’s exactly how they operate.”

“And humans say the fae are odd,” Bak muttered.

Emmi didn’t mind. Just as comforting as having her old powers back was the knowledge that someone was helping her. The help came in strange ways, giving her clues to a mystery that hadn’t even happened yet, but it was still help.

She wasn’t alone.

And she wouldn’t take this help for granted.

Now that she’d broken the hex on the house, she had to save Grandfather. His nonsense rhyme came to her mind as she started pacing, thinking. “It’s water again,” she said.

“I don’t like where this is going,” Bak commented.

“Me neither.” Puck moved to step in front of Emmi.

“The answer has to be linked to some undine,” Emmi said, half-lost in her own thoughts. All the clues kept going back to water, over and over again. Her grandfather’s riddle-rhyme, the undine she met in the Otherworld, the stormy beach…It all led her to the water fae.

“No,” Puck said firmly.

“For once, the brownie’s right,” Bak added.

“There’s something in the sea,” Emmi said. “Near the Orkney Islands, and—”

“No,” Puck said again.

“But—”

“We don’t mess with the ocean!” Puck threw up his hands. “You think fae are dangerous, but even the fae don’t mess with the undine!”

“We went over this before,” Bak said, bored. “When she tried to get eaten by the undine in the pool.”

“I didn’t try to get eaten,” Emmi snapped.

“And yet you nearly were.” Bak’s tone was light, but his eyes cut to her.

“All water fae are…untrustworthy,” Puck said.

“They’re bloodthirsty cannibals who revel in brutality, but sure, ‘untrustworthy’ encompasses that,” Bak muttered.

“What they said. But also? Ocean fae are infinitely worse.”

“Surely not all—” Emmi started.

“All.” Puck glared at her. “All ocean fae are monstrous. It’s not that they’re bad. They just…have no souls.”

“And they’re hungry,” Bak added.

“But…” Emmi’s voice trailed off. She had been so certain that the answer to saving Grandfather lay with the undine that it almost felt like a bit of knowledge planted in her brain by the orddu.

“I met an undine before, in Japan,” Bak added, speaking so casually it was almost as if they’d changed the subject. “I was walking by a river and saw a woman’s face in the water. Of course, I could see she was fae—a nure-onna, as the locals called her. She wore the face of a human, but had a serpent’s body hidden in the water.”

When Bak didn’t continue, Emmi asked, “What happened?”

“She tried to eat me.” Bak gaped at her. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”

“But…” Emmi frowned. She knew better than to believe the Disney version of fairy tales, but surely not all water fae…

“Land fae may hunt humans for sport,” Puck said grimly.

“Or toy with them, while it’s amusing,” Bak added.

“But we don’t eat people. Or each other.”

“What about the red caps?” Emmi asked.

“Okay, we mostly don’t kill for fun and eat people,” Puck allowed.

Emmi couldn’t shake the feeling that she was on the cusp of some discovery. Just as she had known instantly and with full certainty that the mirror had reflected the Orkney Islands, she also knew that the undine were linked to breaking Grandfather’s hex.

And, as both Bak and Puck had told her, every hex could be broken.

“I need to go for a walk,” Emmi said. Now that the hex on her house was gone, she could finally go outside.

“I’ll—” Puck started.

“Alone,” Emmi said. When Puck’s face fell, she added, “I just need to think.”

The house felt suddenly oppressive, and Emmi couldn’t get out fast enough. She stuffed her feet into her shoes by the door and stepped out, blinking in the morning light. The tiredness from formulating a plan with Puck and then enacting that plan against Oberon without a pause would absolutely catch up with her, and soon, but for now, she felt energized by the freedom of stepping outside. No headaches, no pulling at her navel, no magical web holding her back.

One foot in front of the other.

And even if leaving her yard and stepping onto the sidewalk wasn’t exactly getting her anywhere, the movement felt like progress, and she clung to that.

Emmi didn’t have a path in mind. She hadn’t even brought along her wallet, so there would be no point in setting a route to a cafe or bakery—and at that thought, Emmi stopped. If she was going to leave her house for the first time in ages, surely she deserved a muffin and a coffee. She whirled around to head back to the house.

And smacked right into a woman who’d been walking behind her.

The woman’s bag fell onto the sidewalk, and Emmi accidentally stepped on it as she stumbled back. “I’m so sorry!” she said.

“No worries, love.” The woman was older, perhaps in her late fifties or so, with salt-and-pepper hair and a vivid, neon pink smile. Despite Emmi’s flustering, she bent down and grabbed her dropped bag, a beige tote that said “Read…Or Else.” Inside were several books, and Emmi breathed a sigh of relief—at least she hadn’t stepped on anything breakable.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Emmi asked.

“Nothing broken.” The woman flashed her a smile and hefted her tote bag on her shoulder.

Brilliant colors—shades of blue and green—caught Emmi’s eye. A tattoo; upside down and obscured from the way the woman had her arm lifted. She caught Emmi staring and held out her bare forearm for her to see.

“Lovely, isn’t she?” the woman said. “My daughter picked this one out for me when she was younger than you.”

“A mermaid,” Emmi said, staring at the way the scales were etched into the woman’s skin, each one tiny and precise.

“She’s my lucky charm,” the woman said. When Emmi was too shocked to say anything else, she added, “Well, have a good day!” She waved as she headed back down the sidewalk.

That has to be a sign, Emmi thought. What were the odds? Without letting herself question it, Emmi circled back around and followed the woman, keeping a little distance so it wouldn’t look too creepy. Perhaps this was the orddu witches interfering again, giving her a white rabbit to chase down the hole.

But rather than anywhere mysterious, the woman merely walked to the library. She emptied her tote in the outside book deposit slot and turned to go.

Emmi hung back at the corner, watching, hoping the woman with the mermaid tattoo would do or say something that would give her more guidance.

A little girl raced up the steps to the library, yelling back to her mother in the waiting car parked on the road. “Don’t worry! I can do it myself!”

The woman with the tattoo smiled as the little girl took the steps two at a time. But it was evident that the book drop-off was above the girl’s reach. The woman held the little flap down as the girl hefted her book high up, over her head, the gilded title flashing in the sun.

The Complete Fairy Tales by Hans Christian Andersen.

Emmi had read that book, too. She could still remember turning the pages to the beautiful illustrations of “The Little Mermaid.”

The little girl ran back to her mother’s car, and the woman with the tattoo walked in the other direction, folding up her now-empty tote bag. Emmi stood on the corner, lost in thought. Clearly, this was a sign. It had to be.

Right?

But…of what? Bak and Puck both insisted the undine were evil. All water fae, according to them, were murderous.

Emmi slowly started back to her house. She knew the original fairy tales were different from the Disney versions. Cinderella’s bird friends pecked out the eyes of her stepsisters after their treachery. People died in the thorns surrounding Sleeping Beauty’s castle. And the Little Mermaid didn’t get the prince or live happily ever after in her tale.

The fae were tricky and cruel. She’d been taught that in fairy tales and in research. She’d seen that herself—not just with red caps, but with Joan the Wad and King Gwyn ap Nudd and Oberon. But not all fae were cruel. Puck wasn’t. Bak wasn’t.

Surely not all undine were bloodthirsty monsters whose mythology only lured victims into their unhinged jaws? Even among regular ocean creatures, there were sweet little clown fish and terrifying anglerfish. The ocean was vast. There had to be room for more than just evil there.

Emmi drew up short as she reached her house. Without meaning to, she’d started humming a song from the Disney version of The Little Mermaid. “A part of your world…” she murmured.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen that movie, either version of it. She didn’t even know she knew the words, although the tune was catchy enough. But that just made her think that this, too, was a sign from the orddu.

A sign that perhaps she needed to find an undine she could trust.

One that, she hoped, wouldn’t also try to eat her.

Four of Cups, Transposed

Optimism, excitement, and a positive turn of events

The library in Emmi’s house had plenty of books on mermaids and undine, all carefully curated over the generations. First editions, rare volumes, and even hand-scribed notes littered the shelves.

The problem was, Emmi didn’t know where the line between truth and fiction lay.

Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Little Mermaid” was a classic tale but definitely a work of fiction. Emmi read it through, surprised by how much bitter sadness was laced in the story. It wasn’t just that the little mermaid didn’t “win” the prince in the end, she also turned into sea foam, essentially dying. When Emmi read more about the author and saw that Andersen was queer during a time when such feelings were dangerous, she understood a little more of the sorrow seeping into the pages for a mermaid who wished to be different but couldn’t form the type of love and relationship she wanted.

But nowhere in the story was the little mermaid malicious or evil. The tale described the mermaid as desperate and longing—not just for the prince, but for humanity itself, and the experience of being human.

She didn’t want to eat the humans. In fact, when she had a chance to achieve what she wanted, instead of killing someone, she sacrificed herself, refusing to harm a person.

It’s fiction, Emmi reminded herself.

“There you are.” Puck’s voice was cheery, a strange contrast to Emmi’s dark thoughts. “Oh, we’re reading again? Excellent, I can do that.”

Puck plopped down on the floor beside Emmi, a worn copy of the Prydain Chronicles by Lloyd Alexander in his hand. He flipped to the beginning and started to read.

Emmi gave him the look he deserved, which he ignored. She heaved a sigh, then asked, “Well, are there any undine in that book, at least?”

“Nope,” Puck said, not looking up from the text. “Which you would know if—”

Emmi cut him off. “The thing is, a lot of the stories and legends that people know showcase how mermaids are good. They help sailors or want to be a part of the human world.”

Puck raised his eyebrows doubtfully, still not looking up from the pages. “Maybe that’s part of the trap. Romantic stories about pretty women with fins are the perfect lure to draw people closer. And I know quite a few sailors who would object to that ‘helping’ idea. Or, I knew them. Before the sirens made them drown. And then ate them.”

Emmi harrumphed. She put down the copy of Andersen’s story and reached for the stack of mer-folk legends she’d pulled from the shelves.

Puck made a show of turning the page, holding the book in front of his face as if he were rapt with the world Lloyd Alexander had made.

Emmi frowned. “I know what you’re doing.”

“What?” Puck asked in an innocent voice, but he refused to meet her eyes.

“Quit trying to guilt me for giving away a memory.”

“Not just any memory,” Puck stated.

“One that was joyful.” Emmi couldn’t hide her mocking tone. How could losing one measly memory be such a big deal for him? Besides, it was her memory to bargain with as she saw fit.

“Don’t you understand?” Puck said. “It wasn’t the memory they took—they took the joy.”

“I can’t miss what I don’t remember,” Emmi grumbled.

Puck stared at her in horror. “Was it that easy, then? To give up something like that? Does it matter if you don’t feel the loss? Isn’t it enough to know that you once had joy that is no longer yours?”

Emmi opened her mouth to object, but closed it, considering his words.

“What else would be easy for you to give up, Emmi Castor?” Puck searched her eyes. There was another question there, one that would haunt her if she let it: Who else would you give up? What if the orddu had taken a memory of a person instead of a book?

“I had to,” Emmi whispered.

Puck slammed the book shut. “I thought you knew better than to deal with the fae.”

“I’ve dealt with you!” Emmi shouted back.

Puck glared at her. “That’s different!”

“Why?”

“Because I—”

Puck snapped his mouth closed, his eyes flashing, a white line around his lips from how hard he was pressing them shut.

“Because you what?” Emmi asked, her voice much softer.

Puck’s nostrils flared as he swallowed the words he’d almost said. “It’s just different,” he finally ground out.

“I had to,” Emmi repeated. “Surely you, of all people, understand that sometimes…”

Puck’s eyes were so intense that Emmi’s voice trailed off. But he finished her thought. “Sometimes you’re trapped.”

She nodded.

Something passed over Puck’s face, a look of such pain that it hurt her, too. “Just promise me,” he said, “don’t do it again. Don’t bargain with pieces of yourself.”

She started to object—she had no idea what she would be facing in the future, how the fae might corner her again.

But then Puck’s voice broke over a single word. “Please.”

And she promised him. “Never again.”

Puck visibly sagged in relief. As a peace offering, Emmi reached for the worn copy of the book. She flipped it to the first page. A story she didn’t expect blossomed in front of her—an assistant pig-keeper who wanted a sword. Who wanted adventure.

It was the exact kind of story she could see herself falling into.

“Emmi?” Puck asked.

She smiled up at him, but despite the way her lips curved up, she was a little sad. It wasn’t the grief of giving up her memory, but more like a sorrow for not feeling the way she thought she should. Despite not knowing what the words would become in her imagination, her body, at least, seemed to feel comfortable in the story. Like putting on an old sweater, one she’d forgotten about, lost on the closet floor, and finding out that it still fit, still smelled like her, even though she couldn’t recall ever wearing it.

There was a power in story, a power she’d never felt before.

Puck leaned closer, lifting a hand and swiping at a tear she didn’t know had drifted down her cheek. He was inches from her, and a part of her wanted to close the distance between them. A part of her wanted to kiss the words he hadn’t said from his lips. A part of her wanted to forget about how difficult everything was, how impossible it all seemed, and to relish in the one truth that felt real. She closed her eyes, letting herself do nothing but feel his hand on her cheek, his warmth, his softness.

But she could not let herself forget what was at stake.

She opened her eyes.

“Back to work?” Puck guessed, a rueful smile on his lips.

“Always,” Emmi said, grateful he understood.

Together, they studied all the books Emmi had pulled.

The little mermaid, Emmi pointed out, didn’t want to eat people. Which had to mean something.

“But she also has no soul, so maybe she wouldn’t mind a little cannibalism,” Puck said, shrugging.

“Is it cannibalism? She looks partly human, but she’s not, so…” Emmi’s voice trailed off.

“Either way,” Puck said. “Not a good example. Also not real. It’s just a story. Fiction.”

“Surely there is a seed of truth in every story,” Emmi said, her pitch going up in doubt.

They went back to studying.

“The Greeks have water nymphs, or nereids,” Puck said. “When a human sees them, they make the person dumb, blind, or mad. That’s very pleasant.”

“I don’t think Greek nereids will be in the Orkney Isles,” Emmi grumbled.

“They probably are using that whole blind, dumb, and insane thing to make it easier for them to kill the people and eat them,” Puck added casually.

“Anyway,” Emmi said through gritted teeth, “banshees are a possibility.”

“Banshees?” Puck looked up, surprised.

“They’re not exactly undine, but they are linked to water.”

Puck nodded. “That’s their affinity.”

Emmi remembered that Puck was aligned with fire—like Joan the Wad.

“Besides,” Puck continued, “don’t banshees scream in warning of impending death?”

“Yes.”

“Is it impending death because they also kill you?” Puck asked. “And maybe—”

“Banshees don’t eat people!”

Puck raised an eyebrow. “You can’t tell me that for sure.” He picked up a different book. “Here’s a German story. The Lorelai—a siren that crashed boats on the Rhine river.”

“Crashing boats isn’t cannibalism or whatever we’re calling it,” Emmi grumbled.

“Yes, because it would be so difficult for an undine to eat a drowned sailor,” Puck said flatly.

“What about kelpies?” Emmi asked. “They’re Irish and Scottish, so it puts them in the right place. And they’re water horses…” Her voice trailed off.

Puck snorted. “Let me guess. The next line in your book says they like to feast on humans and fae alike?”

Emmi nodded silently.

“Yeah, kelpies are really pretty and also really hungry all the time.” Puck shuddered. “I’ve seen them—from a distance, obviously—and…it’s not pleasant. I mean, maybe a little, because they make the waves turn pink, but then you remember that they’re pink because of all the blood, and that sort of ruins the effect.”

“I can see that,” Emmi said faintly.

“And look.” Puck spun a different book around for Emmi to see. “Japanese kappa.”

“It says they can be friendly at times!” Emmi said, pointing to the text.

“And if they feel disrespected they eat people,” Puck added casually, moving her finger down a few lines.

“We need to focus on water fae that are at least known in Scotland, not Japan or Germany or Greece,” Emmi grumbled.

“I’m good with that. It’s just that you’re not going to find one that doesn’t want to eat you.” Puck leaned against the bookshelf. “Just because you wish things were a certain way doesn’t make it true. Maybe the key to breaking the curse on your grandfather does deal with the undine, but…that means it may not be something you can break.”

“No!” Emmi said forcefully, reaching for more books and sliding the stack across the floor toward her. “You are the one who told me all hexes can be broken.”

“Yes,” Puck said softly, and Emmi hated that tone of voice more than when he’d been shouting. “But maybe not by you.”

Emmi clenched her jaw and slammed another book open, eyes a little blurry as they scanned the text.

After a few hours, Puck left.

After a few more, Bak checked in. “Oh,” they said. “You’re still alive. Just hiding here.”

“There has to be an undine that isn’t dangerous.”

“Of course,” Bak said. “And there has to be an arsenic that won’t poison you.”

Emmi threw a book at them.

By the time night fell, Emmi was almost ready to admit defeat. She’d read of every fae creature she could imagine, and while there were a few that were benevolent—Africa’s legend of Mami Wata was encouraging—none were also linked to the British Isles in a way that Emmi felt could be relevant to the vision she’d had.

She stood, pins and needles shooting through her legs, and left the books on the floor as she went to the door. She almost tripped on the slender book she’d thrown at Bak.

She picked it up, glancing at the pages that had been bent. She smoothed the paper down, chastising herself for being violent with a book.

Her hand slid over an illustration of something that almost looked like a mermaid, head bobbing on choppy waves near a rock-littered beach overcast with stormy clouds.

The orddu’s gifts don’t always come at the right time, she reminded herself. Goosebumps prickled her arms as she started reading the story of the selkie.

And she knew—she’d finally found the answer she was seeking.

The Queen of Cups

Intuition, emotion, and being receptive

“Wait, what?” Puck stared at Emmi.

She was aware she looked manic. She’d spent all day and part of the night frantically searching for an answer. And now that she finally had one, she refused to let it go.

“Selkies,” she said, her eyes darting from Puck to Bak. Puck looked confused. Bak looked…intrigued. “A selkie is a creature like a mermaid, but it’s a seal.”

Puck’s brows grew even closer together.

“So, according to legend, a selkie looks like a seal when in the water. But they can take off their skin—literally—and become a human. Once they put their sealskin back on, they go back to being seals.”

Neither Bak nor Puck seemed suitably impressed.

“But listen,” Emmi said, her voice rising, “they’re not evil flesh-eaters. There are lots of stories about selkies leaving the sea and marrying fishermen.”

And in those stories, it was always the human who betrayed the selkie. The husband, fearing his beautiful fae wife would leave him for the sea, would steal the sealskin and hide it from her so she was trapped on land. But even in those cases, the selkie didn’t seek vengeance by murdering or hurting the fisherman. She just looked for her skin and, once she found it, she left.

“And,” Emmi continued, “the selkie legend is rooted in the Orkney Islands.”

Puck started to open his mouth, still hesitant, but Emmi spoke first. “Remember that nonsensical song Grandfather kept singing?”

The tune came to her unbidden, as broken as her grandfather’s mind. She swallowed down the lump rising in her throat.

“Cloaked in salty water, then you cannot see her,” she recited. “That could be a selkie’s sealskin, right? When she’s in the water, you can’t ‘see’ her, not as human. It’s her disguise…”

Her voice trailed off. Now even Bak looked doubtful. Emmi rolled her shoulders back. “It’s at least worth exploring. We need to go to the Orkney Islands and try to find a selkie.”

Her eyes were on Puck. He could make the portals that were the safest, easiest way for her to get there. Her jaw was tight; her stance defensive. If he wouldn’t take her, she’d find a way without him, but she’d rather they worked as a team.

“Right, well, I wouldn’t mind a little sea air.” Bak’s tone was imperious.

“You’re not going,” Puck said.

“Why not?” Emmi asked.

“Yeah, why not?” Bak repeated.

“You’re a changeling! Go…do changeling things! Somewhere else!” Puck glowered at Bak.

Bak just rolled their eyes. “Well, I’ve got no particular reason to go back to Oberon any time soon. My contract is broken now that the hex on this house is broken, but I suspect the king of the Dream Realm is mad.” Bak paused. “In both meanings of the word. Either way, I’ll just hang around here until things are a bit calmer.”

Emmi bit her lip, feeling guilty. Bak had gone from a passive observer and unwilling warden into someone who actively helped her break the hex and keep Puck safe. And her plot had put them in hot water with Oberon, who did not seem the type of king to forgive easily.

I’m sorry, she mouthed to them.

Bak made a dismissive gesture with their long, pale fingers. “So,” they said. “Orkney Isles. It’s been awhile since I’ve been there.”

Puck heaved a sigh laced with defeat. “Fine. But where in the isles are we going? They’re not huge, but they are at a crossroads.”

“Mmm,” Bak said, agreeing. “That does complicate things.”

“A crossroads?” Emmi asked.

“Not literally,” Puck said, sounding unsure of how to explain himself. “But there are certain areas of the mortal realm that get crossed over by lots of different people.”

“Rivers are common. The Nile, the Amazon,” Bak offered. “Some mountains, too. Big locations that draw a variety of people.”

Puck nodded. “Islands are frequently crossroads, too. People don’t go to them on purpose, necessarily, but lots of different people over the years stumble across them on journeys. Malta, for example. Easter Island. Knossos.”

“The Orkney Islands?” Emmi guessed.

Bak nodded. “Crossroads places are areas that see a lot of people across a lot of time. Humans leave their mark.”

“They leave their stories,” Puck muttered.

“And that influences the land itself, and its connection to the fae realms.”

“Like how Glastonbury Tor was a link to the Otherworld?” Emmi asked.

Puck nodded. “But that was just one link to one realm. Crossroads places have lots of different links to lots of different fae. Because so many different humans and their stories crossed over these places, it draws a lot of different types of fae.”

“In the Orkney Islands, we have, oh, let’s see,” Bak said idly, “the ocean, of course, with the selkies. But there are standing stones there, always a call to the Otherworld.”

“Standing stones? Like Stonehenge?” Emmi asked.

“Like them, but older,” Puck said.

“There’s a red cap field somewhere in that area, if I recall correctly,” Bak continued.

Puck nodded grimly. “Don’t forget about the trows.”

“Ugh, trows,” Bak said, shuddering.

“Hey, they’re not so bad!”

“Of course not, not to a brownie.”

Before Bak and Puck could devolve into a true argument, Emmi stopped them. “So there are a lot of fae and magic in that area,” she said.

“Which is going to make a portal difficult,” Puck said. “I can generally get us close to areas of magic, but there’s just too much in the islands. Which means my portal could land anywhere, perhaps miles from where you need to be.”

“I thought of that,” Emmi said. She pulled a crystal on a string from her pocket. “Well, I didn’t know about the crossroads thing, but I did think of pinpointing a location.”

“Pendulum dousing?” Bak said. “How quaint.”

“Hey, it works!” Emmi shot back. She crouched on the floor and set her phone down, face-up, a map of the Orkney Islands enlarged on the screen. She couldn’t find a map in the library or botanical room that showed enough detail of the islands, but she could zoom her screen to show individual town names.

Slowly, she let the crystal dangle a few centimeters above the map.

“It’s not working,” Bak pointed out.

“It’s going to work,” Emmi said confidently.

“Perhaps the crystal doesn’t recognize the technology,” Bak offered, saying the last word as if it were anathema.

The pendulum started to drift in a slow circle around the map. Emmi wasn’t making it move; she could feel the crystal being tugged with an almost magnetic pull. Her eyes were glued to the screen, dancing over the names of towns and villages. Slowly, slowly, the circle lengthened until it was just a line, the crystal moving from one point in the map to another and back again, over and over again.

Two towns. One called Stennes and one called Kirkwall.

Emmi frowned.

“I thought you said this was going to work,” Bak drawled, eyes tracking the way the pendulum kept swinging between the two towns.

“It has,” Puck said, clearly more upset about Bak disparaging Emmi than the idea of getting closer to an undine. “The pendulum is saying we need to go to two places.”

Emmi looked up at him, a question in her eyes. “Which one first?”

Puck shrugged.

The pendulum showed no signs of slowing down. “Well, I suppose…I guess Kirkwall?” Emmi said. She stuffed the crystal and her phone back in her pocket. “We can see what’s there, and then if we can’t find anything, we know where to go next. Sten…” She frowned, unsure of how to pronounce the name. “Sten-ness? Sten-ies?”

“The first way. Stennes,” Bak said.

“So, Kirkwall for now?” Puck asked. He flicked his fingers, igniting something Emmi hadn’t seen him pick up. The ash pooled in his palm.

“Kirkwall,” Emmi confirmed, as Puck made a portal.

The three of them stepped out onto a sidewalk. Summer was winding down, but there was already a deep chill in the air. Bak, who’d changed forms to appear like a teenage boy half a foot taller than Puck with well-defined muscles under a shirt at least two sizes too small, shifted clothing into a sweater suspiciously like the gray one Puck had worn when he first introduced magic to Emmi.

We’re much further north, Emmi reminded herself. On a flat map, the top of Scotland didn’t look that much closer to the Arctic than Massachusetts did, but on a rounded globe, it was clearer that the Orkney Islands weren’t that far away from Norway or Iceland. No wonder this place was a crossroads—Vikings must have sailed through here. And the early Highland people might have come this way for fishing. Were they Celts? Picts? Emmi wasn’t sure, but this area felt different from other places she’d gone on her adventures. Older, somehow, the age and wisdom seeped into the stones, the trees, the air.

To the left, Emmi could see ruins of what looked like a castle. Gnarled trees grew in the flat, grassy lawn, shadowing the crumbling stone walls. A street cut through, bisecting the ruins—or perhaps there were two castles here? Emmi squinted at a sign attached to the metal fence. “Bishop’s and Earl’s Palaces,” she muttered, reading aloud.

“And Saint Magnus Cathedral,” Puck said, pointing.

Bak had wandered a few steps ahead. A stone wall lined the sidewalk, but Emmi could see weathered gravestones littering the lawn in front of a boxy church that was far bigger than most of the churches in Emmi’s hometown, but didn’t quite seem grand enough to merit a “cathedral” designation. A square tower rose in the center of the church, and Emmi could see a rose window above the entrance. It was bland from the outside, but perhaps the inside, with the stained glass illuminated by the sun, would be prettier.

“Church or ruins?” Bak asked, strolling closer to them.

Emmi tried to focus, but everything felt like…way too much. She took a breath and shifted her vision. She could see swirling forces, dancing like colors in the air, swooping vividly. It reminded her of the curving night sky in that Van Gogh painting, colors streaking out. And just like Starry Night, when Emmi looked to the left, she saw a pillar of swirling darkness, tendrils of black writhing around the castle ruins. When she looked to the right, Emmi could still see the outline of the cathedral, but there were bright yellow and white streaks dancing around, tendrils of ribbon-like light.

Both places had magic.

But the magic in the cathedral was different from what emanated from the castle ruins. A heavy, dark presence poured out of the gray stones, sucking away at anything light. Emmi’s heart bucked wildly in her chest the longer she stared at the blackness; it was something cold, something evil, something…terrifying. Emmi had seen dark fae creatures—not just Oberon’s mighty terror, but red caps and vicious beings in the Wild Hunt. But they were fearful in the way a snarling lion strikes horror. The dark fae creatures were wild animals, feral and ferocious. But they attacked out of base, predator instincts.

This dark magic? It felt vindictive and cruel, as if it wanted to burn something just to destroy, as if it wanted to torture just to pass time.

Emmi shuddered, looking away. Distantly, she could see power extending down the hill. She turned in a slow circle. There were whispers of magic everywhere. It was overwhelming, not just because there was so much, but because she was seeing it in a different way. Was this because her magic had shifted and changed from the gift of the orddu witches or was it because of this place?

She felt a soft touch on her arm.

She looked down, focusing on the fingers that trailed down to her wrist, the hand turning so it could hold hers. She breathed in. She closed her eyes. She felt nothing but Puck holding her, grounding her, rooting her in what was real.

“This place is a crossroads,” Puck reminded her softly.

There were ruins of castles and ancient cathedrals, but there were remnants of fae, too, who left their own sort of trace on a place like this.

Emmi opened her eyes, pushing the overwhelming magic down as she squeezed Puck’s hand.

“So,” Bak said, “where are we going?”

The portal and the pendulum had brought them here, right between the cathedral and the castle ruins. But which place should she go to? The castle seemed ominously evil in a way she couldn’t explain, but the cathedral called to her with power as well.

“I think we need to explore both,” Emmi said, her stomach twisting with tension. “But let’s get the castle out of the way first.”

The Magician

Focusing power, trickery, and skill

Emmi’s feet stayed rooted to the spot.

“To explore that castle, you’ll have to actually move,” Bak pointed out.

Puck rubbed her arm. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

“It’s just…there’s something there,” Emmi said. “Some sort of dark power.”

“We could just not go.” Bak sounded both bored and impatient at the same time.

Emmi shook her head. “No, I feel like we need to both go there and to the cathedral. I’m not sure why—both places feel important. But…”

Puck frowned at the ruins. Tension tightened in his shoulders. Neither Puck nor Bak saw what she did, which meant that this was human magic, witch magic. But all the magic she’d ever seen had been protective, like the bubbles that created a shield against Witch Hunters. This, though, was maliciously dark.

Any power can be used for good or evil, Emmi reminded herself.

“What kind of dark magic are we talking about?” Puck asked. “Are there Hunters at the castle ruins?”

Emmi shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She wasn’t sure, though.

“Well, let’s find out.” Bak strode across the street, ignoring the car that had to slam on its brakes. Emmi ran after Bak, giving an apologetic wave to the man in the car, who just sighed as Puck chased behind.

A sign on the lawn in front of the castle ruins labeled them as “The Bishop’s and Earl’s Palaces.” Despite being made of crumbling stone, there were two distinct buildings, separated by a street. The one closest to them, the one that seemed to be the source of the boiling black power that writhed over the stone, was the Earl’s Palace. Emmi could see glimpses of the architecture—the remains of flanking towers, rounded protrusions from the wall, the hints of balustrades. But the swirling darkness obliterated a clear view of what remained.

Trees shadowed the lawn. Emmi crept forward, moving slowly.

“What do you see?” Puck asked, concern weighing his voice down.

“There’s a bubble…” Emmi’s voice trailed off as her eyes tracked the shield only she could see. “It’s barely visible, but it’s as if there’s a protective bubble around the castle ruins.” She squinted.

While the other bubbles had a faint silver or golden glow, this one was more like a soap bubble, swirling with a myriad of colors, a constantly shifting transparent globe. This wasn’t the work of her ancestor, Elspeth—Emmi knew that instinctually. But she wasn’t sure where it came from.

The wisps of light-sucking darkness beat against the bubble, tentacles of black lashing against the inner curve before shrinking back down.

Emmi drew closer, Puck and Bak behind her. She looked up at the vast magical shield enclosing the castle ruins.

All the other shields had been designed to keep Hunters out. This one was designed to keep…something…in.

Emmi looked around, shifting her vision so she could focus on objects other than the magical visions. Nearby, a man was walking his dog, the dog on the inside of the bubble, the man on the outside, both of them oblivious. A group of school children dashed around the ruins, racing around, darting over the border multiple times. Not even Puck or Bak saw the ominous dark swirls, much less the magic shield around them.

Tentatively, Emmi raised her fingers to the shield. Magic crackled under her touch.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Bak said, real concern in their voice. They reached out, grabbing Emmi’s hand, but Emmi was already stepping forward and through the bubble. Emmi heard a pop! It sounded as if she’d broken a seal, but when she looked behind her, the bubble reformed, not a wisp of black smoke escaping.

“Okay, I see it now,” Bak said, eyes wide.

Emmi glanced at her hand. Bak still held her fingers, and she twisted her wrist so she could get a better grip on the changeling. Perhaps it was only their connection that let Bak through, that enabled them to see the black magic she could see.

The inside of the bubble was opaque; Emmi couldn’t see Puck. But he hadn’t been touching her, so he probably simply couldn’t get through.

Emmi shuddered as a wisp of darkness slithered over her skin. “Let’s get this over with and get out,” she said grimly.

Bak’s grip on her hand was viselike. Their jaw was clenched so hard that Emmi could see hard lines down their neck.

She let out a breath, concentrating. She shifted her vision more. When she had gone to North Berwick, the first place Puck had transported her to, the place where witch hunts had started in Great Britain, Emmi had used her magical sight and seen the ruins of the old church in a ghostly echo that showed how it had appeared when it had been used during the trials. Now, Emmi looked at the castle, drawing on the same power. While the church of North Berwick had seemed like pale white outlines, these castle ruins were deepest black, a void with hard lines, filling in the empty places where stones had fallen and walls had cracked.

It was a castle, complete, made of darkness.

All the dark wisps of power seemed to burn from the center of the castle, rising up and up, trying to escape the protective bubble. Without thinking, Emmi leaned back, eyes going to the top of the bubble. She put one hand out to steady herself, touching the cold, black stone.

Everything went black. An echoing voice rang out, loudly reverberating in her mind.

THESE STONES ARE NOT HIS!

Emmi ripped her hand away, covering her ears, but it didn’t stop the ringing voice. She dropped to her knees.

THIS LAND IS NOT HIS!

Emmi curled her body, clutching her head, unable to drive out the voice thundering in her mind. The sound of high-pitched screaming wove through the lingering echoes, with dozens of other female voices all shouting the same phrase over and over:

OUR LIVES ARE NOT HIS!

Emmi didn’t know how long she crouched on the ground, dirt and grass seeping into the knees of her jeans as she hunched over, fists yanking at her own hair in an attempt to protect herself from the sounds inside her own head. Dimly, she was aware that Bak was beside her, trying to say something, patting her back, but all she could focus on was the nightmarish screeching ricochetting around her skull.

As the sounds faded, Emmi dared to straighten up. Bak steadied her as she struggled to stand again. She felt drained of energy, exhausted by merely listening to the pain of the voices.

Bak said something, but Emmi couldn’t hear them. Her vision focused past their shoulder, to the way the dark wisps melted into a single form whirling out of the black. The void took on an imposing shape, and even if the outlines of the form faded away like smoke, it was very clearly a man.

And he was coming closer.

“Bak,” Emmi whispered, her voice quaking.

Bak turned around, but while he could see the ruins and, she thought, some of the swirling black, he didn’t seem to notice the dark figure striding toward them.

Toward her.

Emmi’s whole body trembled with both fear and anticipation, and she felt a rumbling chuckle inside her own chest, one full of contempt, one that wasn’t hers. Her right arm covered her heart, fist pushing into her sternum, trying to ground herself even as the dark figure stalked closer.

He moved with grace, each step assured. Bak was staring around frantically, trying to see what Emmi’s eyes were focused on, but Emmi was frozen in place.

The black form was close enough to touch now.

Emmi shrank back against Bak, but the changeling could not protect her from an enemy they could not see.

“Hello, witch,” the ghostly form said, a whisper in Emmi’s ear. “You should know this. I take what I want.”

The black ghost reached out a hand, trailing a finger up Emmi’s arm. The touch was so cold it burned. It felt as if her skin were being ripped apart by dry ice, her body both repulsed by the touch and incapable of pulling away.

The ghost’s hand moved through her clothing, the pain in her skin not stopping even when his fingers slid over her shirt sleeve, lingering at her clavicle, slipping up the side of her neck, twirling over her cheek. It would have been a sensuous touch, gentle and soft, had it not been filled with such achingly frigid burning, each point of contact as painful as a thousand needles of ice driving into her flesh.

Bak might not be able to see or hear the ghost, but they could see the way Emmi was frozen in fear, the look of disgust on her face, the shuddering ache in her body. They pulled Emmi closer, wrapping both their arms around her.

“What’s happening?” Bak asked.

Emmi shook her head, burying her face into their warm shoulder. By the time she could pull back, the black ghost was gone.

“Who lived here?” Emmi asked, her voice barely audible. The sign had called this the Earl’s Palace—which earl? Was that who was so evil that his presence had to be contained by a witch’s shield?

“I don’t know,” Bak murmured, still holding her.

She gazed back up, watching the creeping black wisps clawing at the bubble. She wished she knew which witch had made the shield, keeping whatever dark ghost that was inside this area, trapping his evil here. She started to stumble toward the edge, to leave this cursed castle, but she paused.

There was light beyond the bubble. Shifting, rainbow-like colors, coming from…

Emmi’s eyes traced the flickering beams of light.

Coming from the cathedral.

That’s why the portal had brought her to the middle of the street between these two places. There was evil in the castle ruins, held down and locked inside a bubble from some power coming from the cathedral.

She just had to hope that whatever was powering the shield from the cathedral was stronger than the evil being trapped within.

The Queen of Cups

Intuition and emotion

“Emmi!” Puck shouted, rushing to her as she emerged from the protective bubble with Bak. “What happened? Where did you go?”

“Just…there.” Emmi pointed toward the bubble Puck couldn’t see. “There’s a shield in place, but it’s to keep something in, rather than to keep anything out, I think.”

“Why couldn’t I get through it?” Puck asked. He narrowed his eyes at Bak.

“It’s made by witches,” Emmi said. Puck hadn’t gotten through the barriers at Glastonbury or Edinburgh without holding onto her, either. “The castle was whole when I went through, and there were voices…” She shuddered.

Puck wrapped her in his arms, and for a moment, that was enough. But then he bent down to comfort her with a kiss, and his fingers lingered on her cheek, just as the black ghost’s touch had trailed along her skin, and Emmi pushed away, bile rising in her throat.

Puck frowned but didn’t say anything. His hand flexed, as if he wanted to reach out to her again, but Emmi wrapped her arms around herself.

“Well,” Puck said, letting out a heavy sigh, “I figured something like that had happened when the two of you disappeared. I waited around here. Read some of the signs.” He jerked a thumb toward a display set into the ground. “This was the castle for a man named Patrick Stewart, the second earl of Orkney.”

“Let me guess,” Bak drawled. “He wasn’t a particularly good sort of fellow?”

“Considering he earned the name ‘Black Patie,’ was known to kill anyone in his way, and was eventually executed for treason, I think that’s a fair assessment,” Puck answered dryly.

Emmi looked behind her. Everything inside that barrier had been black; was it too much of a coincidence the palace had belonged to someone with that in their nickname?

“Did anyone else live there?” she asked.

“It seemed to mostly be his,” Puck said. “He built it, and then toward the end of his life, much of it was cannon-balled during a siege, so it fell to ruin quickly.”

“Is cannon-balled a verb?” Bak asked.

“Semantics.” Puck glowered at him.

Emmi’s gaze drifted up, watching the trail of swirling rainbow lights that poured out of the cathedral. It looked as if the magic were coming from one specific spot near the southern end of the building.

Puck touched Emmi’s arm, hesitant. When her eyes fell back to him, he added, “Also? It sounds like this man, Stewart…He may have started the witch trials here in Orkney.”

Emmi’s eyes widened.

“Relevant information could have come sooner,” Bak said in an undertone, but Emmi and Puck ignored them.

“There wasn’t much information on it in the display,” Puck added quickly. “Stewart had a lot of bad things to be listed out—theft, false accusations, murder plots, betrayal—”

“We get it,” Bak said, a little more edge in their voice now.

“—but in amongst that, there was a mention that when Stewart’s brothers conspired to kill him, there was a woman accused of witchcraft during the murder plot.”

All this information twisted in Emmi’s mind, along with the voices—Our lives are not his!

“We should go to the cathedral,” Emmi said, already starting toward the large stone building. She didn’t need a list of crimes to know whatever evil remained in the castle ruins needed to be contained. And if there was a source of power inside the cathedral for her to add some of her own energy toward, then she wanted to.

Emmi crossed the street, Bak and Puck trailing behind her. She could hear them talking in low voices, concerned, no doubt, for the way her eyes kept tracking things they couldn’t see, the terror of what was contained behind the bubble. Emmi was grateful to have them both with her, but she couldn’t even attempt to pretend that the encounter with the black ghost hadn’t deeply affected her.

The cathedral yard was littered with old graves, tombstones lined up like soldiers, making the history of this place undeniable. Emmi didn’t know much about architecture, but the blocky structure didn’t seem to match some of the soaring cathedrals of later medieval time periods—this church looked more like a fortress than a work of art. But, after her experience, Emmi could certainly appreciate a little solid protection.

The cathedral—St. Magnus Cathedral, according to all the pamphlets in various languages on display near the front—was made of sandstone that looked pink, interspersed with blocks of white. Inside the building, an air of solemnity and silence pervaded, despite the fact that there were dozens of tourists milling around, looking at the stained glass or the carvings at the ends of the pews, snapping pictures or speaking to each other in whispers.

Emmi wasn’t sure where she was supposed to go, but she turned to where she thought she’d seen the magic lights coming from. She skirted the edges of the church, sticking close to the wall, but she paused when she saw a man with a bright red umbrella leaning against the stone. He nodded at her, and she noticed a name badge—Victor.

“That’s a mort brod,” the man said, his Scottish accent thick.

“A…moot-broot?” Emmi asked.

“Mort brod,” Puck said, leaning closer. He tilted his head up, and Emmi saw what the man was talking about—a large wooden board, carved and painted, hanging from an iron hook. Now that Puck had said the words slower for her, she assumed “brod” was a way to “board.” And “mort” was definitely linked to death. The board had a hunching skeleton in the center, with two angels piercing a heart with arrows above it. A bell was to one side of the skeleton, and words all around the edge spoke of everlasting life after death.

“It’s like a gravestone,” Victor said. “You could pay, once upon a time, to be buried under the church stones.” The man tapped the stone floor with the tip of his umbrella, where, apparently, a person’s bones rested.

“Ah,” Emmi said, unable to think of anything else. She could sense the magic nearby; she was on the right track, although this specific point wasn’t what she needed. “What’s over there?” she asked, pointing to a spot behind the choir where the light seemed strongest.

“Aye, Marwick’s Hole. Saint Magnus is the only church in the British Isles with its very own dungeon.” Victor winked at her, as if this salacious detail would make her titter. It didn’t. “Right, well. It was once closed up, yeah, like a proper cell. They’ve opened it here so you can see.”

“And who was kept prisoner?” Puck asked.

“Various sorts,” Victor said. “Used to be a crime not to pay tithe, but it wasn’t just church issues. Anyone needed punishing, they’d go there. Vagrants, drunkards, no doubt. And the witches, o’ course.”

“Witches?” Emmi asked, breathless.

Victor checked his watch. “You one of mine?”

“One of…?” Emmi shook her head.

“Ah, never mind.” Victor pushed up from the wall, waving his umbrella around. The bright red was like a flag, and all around, various tourists peeled off from the crowd and headed toward him.

“About the witches,” Emmi started.

“There’s pamphlets,” Victor said, already walking toward the gathering group. “I’ve a tour now, sorry.”

Emmi watched as Victor led his tourists to the other side of the church, nodding to a security guard who unlocked a door for him. Emmi thought she saw stairs before the guard closed and locked the door again. Victor had to be a tour guide, one who was leading a special tour behind the scenes.

Up to, perhaps, Marwick’s Hole, the cathedral’s very own prison. Emmi was used to dungeons being portrayed in castles and underground, but a bricked-up room in a cathedral like this would be just as impenetrable.

“We have to get through that door,” she said.

“That should be easy.” Power crackled between Puck’s fingers.

She grabbed his hand and pushed it down. “We have to get through that door without blowing up an ancient cathedral.”

“Ah. Less easy.”

“You are so unimaginative,” Bak said.

“Well, how do you propose getting past a guard and through a locked door?” Puck snapped.

Bak heaved a sigh that clearly expressed their disappointment. As the air left their lungs, Bak grew slightly wider. Their hair shifted from brown to auburn, their chin squared, their eyes grew a little further apart, and their nose grew narrower. Even Bak’s clothing changed, right down to the bright red umbrella in their hand and the name badge labeled “Victor” on their chest.

“That’s never going to work,” Puck said flatly.

Bak strode through the pews, straight to the security guard by the door.

“Vic? How’d you get back down and out so quick?” the guard asked.

“These two wandered off.” Bak, as Victor, waved a hand at Puck and Emmi. “Gonna get them up with the others.”

The guard was already fiddling with the door. “Aye, well.” He eyed Emmi. “Stay with the group, mind.”

“Yes, sir,” Emmi said meekly.

“How in all the realms did that work?” Puck muttered as soon as the door was closed behind them.

“I’m just that good,” Bak said. “Now, where to?”

Emmi frowned. She felt the magic pulling her to the other side of the building, but there were walls she couldn’t walk through. “Up at least a level or two, and then over, that way,” she said, pointing. “I…I think I’ll just know it when I see it.”

“Let’s get started,” Puck said, and the three of them began to climb a narrow staircase made of stones worn from countless feet climbing them over the course of more than a thousand years. Toward, Emmi hoped, some answers.

Three of Wands, Transposed

Presumption and arrogance

They could hear the small group tour in front of them, Victor pointing out features of the ancient cathedral’s architecture or history. Emmi crept slowly after the group, aiming for where she felt the magic was but lingering in the shadows in case any stragglers turned back. She dared to inch closer, Puck and Bak behind her, as the tour guide stopped tantalizingly close to Emmi’s goal.

“And here we have Marwick’s Hole,” Victor said, his voice ringing. “Now, you must imagine it very differently from what you see here. We’ve opened it up a bit, but in the middle ages, it was used as a dungeon. All this here and here was all bricked in.”

“How did the people inside see anything?” a female voice asked from the tour group.

“They didn’t, did they?” Victor said. “Envision it—you’ve been accused of being a witch. Well, that was nothing in the early middle ages. Lots of people did folk craft. It was how you survived. Take willow bark. Brew it in a tea, and it’s like aspirin. We do this now, and we call it an herbal remedy. But along comes James, stirring up witch trials after he becomes king. And Black Patie—you remember, from earlier in the tour? He carried that mantle into even more bloody and gruesome ends.”

That didn’t really answer the question, Emmi thought, and whoever had asked it seemed to think so, too—Emmi could hear murmured voices and chuckling.

“Aye, right you are,” Victor said. “Well, like I said, these open windows were all bricked in. And no one’s giving a candle or a lamp to a prisoner. They sat in the dark. Until the warden opened the door to drag ’em to trial.”

More indistinguishable noises from inside Marwick’s Hole followed, low voices commenting on the cruelty of the situation. For a moment, Emmi’s vision went dark. She felt chills on her skin. The absolute horror of it—to be inside an impossibly beautiful cathedral filled with light colored by stained glass and yet be buried inside the walls. Emmi could almost hear the haunting chanting of hymns, silenced behind the heavy stone.

Victor’s voice grew louder. “Also, remember—these women accused of witchcraft, sure, they made potions or worked with healing or what have you. Might have made some curses or some such. But they were still Christian. Before King James, it wasn’t that unusual for a person to be Christian but still have some folk practices. They existed hand-in-hand. But after James started the trials, suddenly some of the things folk had been doing for generations was grounds for trial, excommunication, and death.”

Too late, Emmi realized that Victor’s voice was getting louder because he was getting closer. Emmi grabbed Puck and Bak, pulled them against the wall, and channeled her ability to turn invisible just as the tour group rounded the corner, led by Victor and his red umbrella. Emmi barely dared to breathe as they walked past them in the narrow corridor.

Last in the group was a young woman with dark braids and red glasses. She walked as if dazed, her eyes tracing patterns…Patterns of light that Emmi realized she could see. The same swirling oil-slick colors that poured out of Marwick’s Hole, across the street to the Earl’s Castle, trapping the ghoulish spirit of Black Patie inside.

The woman’s eyes shifted, landing right on Emmi.

Emmi’s breath caught.

Even though she knew her invisibility was still working, she felt certain this woman saw her.

“Izzie!” someone in the tour group called. The woman jumped, picking up her pace as she rejoined her friends.

She saw me, Emmi thought. She saw the light. She has magic like me!

Emmi wanted to chase after the woman, but Puck and Bak peeled away from the wall, stepping into the former dungeon. Much as Emmi wanted to connect with another living witch, the dead needed her help now.

“Is this the right spot?” Puck asked.

Emmi stepped into the room that had once been a dungeon. “Yes,” she said, her voice breathless.

Although Puck and Bak clearly couldn’t see what she did, Emmi’s vision was full of glittering, swirling streaks of color. Dozens—nearly a hundred—different illuminated streams whipped around Emmi, each one linking back to the magic of a witch imprisoned here.

Emmi could not truly imagine the depths of sorrow, fear, and grief that must have wrapped around these women like chains while they lived. But there was a peace here now, and a sense of belonging.

Emmi had never felt more at peace or safer than now.

She had so many things she wanted to ask—who were they, how did they come to be here, how were they making the bubble of protection over the Earl’s Castle? But Emmi also felt intuitively that these questions didn’t all need answers. There were so many swirls of light, so many different feelings and thoughts merging vaguely. She could almost catch strands of thoughts, echoes repeated throughout each illuminated strand.

How many of you are here? Many. Many. But none whole—these were the lingering emotions that didn’t die. Emmi would have thought that there would be anger predominantly, and there was, no denying that. The thread that wove through all the light was rage. But there was grief and hope, love and desire mingling in with it all. There was no single glimmer of light that Emmi could tug at and identify an individual person; instead, the parts of each murdered witch that could not, would not die remained, the emotion that rang through their core and wasn’t silenced even after hanging.

All of you were witches? The thought—and the answer—came unbidden. Emmi got a sense that some of the people murdered did identify as witches, some actually were, and some reviled the term. It didn’t matter what they identified as, however. Not when it came to their sentencing.

I think…Emmi’s thoughts fizzled, and she took a deep breath, testing her magic. I think I can help free you. Do you want me to let what remains of your spirit and magic go?

Emmi felt a pulling and pushing sensation as the lights pulsed around her. She got the sensation that some were ready to move on, and some wanted to stay. Emmi couldn’t blame either sentiment—she would want her revenge on a man like Black Patie, and it seemed more than reasonable to stick around and make sure he wouldn’t escape. At the same time, however, these spirits had already done enough.

I could perhaps help strengthen the shield against him, Emmi thought, and the lights pulsated in agreement.

“Emmi?” Puck asked tentatively. Emmi shifted her vision, and she saw Puck and Bak staring at her, both wearing expressions of concern.

“I’m fine,” Emmi said.

Their expressions didn’t lessen.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re just…” Puck started.

“You’re standing in the middle of an empty room with your eyes going all weird, that’s all,” Bak said, and although they sounded bored, there was an edge to their voice.

“I’m fine,” Emmi reiterated. “Just…just give me a moment.”

She forced herself to not think about the way she looked, and refocus on the lights. I can do this, she thought, and the lights pulsed in agreement.

Emmi thought of how she broke the bubbles of protection in the past, how she made shields, how she used her will and her magic to protect others. Then she considered reversing it, using it to trap the black ghoul at the castle.

Yes, the lights resonated, guiding her.

Emmi cast her own shield out, an iridescent rainbow. It wove around the bubble already formed, spiking it with her own power. Emmi was just about to sever the connection when she felt a jab of pain, a shock in her gut accompanied by a slithering sensation over her skin. Emmi gasped and snapped her head back, jerking instinctively.

She sensed more than saw a surge of black, light-eating void. The darkness that remained in the castle didn’t appreciate her working to keep it contained. But just as she felt that surge, she also felt the witches enclosed in the dungeon rise up, burning the dark away. And some of them slipping free, confident in Emmi’s added power to let them know they could finally rest.

There was evil in the castle. But all the power here, in the dungeon of the cathedral, shared the load of keeping it at bay.

Drained, Emmi staggered back. She felt arms embrace her. Puck. He couldn’t see what she saw; he had no idea how she was using her power.

But he supported her anyway.

Emmi left the cathedral in a daze. Bak—disguised as a tour guide—led the way, finding a back passage that deposited them outside the cathedral. Puck kept an arm around Emmi, and much as she didn’t want to admit weakness, she also leaned against him, grateful.

She didn’t feel fully aware of anything until they stumbled out into the bright sunshine of the midday. Blinking in the churchyard dotted with gravestones, Emmi cast her gaze around. The bubble of light around the Earl’s Castle was blindingly brilliant, far stronger than it had been before.

Emmi let out a sigh of relief.

But then she saw something else.

Another stream of light. Not from the direction of the cathedral.

A steady ray of power, shooting from across the island, right at the place where Black Patie’s ghost haunted.

Another witch’s spirit—the strongest one Emmi had seen yet.

Three of Wands, Transposed

Presumption and arrogance

“Emmi?” Puck asked, putting a hand on her arm and pulling her attention back to the present.

Emmi shook herself to clear her head. Not only had she encountered the lingering spirits of all the women who’d been unjustly put in Marwick’s Hole, she had now seen both another living person who seemed to have similar powers as she did as well as the shining string of light that indicated one last spirit was contributing to the immortal prison the women had trapped Black Patie behind. She felt pulled in too many directions, too many voices calling for her all at once.

And somewhere, in all the cacophony, Emmi felt certain that there was a whisper of what to do next.

She just couldn’t hear it.

“I’m fine,” she told Puck. “Really.” She gazed around. “Where’s Bak?”

Nearby, a middle-aged woman with curly hair idly looked at one of the gravestones in the churchyard.

“No,” Puck groaned.

The woman straightened and grinned with all her teeth.

“I can’t very well be the tour guide all day, can I?” Bak said—because the woman was Bak, the changeling shifting their appearance once again.

“Why…this?” Emmi asked, gesturing to their new form.

“You two need supervision.” Bak fluffed their hair and then fixed their handbag on the crook of their elbow. “Call me Mom.”

“No,” Puck snarled.

Emmi giggled.

“Now, children,” Bak said, chiding them, “where else are we going on our little day trip?”

“This is literal hell,” Puck told Emmi.

She ignored him. Where should they go next? While she deliberated, she caught a flash of red. Victor waved his umbrella as he led a small group of tourists down the street in front of the church. Among them, Emmi spotted the young woman called Izzie, the one who’d seen her despite the glamour of invisibility she’d thrown up.

“This way,” she said, heading toward the church gate.

When they got to the corner, Bak grabbed Puck’s shoulder. “Look both ways before you cross the street, darling.”

“Did I mention this was hell?” Puck told Emmi.

“Look, the tour group is going into that building.” Emmi pointed across the street. All the buildings seemed to be made of gray stone, but the one where the road curved, across the street from the cathedral, had a stone archway that opened into a paved courtyard. Emmi could just make out the words “The Orkney Museum” in blue letters on a white sign above the arch.

“We’re following the tourists?” Puck asked.

Emmi nodded, dragging them both across the street.

“I would ask why, but I don’t care,” Bak said.

“I do,” Puck said. “Why?”

“Because,” Emmi said dismissively. Despite being on the group’s tail, they disappeared inside the building. Emmi hesitated, looking around for a place to buy tickets, before she realized that admission was free. The group, meanwhile, had dispersed.

“Care to explain?” Puck asked.

She thought about lying, but instead opted for the truth. “There was a woman in the group—”

“The one who could see us?” Bak asked.

“No one saw us,” Puck said.

“She did,” Emmi confirmed.

Puck frowned. “The woman with the glasses?”

“Ever so observant.” Bak didn’t bother trying to hide their sarcasm.

“Anyway, I…I think she has power like me,” Emmi said.

Bak shrugged. “Possible. You’re not the only witch in the world.”

“I’m the only one I ever met.” Emmi sighed. “I just—I’d like to meet her.”

Puck watched her intently, then nodded his head. “We should split up. Best chances to find her. The museum’s not that big.”

They each picked a direction and headed off. The museum had clearly once been a house, and while the rooms now held artifacts and the corridors were dotted with signs describing the extensive history of the islands, starting with the Stone Age, there were lingering remains of the original intent of the building—small rooms, obscured turns, and no clear path.

A lot of the exhibits seemed focused on the archaeological side of the island’s history. Emmi kept finding herself pulled into it, before refocusing on locating the girl with the power like hers. She rounded a corner and entered another room, this one focused on things from the church.

“A witch bottle,” she whispered. Behind a glass case, there was a glazed earthenware bottle, and the sign nearby said it had been found under the floorboards of another house.

This, Emmi knew, had been made by a real witch. It was a protection spell, just like the one that had been inside her own home, powered by Puck’s magic. The bottle in the case, however, seemed used up, just a glimmer of magic lingering around the pottery.

Whatever had been protected in that house no longer needed magic.

The display case held various items from the Church—after all, witches were persecuted under Christian law, the crimes considered to be against God more than anything else, even if there had been no actual crime committed. In addition to the bottle, a “witch’s spell box” was also on display, but it had none of the trace remains of real magic.

“This is really fascinating.”

Emmi jumped at the sound of the woman’s voice, and spun around to see Izzie, her red glasses pushed up as she read the sign. “I suppose that bottle was for potions or something?”

“No,” Emmi said, shaking her head. “It was for protection.”

Izzie straightened, nodding to herself with a small smile. “Yeah, I like that. We always think of witches as evil, no? But protection…yeah.”

She kept staring at the bottle, and Emmi wondered if Izzie could see the lingering power attached to it.

Izzie turned, her sharp gaze landing on Emmi. “I saw you in Saint Magnus, didn’t I?”

Emmi nodded and stuck out her hand. “I’m Emmi.”

“Izzie.” They shook. Izzie’s brow furrowed, as if she were trying to reconcile the idea of where in the cathedral she’d seen Emmi, how no one else had seen her in that area that was so restricted.

“You’re not in my tour group, are you?” Izzie asked.

“Nope.”

“But you’re American, too?”

Emmi nodded again. “I’m here with my…family.” She smiled, wondering if she would have to introduce Bak as her mother later. “I’m from Massachusetts.”

“Austin.” Izzie looked as if she wanted to say more, but instead she turned to the display case.

“Interesting stuff, isn’t it?” Emmi said, leaning in closer. She wanted to ask so many questions—how much did Izzie see? Did she know she had magic? Had she ever done anything with her power?

But Izzie’s face was full of sorrow. She kept her eyes on the contents of the case. “It’s all just so brutal. Like what Victor—our tour guide, I mean—like what he said about the castle across from the cathedral.”

“Black Patie’s castle,” Emmi said.

“Mm. Have you gone there already?”

“Yes.”

“That earl, he and his brothers were having a fight. His brothers tried to kill him, and contacted a woman—a so-called witch—to make a poison for him or curse him or something. And then, after they were all caught, rather than punish any of the brothers for trying to murder him, Black Patie puts the woman on trial? And she may not have even made any poison at all. They just said she did it. How is that fair?”

“It’s not,” Emmi said.

Izzie snorted, the sound full of contempt. “Men squabble, and women die.” She straightened and looked at Emmi, a grim set to her jaw.

Did it matter if the accused woman had been a real witch? If so, the power of magic inherent within her had not counteracted the power of the men inherent within her society.

“Just innocent women,” Izzie continued. “They weren’t magic. No one has the kind of power they were accused of and they still became a victim.”

Emmi shook her head. “No, that’s not fair. The trials were about murder and brutality, hatred and terror. But there are different kinds of power.”

Izzie raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“Well, look at the bottle,” Emmi said. “It was made for protection. The witches had power, but instead of being able to curse and poison and kill, it was just…protection. Healing. Ways to help.”

Izzie frowned but didn’t argue with Emmi.

“Being attacked, murdered…that doesn’t mean the women accused didn’t have power. Just not the kind of power that comes from—”

“The patriarchy?” Izzie suggested.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“So,” Izzie said, leaning in closer, “are you suggesting that witches back then did have magic? Just not the right type of magic to protect them from getting hanged and burned and beheaded?”

This felt like a test, but Emmi knew the answer. “Yes.”

Izzie’s eyebrows shot up. “All eighty, ninety-something women killed in the trials here were really witches?”

“Maybe not all,” Emmi allowed. “But power and myth can exist side-by-side. Innocents were killed, there’s no doubt of that. But perhaps some of the innocent women also had magic.”

Izzie’s expression shifted, but Emmi couldn’t read it. She seemed open to Emmi’s ideas, but still a little doubtful.

“And maybe that’s why some things happen that can’t be explained,” Emmi said. “A little blessing here, a little luck. Someone being where they shouldn’t be, where most people can’t see them.”

Emmi didn’t take her eyes off Izzie as she spoke those last words slowly and carefully, and she saw the way the other woman realized the full weight of them. Izzie took a step back, but she kept her eyes on Emmi, as if she didn’t want to believe what she already suspected was true.

“I, er, I gotta go.” Izzie checked her watch. “I’m supposed to meet back with my group now. But listen—can we stay in touch?”

“I’d love that.”

They swapped social media handles with a promise to chat more later. As Izzie left, Emmi’s heart surged. She was certain Izzie had similar powers as she did, and she suddenly felt far less alone than before.

Before leaving, Emmi checked out the rest of the exhibit on witches. She found a sign explaining what Izzie had told her about. The woman who’d been accused by Black Patie in the conspiracy to kill him was named Allison Balfour, and she’d fiercely declared her innocence despite being tortured. It was only when her young daughter was tortured in front of her that she confessed to using witchcraft for Black Patie’s brothers—and even when Allison recanted, she was still convicted and condemned as a witch.

Allison Balfour. Knowing the name reminded Emmi of Agnes Sampson, the witch accused in New Berwick, the one who simply wanted to be remembered by her name instead of her fate.

“Allison,” Emmi whispered. A shiver went up her spine.

She headed out to meet up with Puck and Bak. As soon as she saw them, Puck grinned.

“I can tell by your expression that you found that girl,” he said.

“I did! I made a friend! A witch friend!”

“Charming,” Bak said, and although their tone was sardonic, they did look happy for her.

Emmi realized why she couldn’t stop smiling. For the first time since this had all happened, she was starting to imagine life after—after saving Grandfather, after settling into her new normal as a witch. She was no longer seeing just one step ahead, inching toward her immediate goals.

She was starting to realize she had a future.

The Chariot, Transposed

Delays, chaos, and accidents

“Did either of you find anything interesting?” Emmi asked.

Bak opened their mouth to answer, but Puck interrupted. “Actually, I found the most important thing of all,” he said proudly.

“Oh?” Bak drawled.

Puck nodded decisively. “I found a snack bar. That—yes, I know, this is vital—sold chocolate oranges.”

“Chocolate oranges?” Emmi asked.

“Please let’s not repeat every inane thing he utters,” Bak muttered.

“I only ever see those at Christmas,” Emmi said. “Can I have a piece?”

Puck’s grin slipped.

“You didn’t eat the whole thing?” Emmi said. “They’re huge! You’re supposed to break off a piece and eat them individually!”

“Well, er, see…the thing is, I was hungry.”

“You ate a whole chocolate orange?!”

“No,” Puck said slowly. “I ate two.”

Emmi’s eyes grew wide.

“You’re acting like you’re a starving dog,” Bak said derisively.

“Dogs can’t eat chocolate,” Puck snapped back. “And I am starving. The last meal I had was in America.”

A stranger nearby glanced back at Puck, eyes wide.

“Fine,” Emmi said, dragging him toward the museum’s exit. “I’ll feed you soon.”

“I’m quite content now. Oranges are good for you, you know,” Puck added to Bak.

“Not chocolate ones.”

Puck made an exaggerated look down his front. “Well, I don’t have scurvy, do I?”

Once outside, Emmi’s eyes went immediately to the extra string of light that was supplementing the energy that formed a prison for Black Patie. She knew this was the next step to take toward…

Something.

Emmi couldn’t explain the inexplicable draw she had for this light, but her feet carried her down the street, toward what she hoped would be answers. Bak and Puck squabbled behind her, willingly following as she tracked a route following a beacon only she could see. She tuned them out.

Kirkwall was a city—perhaps the largest in Orkney—and it was on an island in the ocean. Still, for the first time since arriving here, Emmi thought she could hear the waves, a gentle whooshing sound almost inaudible.

“Are you sure this is where we should go?” Puck asked, breaking stride with Bak and rushing up to Emmi.

“Mmhm.” Emmi had her eyes on the sky, the narrow beam of light vividly bisecting blue. Puck grabbed her elbow, squeezing a little, and she paused, blinking owlishly at him.

“Look both ways,” he reminded her. Emmi was used to glancing left for oncoming traffic when she crossed the street; here in Scotland, she had to look right.

“What a positive nest of witchcraft and magic,” Bak commented dryly as they crossed a street labeled “Clay Loan Road.” This was much more of a residential district than the touristy section the cathedral and museum had been in. A little dog yipped at them from behind a fence; children’s chalk art decorated the sidewalk. The houses here looked like homes; the few shops were clearly there to serve locals.

It was amazing to Emmi how even the houses were different from the ones she saw back home. New England had more traditional architecture than many other parts of America, but the gray stone and sloping roofs of the houses along Clay Loan were distinctly different from the colonized gables and shingles in Massachusetts.

“Do you hear that?” Emmi asked.

“The dog barking?” Puck asked.

“No.” Emmi shook her head.

“What is it?” Bak asked with enough concern to make Emmi pause.

“The ocean,” she said. “I know we’re walking away from it, but…” Her voice faltered at the way Puck and Bak both looked confused. “You don’t hear the waves?”

“No, but to be fair, we also don’t see whatever is in the sky you keep looking at,” Puck said.

“And I have no idea what you see in this degenerate,” Bak added, rolling their eyes at Puck.

Despite their light tones, Emmi could feel their concerned gazes following her as she headed back up the hill, but she had no answers for them. And their concern was great enough that they abstained from bickering until they reached the top of the road.

“Somewhere here,” Emmi muttered, crossing over to a green lawn in the center where the road curved and met with another street. It wasn’t quite a traffic circle, more like a spot of green tucked into a tangle of roads. This seemed to be a public space, with a spot to dispose of dog waste and a trashcan near some bushes, but it was otherwise empty.

“What are we looking for?” Puck asked.

“This.” Emmi knelt beside a plaque set into the ground—a memorial for the witches killed in Orkney.

This doesn’t make sense, though, Emmi thought, scanning the plaque. It was beautiful, but…why would it be here? The women accused of witchcraft had been kept in the cathedral, and—

“Oh.” Her voice released in a breathless whisper. She looked up at Puck, then Bak. “This is where they were executed.”

She straightened, looking at the green, grassy lawn with new eyes. It had been known as “Gallow Ha” in the past—a word that meant gallows hill, perhaps? A place where witches were hung.

“A crossroads,” Bak muttered.

Puck frowned. “A—?”

“A human one,” Bak said acidly. They looked at Emmi. “Traditionally, a witch was hung at a place where two paths crossed.”

“Oh. Oh,” Emmi said, realization dawning on her. This grassy lawn was built in the center of where the streets met—but it must have been where they once crossed as well.

“Speaking of crossroads,” Bak started, but Emmi cut them off.

“The light touches down here,” she said, tracing the radiant beam from a point in the middle of the lawn back to where she could see the roof of St. Magnus Cathedral. “But it doesn’t start here.”

She pointed up from the lawn toward the west, where the light disappeared on the horizon.

“What do you think that means?” Puck asked.

“There’s something out that way, but it must be linked to this spot—the place where witches were hung.”

“But where could that be?”

“I don’t know,” Emmi said. The execution site made sense—perhaps some witch killed here started the curse on Black Patie’s spirit. But the light started somewhere else, only pausing here, and why—

“As I was saying,” Bak said again, more forcefully. “There’s the human crossroads here, obviously. But there is also a magical one, right here, a place where the fae realms crossed with the mortal one.”

“Which means…” Puck started.

“Which means we can just go to whatever place this magic light we can’t see probably comes from. This path you pointed out, Emmi, that’s exactly along a quick line.”

It took Emmi a moment to consider what Bak meant. “Oh, you mean like the quick line thing in the Otherworld? But we’re…”

“Crossroads—the magical kind—can sometimes lead to a path that follows both the mortal realm and a fae world. And this way?” Bak held their arm out, and even though he couldn’t see the ray of light she could see, he pointed in exactly the same direction. “This way is a quick line as clear as one from the Otherworld.”

Emmi groaned. She could still feel the weird lurching in her stomach, the dizzying rush in her eyes when they’d used a quick line to go to an undine’s pond.

“I’m just saying, if you want to find out whatever it is on the end of whatever light you’re following, we can get there in a blink.” Bak shrugged as if they didn’t care and then wandered off, seemingly unconcerned.

“Quick lines are faster,” Puck said. “But I hate them, too.”

“I thought we had to have an end goal in mind when using a quick line?” Emmi said. She barely remembered what Bak had told her about them before. She’d been too focused on her grandfather and hoping to solve the riddle he’d left her with at the time.

“There are ways around that,” Bak called, obviously still listening.

“I say we do it,” Puck said. “I know you can see a light, but it feels like we’ve been wandering around aimlessly.”

“No, there’s an aim.” Emmi wondered what would be at the end of the light. She did want to get there but…

She remembered the sound of the ocean, a sound only she could hear.

“There’s something powerful out there,” she said. She was, apparently, grave enough that Bak strode back over to them, listening.

“That light, it links here, and back to the prison around Black Patie, but it starts out there. And…” Emmi struggled to find the right words to describe it. “I don’t think whatever is out there is human. This is linked to the witches, but it’s not made by the witches.”

She was grateful that neither Bak nor Puck needed more explanation to understand her. She wasn’t sure how she knew herself, but she was certain.

Emmi took a deep breath. “What if whatever is out there, whatever sent that light, what if it’s undine?” Emmi asked. She wanted answers, but she hadn’t forgotten the way Puck and Bak reacted to water fae.

Using a quick line to find the source of power meant they may find a monster as well.

Seven of Pentacles

Patience, growth, and timing

Puck met Emmi’s worried gaze unflinchingly. “I had considered that, actually.”

“You thought we may be heading toward an undine?” Emmi asked.

Puck nodded. “It seemed the most logical end result. Not only have you been chasing water fae since we saw that undine in the Otherworld, but we’re on an island that positively reeks of magic and is surrounded by a sea no doubt chock-full of fae. I figured it was inevitable we’d run across an undine eventually.”

“But you said the water fae—”

Puck’s jaw tensed. “And I’m right. Water fae are dangerous. But…” His voice trailed off, his eyes softening. “But I know that nothing I can say or do will be enough to stop you from finding a way to save your grandfather. Emmi, don’t you see?” His voice dropped, and he crossed the few inches closer to her. “If I can’t stop you from running toward danger, at least I’ll race beside you so we can face it together.”

Emmi could feel her heart thudding in her chest, warmth flooding her cheeks. Her body leaned toward Puck unconsciously, but even though she felt as if she might stumble, she knew he would catch her.

“By the old gods and the new, you two are disgusting, come on,” Bak snarled, striding over the lawn and grabbing Emmi by the elbow, whirling her around so she faced northwest. “This way.”

Bak crouched on the ground, their fingers bumping against something, tapping as if plucking out a tune on a piano. Even though Emmi could neither hear nor see anything Bak touched, when the changeling made a satisfied little grunt and straightened up, there seemed to be a thread of shining silver she could almost see twined around their forefinger.

Emmi grabbed Puck with one hand and took Bak’s free hand with her other just as Bak pulled—

Her vision blurred, lines of light piercing into her brain and making her mind spin. She closed her eyes, which made her focus on the sick feeling in her stomach, an acid-roiling lurch that burned up her throat. When Emmi blinked her eyes open, her sight was filled with blue and green, sea and grass, and her feet staggered. She started to fall, overcorrected, and stumbled backwards.

Into a sheep.

“Bah,” the sheep said, highly inconvenienced as it stepped back and let Emmi collapse on the ground. She was grateful both that the earth was soft and that it was free of anything the sheep could have left behind.

Puck held his hand out and pulled Emmi back up. “Nice landing,” he said, smirking.

Emmi pointedly looked down at Puck’s shoe, which now bore a brown smear along the sole and one side.

Groaning, Puck hopped over to a cleaner spot in the field to wipe the excrement off. Emmi looked around. While her vision had first landed on the coastline, where the heather-riddled grass gave way to the sea, behind her stood four enormous stones, curving in what might have been a circle had there been more of them.

She was quite near the road, the grassy area fenced in for the grazing sheep, but a sign nearby called these the standing stones of Stennes. Emmi was right; there were supposed to be more of them. But the four that remained took her breath away.

Aside from being enormous rocks set into the ground in a roughly circular shape, this formation was nothing like the far more famous Stonehenge in England. These stones were tall and slender, their narrow sides jagged with striation, the tops jutting out at sharp angles, like broken, crooked teeth.

“Aye, but they’re lovely, even in ruin,” a short man said, walking up beside Emmi. He had a bit of a pot belly covered by a striped sweater vest, and a wool cap mostly hid his patchy hair.

Before answering him, Emmi glanced around. Puck was apparently having strong words with a sheep, and Bak was…

“Are you Bak?” Emmi asked the man.

The man’s eyes flashed silver. The changeling had switched disguises again, apparently for the fun of it.

“So, this the right place?” Bak’s voice kept the Scottish accent, but there was a bit more of their own voice behind the words now that Emmi had called their bluff. “I figured it might be, since the pendulum you cast swung between here and Kirkwall.”

Emmi had almost forgotten about that, but she was glad that her magic had confirmed that this place needed to be explored as much as Kirkwall had been. She squinted at the sky. In the distance, in the direction of Kirkwall, Emmi could still see the radiant light that came from this area and extended all the way to the prison entrapping Black Patie’s spirit. But here, the light dissipated. She couldn’t tell where it started.

“It’s like a rainbow,” she said. “When we move, the light seems to move, too. My perception is all wonky.”

Bak’s eyes grew distant, face tilted toward the sky even though they couldn’t see the light she could. “Standing stones like these were originally doorways,” they said. “But these have all been broken.”

Emmi walked closer to the nearest stone, the tallest of the four. Stonehenge, she knew, was roped off, tourists kept back and told to stay on a little path. These stones were not. She put her hand on the cool, bumpy rock, leaning back and squinting at the top. “I guess time knocked some down.”

“Time and idiots,” Bak said. “This is farmland. Farmers don’t like rocks in their field, even if the sheep don’t mind.”

Most of the buildings in Kirkwall had been made of stone. Come to think of it, there were hardly any trees at all on this rugged island, and none that looked big enough to be used for housebuilding. Could some of the stone buildings have come from an ancient, neolithic outcropping of standing rock, chipped away to form different walls?

“All the doorways here have been broken long ago,” Bak continued. “But these islands are still on a crossroads. The fae kind, I mean.”

So, getting to the fae wouldn’t be easy, but it also wouldn’t be impossible. She just had to find a different door, one that didn’t require the megaliths.

Bak wandered off as Puck came closer.

“I can’t get rid of this one,” Puck said, glaring at the sheep trailing behind him.

Emmi snorted, picturing him dressed as Little Bo Peep. She dropped a hand down, and the sheep butted its head against her palm. She stroked its wool—it was coarser than she’d imagined, and despite being white was remarkably dirty. Still, the sweet ewe bleated at her in a way that made Emmi’s heart melt.

“Foul thing. It’s in the eyes. Can’t trust a sheep,” Puck muttered.

“You’re a darling, and he’s a meanie,” Emmi told the ewe.

“So—” Puck started.

“I can’t tell where the power is originating from,” Emmi finished for him.

Puck’s mouth snapped closed at her frustrated tone. He stuck his hands in his pockets, shifting his gaze to the standing stones. “Cool rocks, though, huh?”

Begrudgingly, Emmi nodded. “But Bak said they are no longer doorways to the fae realms. They’re just ruins now.”

“Ruins, right,” Puck said, keeping his voice in check. “Like the kirk in New Berwick.”

The old church where the witch trials started in Scotland. Where Emmi had first used her magic sight to see beyond what everyone else could see.

“Last time, the ponies surrounded me,” Emmi reminded Puck. They had called them down from the nearby Law, and the whole town had witnessed the disturbing way the wild ponies had all gathered.

“This time, there’s no one to see but the sheep,” he said. It was true. Despite being the end of summer, there were no tourists around, and while cars zipped down the road, none of them seemed to be slowing down enough to notice them.

Letting her shoulders sink as she released a breath, Emmi closed her eyes, calling for her magic. It came to her easily, an old friend she trusted.

And she saw the stones.

Not just the four remaining ones, but all of them, towering tall, looming down over her like giants. The tops of the narrow megaliths were all sharply cut off, pointing up at crooked angles. She could see the firmer outlines of the four stones that were physically there, but her eyes traced the jagged edges of the ghostly echoes of the stones that were missing.

“That one,” she whispered, taking an unconscious step forward. There was one stone whose shadowy shape glowed in the center. When Emmi approached it, she noticed that this one was different—it had a natural hole in the middle.

And light pooled within it.

“What do you see?” Puck’s voice called to her as if from a distance. She felt his hand on her shoulder—he had followed her as she crossed the green field. Unlike the ponies in New Berwick, the sheep didn’t seem to care what she did.

Emmi crouched down so she could look into the hole in the rock only she could see. The opening was no bigger than her hand, but when she peered through it…

Extending from that specific rock, starting at the hole, Emmi saw a path made of light. It glimmered like gold, and it clearly ended at a spot maybe a five-minute walk from where she stood. At the end of the trail, Emmi saw the firm outlines of another rock, one that was perhaps larger than all the others in the standing stone circle; she couldn’t tell. And from that rock, Emmi could finally see the pool of power funneling into Kirkwall.

Gasping, Emmi staggered back. Puck caught her before she toppled into a sheep that had drawn too close, but her vision broke, and she lost her grasp on the magic. Looking now, Emmi could see the rock that she had seen through the hole of the standing circle stone. It towered beside the road, overlooking the water.

They weren’t that far from the shore, but when Emmi saw a flash of gray in the waves, she couldn’t be sure whether or not it was a seal bobbing in the water.

This is the land of selkies, she reminded herself.

“Emmi?” Puck asked gently. She shook herself. It was too easy to slip between the mundane and the magical, too easy to forget that she saw things others didn’t, even the fae.

Emmi turned to him and realized that Bak, too, had drawn closer, concern etched on both of their faces.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“You’re pale,” Bak answered. Their bushy eyebrows lowered as they raked their eyes over her. “Does magic drain you that much?”

“I’m not drained,” Emmi snapped. She looked back toward the towering stone in the distance. “I saw a path. Heading toward that rock.” She pointed toward the water’s edge.

“A path made of golden light?” Puck asked tentatively.

Emmi whipped around. “Yes! You saw it, too?”

Puck and Bak both shook their heads, exchanging worried glances. “No,” Puck said slowly, warily. “We didn’t see it.”

“Because you can’t see what my magic vision can—?” Emmi started.

“Because we were not invited,” Bak said.

“Fae paths are limited. They only show up for people who can cross them,” Puck said.

Emmi shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. I saw it with my magic vision. I don’t see it now—” She pointed in the direction of where the ghostly echo of the standing stone with a hole in it had been. She wasn’t using her magic; she didn’t see the shadow of the rock. But she could still see the fae path. It glittered gold under her feet, and it led directly toward the sea.

Knight of Cups, Transposed

Transition and secrets

“Idon’t like this,” Puck said.

“Yes, because the realms bend to what you like,” Bak said.

“But what does it mean?” Emmi asked, looking from the changeling to the brownie. She pointedly avoided glancing at the golden path that only she could see.

Bak started to answer. “It means that a fae creature—”

“Probably an undine that wants to eat you,” Puck muttered.

“—is willing to be seen, but only by you,” Bak concluded.

Emmi thought Puck was probably correct—it probably was an undine, hopefully a selkie, that had sent the invitation in the form of a golden road. But she wasn’t sure if he was correct about his fear.

Only one way to find out.

Emmi put a foot on the golden path. Instantly, the rest of the world melted away, as if everything not illuminated by the beam of light between her and the stone by the water was cast in deep shadow. She lifted her foot away from the path. The contrasting dark and light disappeared, Puck and Bak standing beside her in the field, worry etched on their faces. So, she could get off the path if she needed to.

“I’ll be okay,” she said, false confidence in her voice. Before they could protest, Emmi stepped back on the golden path, knowing neither of them could follow her or protect her against whatever was at the end of the road.

It would have only taken minutes to walk across the field to the large stone by the water, but with the world so myopically focused, Emmi wasn’t sure if the distance was short or her perception was off. Either way, she arrived at the stone too quickly; she didn’t even have time to let her rapid heartbeat spike her fear before she stood in front of the massive megalith.

An outlier to the circle of neolithic stones, Emmi had no doubt that this additional rock, standing like a guard by the water, was a part of the same big formation. Why had ancient peoples erected this stone here? For that matter, what was the purpose of the megalith circle at all?

Doorways, Bak had said. Places where the realms were closer together, forming crossroads and access points.

“Hello, witch.”

Emmi jumped; she hadn’t seen the person standing beside the rock until she spoke first. “Hello,” Emmi said.

A short, plump woman with full cheeks sat in the sand near the base of the rock, her feet dipped in the cold water. She was in shadow, but Emmi thought perhaps the gray cast to her skin was not due to a trick of the light. The woman’s hair was silver, but she did not appear old. Her eyes had a rim of white around the black pupils, but far too much black in them. She wore a simple white dress, and when she ducked her head down, she looked almost human.

Almost, but not quite.

“My name is Emmi.” She knelt in front of the woman so she could be on eye level with her. The undine didn’t respond to Emmi’s greeting. Instead, she held a ball with patterns carved into the surface, rolling it in the sand to imprint circular designs. Emmi watched her, mesmerized. After several long moments, she ripped her gaze away. “What’s your name?”

The woman’s head snapped up, her black eyes narrowed in rage and suspicion. Too late, Emmi remembered the fae didn’t like names. She had gotten used to Puck, who’d had centuries to settle into his name, and had forgotten that Bak had no name, just the moniker he grudgingly accepted she used with him.

“I’m sorry,” Emmi said immediately. “I’m human; and we—”

The woman flipped her hand dismissively, cutting Emmi’s words short. “I know humans,” she said with the same derision that an exterminator might say, “I know rats.” But, apparently, the woman was willing to set aside Emmi’s failings. She resumed rolling the stone ball in the sand, and she started humming softly.

Emmi sucked in her breath. She recognized the tune the woman hummed.

It was the same tune her grandfather had hummed in the Otherworld. Emmi could still remember the words he’d sung:

Cloaked in salty water,

Then you cannot see her.

Break the spells and twist the truth,

But don’t fall for the fae lure!

Catch her if you can!

Slip on by the man!

“My grandfather sang that song,” Emmi said. The undine’s black eyes flicked up to her, but she neither commented nor stopped humming. Emmi muttered the words, matching the woman’s tune. At the last lines, the woman stopped humming.

“I have had so many visitors lately,” she said. “Centuries with none. Now two, so close together.”

Grandfather!

“Was your other visitor an older man?” Emmi asked.

“Mm.” The woman seemed ready to slip back into mindless humming, but then stopped suddenly. The stone ball sank deeper into the soft sand under the woman’s white-knuckled grip. “A man, yes. He was going to steal from me.”

Emmi’s stomach twisted. “If that was my grandfather, then he wouldn’t—”

“All men steal,” the woman hissed, and Emmi knew for certain that this fae was a selkie. The legends all spoke of how men trapped selkies by stealing their sealskin, keeping them in human form and forcing them to stay with them.

She knew she needed to be careful with her words. “Did the man who came…did he try to steal from you?”

“I did not let him get close enough,” the selkie said. “He found the stones.” She looked past Emmi, to the ring of rocks. “He saw the path, but only because I was curious. I sensed…” The selkie focused on Emmi. “I sensed you in him. A witch. The man was not a witch, but he loved a witch, and a witch loved him, so I let him come closer.”

“And then what did you do with him?” Emmi asked, her heart in her throat.

“Nothing,” the selkie said. “I could see, when he came closer, that he may have a witch’s trust, but he did nothing to earn mine. And he wanted me.”

Emmi tried to read the selkie’s black eyes, but could not grasp what the undine was thinking. “Was he…violent?”

The undine shook her head. “He called for me, for my kind. He wanted a selkie. I know the human tricks. I did not reveal myself.”

“My grandfather would not have harmed you!” Emmi protested.

The selkie did not seem concerned at all. “I don’t trust humans. I learned that lesson long ago.”

Emmi couldn’t see a sealskin near the woman. She guessed that perhaps the fae had hidden her skin, just to be sure that it would be safe.

If she had the same past that the selkies in the legends did, Emmi didn’t blame her.

“But you let me come closer?” she asked.

The selkie nodded, humming again. After a moment she said, “I like witches. Generally.”

Emmi remembered then what had drawn her to this area. The beam of light that extended across the island, to Kirkwall, to power the prison that trapped Black Patie’s soul. Emmi looked now, spotting the ray of magic. “It’s you,” she said breathlessly, then turned fully to the fae. “You are the one helping to keep Black Patie imprisoned.”

The selkie stopped humming. She met Emmi’s wide eyes with her solid black ones. And she smiled with all her sharp and pointed teeth.

“If you don’t trust humans,” Emmi asked, “why are you helping them?”

“If I keep that monster’s soul in torture, am I helping humans?” The selkie shrugged. “A positive side effect for your kind, I suppose.”

Emmi sat down in the sand fully, tucking her legs under her. She had known Puck before she knew his powers. She had known Bak as her grandfather before she knew he was a changeling. But this selkie was entirely herself, in full control of her powers, and fascinating in a bone-deep way. It was like meeting a lion face-to-face, without any protection between them.

It wasn’t that Emmi was certain the selkie wouldn’t hurt her. On the contrary, she believed entirely that the selkie would hurt her…just that she wouldn’t do so without reason.

“May I ask why?” Emmi said, hoping her voice was respectful.

“I live for millennia. I don’t mind spending a few centuries ensuring that man’s soul never sees one minute of peace.” The selkie smiled to herself, lips closed, as she rolled her ball in the sand.

Emmi wanted to ask more, press her for more answers. But fear froze her muscles, made the hair on her arms stand up, and quickened her breath.

“Humans have such short lives,” the selkie said finally. “I rarely bother with them any more.” She sighed. “But I do miss Allison.”

A shiver went up Emmi’s spine. She had heard that name today. “Allison Balfour?” she asked. The witch who had been Black Patie’s first victim. The one who had not confessed until she was forced to see her innocent children tortured in front of her.

The selkie’s black eyes widened enough for Emmi to see more of the whites. “You know her?”

“I learned about her today.”

“She knit me a shawl,” the selkie said, her gaze growing distant as she recalled. “It was as delicate as any salt lace.”

Emmi’s mind raced, first torn by the idea that a selkie and a woman from the middle ages had been friends, then distracted by the term the selkie had used. “Salt lace?”

The selkie dipped her fingers in the lagoon. When she pulled her hand up, droplets glittered like diamonds. And, almost invisible, a thin strand of gossamer dangled from the selkie’s fingers. She handed it to Emmi.

Cloaked in salty water, Emmi thought. She wound the strand of impossibly thin water around her fingertip. She pulled too tight, and the water broke, leaving her skin damp.

This, Emmi knew, had to have been what her grandfather’s riddle referred to. She needed to find out more from the selkie about this impossible salt lace.

The selkie silently watched her, eyes narrowed, glittering onyx.

The Magician, Transposed

Lacking self confidence, cheating, lying

Emmi stared at the patterns the selkie’s stone ball made in the soft sand at the shore. She wondered—would it be possible to make friends with a fae like this? Allison Balfour apparently had, a friendship true enough that the selkie had dedicated hundreds of years of her life to help ensure the man who killed her friend was punished for the crime. But it also felt a little like trying to use the selkie, to befriend her in this way, with a goal in mind.

But the fact of the matter was, even if Grandfather’s fate wasn’t at stake, Emmi would prefer to have this selkie as a friend instead of an enemy. And the last time she’d needed something from a fae, she had stolen from King Gwyn. She would not make that mistake again.

“Will you tell me about her?” Emmi asked. “Your friend.”

The selkie’s face softened, her big black eyes filling with emotion. “She was kind when she did not need to be,” she said. “That’s what drew my attention to her in the first place. That was something I noticed, about that time…”

The selkie’s black eyes shifted as she recalled memories. What must it be like to sort through centuries of thoughts and faces? Emmi wondered.

“The women that man, Black Patie, the ones he and the rest chose to kill…they were almost all women who were too kind,” the selkie said. Women who tried to make potions to heal, bottles to protect. “The others were people who just needed more kindness. And were met with fires and nooses instead.”

The selkie’s quiet voice was so resigned as she spoke. It made Emmi linger on her words, made her think about how deeply true they were.

“It was not just the monsters, like the man I keep imprisoned,” the selkie continued, her voice raising. “I have seen the people who drowned their children, claiming they were changelings.”

Emmi wanted to ask more, but the pain etched on the selkie’s face was evident.

“Allison was not like that,” the selkie added. “She helped the babies in her village, and she helped the babies not in her village. She was kind.”

“She reminds me of my friend, Puck,” Emmi said. She told the selkie about him, the brownie who had spent centuries in a bottle just to help protect others. And how now, free again, he was helping her still.

“It’s so difficult for me—any human, I think—to truly understand the length of time it takes to dedicate yourself to doing something like that,” Emmi concluded. “Something like what you’re doing, to keep us all safe from Black Patie’s evil, for so many centuries.”

The selkie dipped her hand in the water, droplets glistening like diamonds. “Time moves differently for some.”

Emmi nodded solemnly. “I was once an orddu witch; I saw the cauldron of time. It’s still hard to understand, though.”

“Once?” The selkie looked at her with more curiosity than before. “I was not aware a human could change skins.”

It was an odd way to phrase it, but considering the selkie’s power to shape-shift between seal and human by shedding her skin, it made sense.

Emmi had told the selkie about Puck and the witch bottle and the barriers, but she had not yet mentioned the bad deal she had made with the king of the Otherworld. She explained now, the selkie fascinated.

“I have no love for any king,” the selkie snarled when Emmi told her how she had been tricked. “Fae or human, the men always try to rule over others. But I am impressed you held your own against one such as he.”

Emmi felt her heart rate spiking. She was wary of pushing the selkie too much, but she desperately wanted her help. “That’s why I have been seeking a way to save my grandfather,” she said. “He left home to find…something. Perhaps salt lace, perhaps something else. I’ve tracked his path, and I believe he is the man you saw before. But sometime after meeting you, he got embroiled with Gwyn ap Nudd, who captured him and forced him into the Wild Hunt.”

She said this all in a rush, desperate to show just how important Grandfather was to her, just how much she needed help. But even as she spoke, she saw the interest fading from the selkie’s eyes. As soon as she was done, the selkie shrugged her shoulders.

“Men can sort out their own issues.”

There was a tone of dismissal in her voice so complete that it was as if she were writing both Gwyn and Grandfather out of existence. And, Emmi supposed, in the selkie’s mind, that was true.

She took a deep breath. She could not afford to make an enemy of this fae.

“Kindness,” she said finally, “must be taught.”

The selkie was already shaking her head. “I have seen the innocent children and—”

Emmi barked in laughter, cutting her off. “A baby is born and it knows only how to seek its own needs. It cries for its own belly to be filled and does not even consider whether its mother is hungry. And later…” Emmi swallowed down the emotion in her throat. She had never been mercilessly bullied, but she certainly had no rose-colored glasses for how quickly children could turn to cruelty. Everyone she knew was mocked for something. She had been mocked for her home. No one wanted to come play at the haunted house, the spooky museum. And that was nothing compared to the way some other kids were treated, for being poor, or not white, or different in any way, really.

“Kindness is taught,” Emmi said.

The selkie frowned. “So is cruelty. Black Patie was not born evil. He was allowed to grow into the monster he became.”

“That’s fair,” Emmi said, “but…I just want you to know that the person who taught me to be kind was my grandfather. My parents died, and my grandmother, and it was just us. And with that much loss…”

“Cruelty would be easy,” the selkie whispered.

Emmi nodded. “But he taught me kindness. He taught me to care. To help. To listen.”

The selkie was utterly still for a long moment.

“I saw you with the others,” she said finally. “The brownie and the changeling.”

“You saw me with my friends.”

The selkie leaned against the massive megalith beside the water. “I have heard the expression that you humans judge each other by the company that you keep. I am unimpressed by the brownie. But I am something of a kin to changelings. Their trust is hard won. Their friendship, more so.”

“I think the changeling,” Emmi said, careful not to use the name “Bak” with another fae, “is helping me because they saw what my grandfather taught me.”

“Kindness.”

“Yes.” Emmi spoke slowly, choosing each word with precise measure. “And that is why I chose to give up my power to protect the other fae and witches with the bottle I made. And why the orddu witches I met chose to give me some of their power so that I could continue to help others. And why I am asking you to help me help my grandfather. He had an idea, I’m sure of it, to help others, and I think salt lace may be the solution.”

Could it be this simple? Emmi wondered as the selkie considered what she’d said. Could all of this come down to just simple kindness? What else could “cloaked in salty water” mean other than a gift of salt lace from a selkie?

Even as she watched, however, the selkie’s face shifted from contemplative to defensive. “There is a chance that salt lace is what you seek,” she said. “But while you speak of kindness, I cannot help but wonder…would you pay with anything else?”

The Hanged Man

New perspective, contemplation, and insight

What could Emmi pay the selkie for salt lace, other than to offer her power? It was the only bargaining chip she had.

“I saw the prison you trapped Black Patie in,” Emmi says, carefully choosing her words and keeping her tone respectful. “I can add to the power containing him, and…”

Her voice trailed off as the selkie shook her head. There was a smile on the selkie’s face that was both sad and kind, and her big black eyes looked up at Emmi in a way that made her think the selkie saw far more of her than she intended to show. “I don’t want your power,” the selkie said. “What use of it do I have? I can lock the monster’s spirit away by myself. I felt when you added your power to it, releasing some of the witches who’d attached themselves to my cause. I don’t need them, either. But they like to help…” The smile turned vicious here, a snarling, feral thing.

Emmi floundered, at a loss for what to offer next. The selkie watched her, waiting.

“I could be your friend,” she said tentatively.

The selkie’s snarl didn’t ease. “Friendship is not transactional,” the selkie said, a slight growl to her voice to remind Emmi of how dangerous this conversation could turn.

Emmi looked down at her hands. “You’re right,” she said softly. She shouldn’t have tried to offer friendship to a fae, not as a bartering item. She hadn’t meant it to sound as if her friendship could be bought or traded, but at the same time, she knew better than to offer something open ended, such as a favor in the future. She’d read enough fairy tales as a child to know that would be a bad idea.

If Emmi had to offer up something of value to the selkie, she wanted to know for sure what she would get in return. She leaned closer to the water, dipping her hand in, crooking her fingers as if she could pull something out of the brackish loch the way the selkie had. “What is salt lace?” she asked.

“Sea water turned to cloth,” the selkie said. “Many of my kind can make it.”

Emmi wasn’t sure if she meant other selkies or other undine, but she didn’t want to press her for that information yet.

The selkie met Emmi’s eyes and held her gaze. “I wear my sealskin to protect me from your kind,” she said bitterly. “But I have learned to be wary of my own as well.”

“Is that what salt lace does?” Emmi asked. “Protect you from other fae?”

The selkie nodded, a short bob of her round face. “No fae spell or trick can harm you while you wear it. No trap will work, no illusion will hold.”

Emmi could see how that would be a powerful tool. Her powers meant she could see through most tricks—if she really looked. But to also not be affected by spells, as well as slip easily between worlds…

She sucked in a gasp, eyes widening. “And would salt lace work on a human?” she asked, barely daring to feed the tiny spark of an idea that had just glittered in her mind.

“Mm,” the selkie said, watching her.

“And if a human were already bespelled…”

“It would break the spell,” the selkie answered. “No hex lasts on a person wearing salt lace.”

Grandfather! Emmi thought. Here, at last, was the answer she’d been seeking for so long, so desperately. If she had salt lace, she could toss it over Grandfather’s shoulders, and King Gwyn ap Nudd’s hex on him would break. He’d get his mind back, and he wouldn’t be trapped in the Otherworld. He could escape and go home and everything would be right again and—

And she didn’t have the salt lace.

And she had nothing to give the selkie in return for some.

Emmi met the selkie’s eyes. Big and black, they reminded her of a seal’s, of course, or a dog’s. So full of kindness and understanding, as if she could guess Emmi’s thoughts and worries.

Kindness. It kept coming back to that.

“I am not sure of what I have that you may want,” Emmi said. “But I can offer you my kindness. I will always try to treat you and other fae kindly.”

“Because you want my salt lace?” the selkie asked, her tone carefully neutral.

Emmi shook her head. “Because that’s the way my grandfather raised me.”

“That’s the way Allison raised her children,” the selkie said. “And I have seen that, over the centuries, reflected in the generations that have followed. Time moves differently for me and mine, as I’ve said. But it moves toward a kinder world.” She paused, frowning. “Generally.”

The selkie dipped her hand back in the water. Her fingers dragged through the cool, blue-gray liquid, and something sparkling trailed through the water. “I will give you salt lace,” she said, her eyes never leaving Emmi’s. “I need you to know how precious it is, though. Salt lace is rare and hard to make, at least if you want it to last.”

The selkie pulled her hand up from the water, and a cascade of twinkling droplets hung from her fingers. She jerked her arm, pulling the delicate cloth all the way up. “This is more than five hundred years old,” she said, spreading it on the ground between herself and Emmi. “And it will last another five hundred years, at least.”

“Wait,” Emmi said. “You told me that you have two forms of protection—your sealskin and your salt lace. I don’t want to take this if it means taking something you need.”

The selkie smiled, her eyes creasing, showing real emotion. “Child, this is not my salt lace. It’s Allison’s.” Her look turned sad. “I made this for my friend, when I could see that she was in true danger from the men who were meant to protect her.”

Emmi’s breath caught. With the salt lace on the ground, she could see the shape of a hooded cloak in the outline of thin, almost translucent water, woven impossibly into cloth.

“Did it not protect her from Black Patie?” she asked.

The selkie shook her head. “She did not take the cloak from me.”

Emmi’s eyes flew up to her, the question evident even if she didn’t voice it.

“I had only one cloak,” the selkie said. “They take time and care to weave. Allison would not take a cloak she could not share with her children. She would not save herself when they could not be saved.”

Emmi recalled the story she had read in the museum then, how Allison Balfour had adamantly denied being a witch, despite her own torture…until they broke her son’s legs and mangled her daughter’s body in front of her. That had been what broke her.

A single tear dripped down Emmi’s cheek, warm but not nearly as hot as the flames that had been used in the family’s torture. Emmi raised her hand to rub her face dry, but the selkie reached over first, swiping at Emmi’s cheek with her finger. The teardrop smeared across the selkie’s grayish skin as she rubbed it between her index finger and thumb.

“I have always liked that about humans,” she muttered. “The way they carry the sea inside of them and let it wash them clean when they feel.”

The tear had turned to a hard, diamond-like bead under the selkie’s touch. With careful precision, the selkie tapped it against the salt lace cloak on the collar, adding the teardrop as a decorative bead at the neck. Then she picked the cloak up, letting it shine, sunbeams reflecting and refracting off the glittering cloth.

“I will give you this salt lace cloak, the one I made for my friend, out of kindness,” the selkie said, her voice ringing with power. Before Emmi could even reach for it, the selkie swirled the cloth back, tossing it into the water like a fishing net. Emmi’s mouth dropped open as she watched the sparkling droplets disappear in the cold sea.

“But to claim it,” the selkie said, “you have to fetch it.”

Three of Swords

Struggle and conflict

The salt lace cloak disappeared in seconds, the glittering droplets merging with the brackish water and fading into the depths. Emmi looked from the gently lapping waves to the selkie, who watched her placidly.

Nothing’s ever easy with the freaking fae, Emmi thought, but she kept her face impassive. Of all her encounters with fae, the selkie at least seemed to want to help her. This was likely just a test of Emmi’s worthiness. Or a way to get her to lower her guard…Emmi repressed Puck’s voice in her mind, telling her that the undine would always want to eat her.

“Okay,” Emmi said, mostly to herself. “I have to go get it.”

The selkie watched.

Emmi felt weird heading to the water while fully clothed, but she didn’t exactly have a bathing suit handy. She kicked her shoes off, as well as her socks—wet socks were too much for her to fathom. The pebbly surface pricked her bare feet, and chilly water lapped her toes. It was near the end of summer now, but they were so far north that it was still far colder than Emmi would have liked.

She took one step into the lagoon, water reaching her ankles. Emmi still had her eyes on the spot where the salt lace cloak had sunk into the depths, and when she shifted to her magic vision, she could see a glimmer of shiny sparkles.

The ground sloped down, dropping off quickly from the shore. Emmi crept forward and felt the pebbles slipping underfoot as the water swirled around her legs. It was as if there were a ledge into the depths, an underwater cliff. She wasn’t sure if this was the way the pool actually worked in real life or if she were experiencing some extra fae trial, but Emmi was certain that she was going to have to dive for the cloak. Wet ankles wasn’t enough.

Taking a deep breath, Emmi inched forward, finding the place where the rocky ground gave way to the void. Emmi dove into the blue-gray water. Despite the salt stinging, she kept her eyes opened and focused to the last place where she’d seen the glittering sparkles of the salt lace.

Almost…almost…

Now that she was underneath the surface, Emmi’s magical sight kicked in even stronger than before. Her fingertips brushed the edge of the cloth, and it was so close.

Suddenly, Emmi felt pressure at the back of her head and between her shoulder blades, something strong pushing her down—

The selkie.

The selkie was holding her under water? Panic flared in her mind, making the lack of oxygen even more apparent. Emmi felt the selkie’s fingers tighten, sharp nails scraping her skin. It didn’t seem malicious, just…unrelenting. Emmi tried to squirm away, but the selkie didn’t let her move.

She wants to be my friend, Emmi thought. Which means she doesn’t want me to asphyxiate.

She strained to reach the floating salt lace, still irrevocably out of her grasp.

Black dots danced in front of her eyes.

Emmi felt as if her lungs would burst. She couldn’t help it; she bucked against the selkie’s grip, trying to get to the surface and take another breath, but she couldn’t escape.

There was only one option. She had to get the cloak.

And if she couldn’t go up for more air, at least she could go down…Kicking hard, Emmi propelled her body away from the selkie’s grip and toward the twinkling promise of the salt lace…

Yes! Emmi’s mind roared in approval as her fingers tangled in the delicate cloth. She whipped the cloth toward her and felt a spark of power. This cloak was deep magic.

And it was hers.

Underwater, Emmi swirled the material closer to her. The salt lace twirled around her, but her triumph was short lived under the circumstances.

I need air, Emmi thought, and her mind flashed with an image of her last big breath, just before she plunged into the water and the selkie held her down.

Light burst into her eyes. Blinking, Emmi staggered—and then realized she was standing. On solid ground, little pebbles underfoot. Nearby, the megalith tower by the water shadowed the selkie, whose face peeped up from the water, hair splayed around her, mingling with the waves.

Emmi filled her lungs with air, a ragged, desperate, gasping breath.

Only the selkie’s eyes were above the gentle waves, watching her.

“Thank you,” Emmi said once she felt a little more normal again. She touched the cloak, adjusting it on her shoulders. If she let her magic vision slip, she couldn’t even see it, although she could feel it. It slid over her skin, cool and liquid, but not wet. Although, perhaps her perception was off since her clothes were soaking and her hair dripping.

The selkie lifted herself up in the water, her bare shoulders now visible. “It is yours now. Wear it for protection.”

Emmi nodded, taking up the laces at the neck and tying them securely.

“It is for your protection, but also so that you may protect others,” the selkie continued.

“I understand,” Emmi said, her words a solemn vow.

The selkie held her gaze for a few more moments. Then, silently, her head lowered back into the water. She sank down until Emmi could not see her any more, but before she turned away, she caught a glimpse of a spotted gray seal tail flicking in the waves in the distance.

Four of Wands

Achievement and building the foundation

Emmi turned, but the golden path she’d taken to get to the megalith by the lagoon was gone. She could see Puck and Bak rushing across the field to her; they could clearly see her now. Emmi let herself glance back once. The shoreline had changed, the water shallower than it had been before. The gentle bumps in the water—too calm to properly be called waves—did not betray any animal, seal or selkie.

“Emmi?” Puck called.

She turned and started toward them, crossing the road and reaching the field before they caught up to her. “I’m fine,” she said at Puck’s worry lines. “And look.”

She twirled, the salt lace cloak fluttering at the hem. Puck’s eyes were wide, and even Bak wore a look of mild interest.

“With that…” Puck started.

“I can save Grandfather!” Emmi beamed at them, but Bak and Puck exchanged a nervous glance.

“What?” Emmi demanded.

“He’s been forced into the Wild Hunt,” Puck said tentatively. “And while salt lace is powerful…”

“It only protects one person at a time,” Bak said. “Did you kill the selkie?”

“What?” Emmi said. “No! She gave it to me.”

Bak shrugged. “I was almost impressed.”

Puck shouldered his way in front of Bak, demanding Emmi’s attention. “Regardless, you have to think about the consequences of facing off against Gwyn ap Nudd. Salt lace is powerful, but if you use it to break your grandfather’s hex, then you’d be defenseless. And since he’s in the Wild Hunt, the king and his minions are sure to be nearby. It’s not enough that you can break the hex; you’ve got to figure out a way to get both him and you back out of the Otherworld without facing the king’s wrath.” Puck blinked at Bak, who was kneeling on the ground. “What are you doing?”

“Finding a quick line,” Bak said, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. “No point waiting around here.” They shuddered, a slight snarl on their silver lips. “The human world is so…eugh. And if we’re going to fight the king of the Otherworld, well. Let’s get it over with.”

Emmi clutched Bak’s shoulder, preparing herself for the weird swoop in her stomach that accompanied such travel.

“No, wait—” Puck started, but Emmi grabbed his hand. Before he could finish protesting, Bak had transported them all into the Otherworld.

Emmi staggered, her eyes unable to focus for a moment. “Next time, let’s use an ash sigil,” she muttered.

“Let’s use one right now and go home,” Puck said. His voice was low and wary, and it made Emmi suck in a deep breath and focus. Beside her, Bak straightened.

They were in a forest, pale green leaves unfurling from slender trees that were far enough apart for a scattering of wildflowers to get enough sunlight to bloom. Despite the relative youth of the trees, Emmi couldn’t see very far into the forest’s depth. She tightened the salt lace cloak on her shoulders. While she couldn’t see much, she could hear horse hooves in the distance, echoes of raucous shouting. The Wild Hunt was coming.

But closer—far closer—Emmi could almost hear…

“…cannot see her, break the spells and twist the truth…”

“Grandfather!” Emmi shouted, yanking free from Puck when he grabbed for her so she could dart through the trees toward the sound of her grandfather. The sing-song voice stopped abruptly, but it didn’t matter, because as soon as she raced past a particularly big oak, she saw him.

Emmi’s grandfather stared at her with wide eyes, his arms and legs splayed as if he had been caught dancing and was now embarrassed. His face was sunburned, his hair littered with twigs and mud, and his clothes were tattered. Slowly, he opened his cracked lips.

“Cannot see her, cannot see her,” he muttered. He started to turn away from Emmi, but she ran to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him around.

“Grandfather, it’s me! It’s Emmi!” Her voice broke as emotion welled behind her eyes and tightened her throat.

He just blinked, not a flicker of recognition on his wrinkled face.

“Emmi.” Puck’s voice held a warning tone.

Emmi put her hand to the laces of the cloak, ready to untie it and drape the impossible fabric over her grandfather’s shoulders. Before she could do that, however, horses appeared, bursting into the small clearing. At the head, riding a chestnut stallion, King Gwyn ap Nudd towered.

“What are you doing with my fool?” he bellowed, rage woven in his voice.

Emmi glared at him. “My grandfather is no—”

Before she could finish the sentence, the king thrust his hands at Emmi. She could see the palest glimmering of sparkling light emitting from his movement moments before it smashed into her chest.

The light burst on the salt lace cloak, disintegrating immediately.

Gwyn purpled in rage, sputtering. Puck and Bak drew closer to Emmi and her grandfather, who was now standing still and humming tunelessly, eyes blank. Emmi guessed that there were maybe twenty or so other beings crowding around the king, all members of the Hunt. Some red caps stalked the ground, glaring impatiently and licking their blood-stained pointed teeth. A horned creature with so much long fur that Emmi could not see its face thrashed its head, the antlers making the leaves of the trees rattle when they hit the nearby trunks. There were others, too—all fae, all maliciously glowering, just waiting for the order from their king to attack.

“You’re not playing fair, girl,” Gwyn snarled as his horse scarred the forest floor with its sharp hoof.

“It’s not a game,” Emmi shot back. “And I’m not playing.”

Gwyn’s jaw tightened. Emmi knew she had seconds at most to do what needed to be done. In one swift movement, she yanked the laces of the cloak free, swirled the delicate material off her shoulders, and swung the cloak around Grandfather.

“Emmi?” he croaked in a raspy voice.

Her shoulders sagged in relief. The moment the cloak was on him, the hex was broken.

But she had no time to revel in that joy.

Emmi shoved Grandfather at Bak, but stood behind him. “Get him safe,” she said, and Bak nodded, his silver eyes flashing. He gripped Grandfather’s hand, knelt, and yanked—

And they were gone.

“You took away my toy!” King Gwyn bellowed. “I wasn’t done playing with him!”

Emmi felt Puck behind her. He hadn’t wanted to be here; he hadn’t wanted to have this confrontation so soon. But he wasn’t backing down. He stood behind her with unshakable faith, ready to fight with her. As she had known he would.

Go home, he had said. Go home. Her home. His home.

A home worth fighting for.

“I’ll just have to make a new puppet,” King Gwyn said, sneering down at Emmi. All the fae in the Hunt jeered mockingly. A minotaur in the back snorted so loudly that the king’s horse nearly reared, only steadying at the king’s sharp yank on its reins. Pink foam splattered from the horse’s broad lips onto a nearby red cap.

But Emmi didn’t flinch. She felt Puck behind her, stalwart and true. And she felt the power of all the witches of the ages coursing through her, a promise.

She lifted her chin, glaring at the fae king until the smirk on his face faded.

“You can try,” she said.

Seven of Swords, Transposed

Struggle and conflict

King Gwyn ap Nudd looked down at Emmi and Puck from atop his horse, his eyes full of contempt. Emmi felt suddenly exposed. They were facing off against almost two dozen fae, loyal members of the king’s Wild Hunt, who relished in war and bloodshed.

Puck positioned himself so he was a hair in front of Emmi. She could see the tension in his shoulders. Tension, or fear.

Emmi cast her gaze around. The red caps in particular seemed extremely eager for whatever the king planned to do with her and Puck. One of them licked his lips, smearing the red stains on his yellowed teeth. Emmi shuddered. There had been fresh blood in that red cap’s mouth. And it wanted more.

“This is what stands in opposition to me?” the king said, his voice carrying throughout the young forest. “A brownie and a human?” There was an unmistakable sneer on his face.

He’s showboating, Emmi realized. The king was deeply aware of his comrades. His audience. And defeating Emmi and Puck was as much about his pride than anything else. Perhaps she could use that to her advantage.

“Bet you can’t take us both singlehandedly!” Emmi shouted up at him. It was her only chance to ensure they weren’t mobbed by the vicious fae that far outnumbered them.

The king barked in bitter laughter. “Fine—” he started, clearly intent on making a grandiose speech.

But before he could finish, Puck threw his hands up, bright orange and red sparks flickering around his fingers. Briefly, Emmi was reminded of how Joan the Wad had claimed Puck had magic akin to hers, but she had never seen him burn anything like this.

Flames swirled around his palms, and he swung his arms out in the king’s direction. The horse the king was on snorted, rearing back as the fire burst on Gwyn’s chest, ember-filled smoke engulfing him. The king roared in rage, smacking at his body as his cloak fell off his shoulders in ash and his tunic scorched.

Puck had done no real damage; the king was still on his horse, although his tunic was rags now. He ripped the burned cloth from his chest and arms, letting it fall as he tried to calm his mount. There was a distinct odor of burned hair wafting through the scent of wildflowers and dew.

All around him, his fellow hunters jeered. “The brownie burned you!” a troll said, his voice so deep it was hard to hear him.

“The king has no clothes!” another creature, perhaps a faun of some sort, said in a high-pitched mocking tone. Emmi, at least, was grateful that the king’s pants remained mostly untouched by Puck’s fire, despite the taunt.

Gwyn glowered, yanking his horse’s reins so that the stallion stomped on the earth close to the faun, deep ruts scarring the earth inches from the fae. The creature skittered away, still laughing.

Puck’s attack had hit, but Gwyn’s rage was palpable. Already his eyes were flashing as he glared down at her, and even if his tunic had burned away, all it did was show how broad he was, how powerful.

Emmi reached for her magic. She couldn’t attack like Puck, but she had defensive shields. She’d made bubbles of protection that Hunters with magical knives couldn’t break through; she’d been able to withstand far more than anything the king might throw at her—

But the magic didn’t come. She felt it—she could sense the power—but she couldn’t bring it forth. It was like dropping a bucket in a well, but the bucket had a hole, and by the time she hauled it back out—

“Nothing?” Gwyn sneered. Power laced in his hands, over his forearms, blackened from soot. Emmi desperately tried to raise her own hands and call forth a shield, but the king’s counterattack slammed into her chest so hard that the flimsy wisp of a bubble shattered, and Emmi and Puck took direct hits.

As soon as the magic touched her, Emmi felt pins and needles under her skin, a vivid, painful tingling sensation that made her fingers and toes burn and sent shockwaves of numbing up her arms and legs.

“He wants to knock us out,” Puck growled to Emmi. “If he can get us unconscious or at least immobile, he can cast us under his puppet spell.”

And we would be as empty as Grandfather had been, Emmi thought, her stomach roiling.

Puck was already on the offensive again—he slashed at the air in front of them, sending a sharp wind at the king. Gwyn tried to dodge, but a blast of Puck’s attack slit his cheek, sending a thin line of blood down the man’s ruddy beard.

Puck snarled. “I was aiming for the crown,” he muttered.

It would have been a good hit—Gwyn ap Nudd was desperate to come off as victor in front of his members of the Wild Hunt, and toppling the crown from his head would have helped with that.

But it hadn’t worked.

The king wiped at the cut on his cheek. There was absolutely no humor left in his eyes. He wasn’t toying with them any more; he wanted this done.

Emmi could see the king gathering his power in a way perhaps none of the other creatures in the young forest could see. His rage fueled him, a black, twisting anger that pooled in his palms. Emmi quaked with fear, but she was able to at least throw up a shield in front of her and Puck before the king hurled his blast at them.

The shield disintegrated.

The full attack smashed directly into both Puck and Emmi. Puck staggered back but didn’t fall. Emmi, on the other hand, flew almost a meter through the air before she crashed into the forest floor, the wildflowers and sweet meadow grass streaking across her clothing as she slid on the ground, scrambling for purchase. She tried to stand up again, stumbled, dropped to one knee, and finally got back up with Puck’s help. Her feet were entirely numb, that painful type of feeling that meant she couldn’t really feel the ground, couldn’t really take a step without falling again.

Puck met her eyes. She saw the fear in them, and it hurt her more than the shooting pains up her shoulders and down to her knees. Behind them, the Wild Hunt’s jeers and vicious mockery were all directed at her, the only human in a battle of fae.

“We have to end this,” Puck said in a low voice. Emmi nodded. One more blow, and there was a chance her entire body would fail her.

Puck whirled around, shooting another blast of fire at the king. He may not have fallen as Emmi had, but he was definitely weaker than before. The flames were bright orange and red, but they whispered away to nothing before they reached the king.

Gwyn smirked. “Bit chilly this fine day, no?” he asked one of the red caps near him.

“Especially without your shirt on, sire.”

Why did he have to remind him of how Puck burned off his tunic? Emmi inwardly groaned. But the damage was done. The king’s anger, so close to the surface already, exuded from him as he turned his attention back on Emmi and Puck.

Emmi closed her eyes.

I can do this.

She knew she could—not because she had before, nor because it was her only chance to survive—she knew she could make a shield, because…because she had to. It was her only option, and she would simply not allow herself to fail.

And because they’re helping, too, Emmi thought as power swirled inside of her. All the women that came before—the names she had learned, like Allison Balfour, and Agnes Sampson, and Ursula Sonthiel, and Joan Wytte—they filled her mind. Some were witches, some were not, but they all knew what it was like to face a man like King Gwyn ap Nudd.

One who wanted to hunt them.

That was the connection between her and all of them. Not magic.

Emmi and Allison and Agnes and all the rest—they were hunted.

And even the ones who died, they died fighting.

Emmi opened her eyes.

And the bubble of protective magic around her and Puck was so strong that Gwyn’s blast of black magic shattered into nothing more than evaporating smoke when it hit.

Seven of Swords, Transposed

Struggle and conflict

Puck met Emmi’s eyes from behind the magical protective barrier she’d put up. “Nice one.”

Emmi smiled weakly. “Thanks.” She staggered a step, dropping the shield, and Puck grabbed her elbow. They may have effectively held off King Gwyn ap Nudd’s attack, but would that be enough? Emmi in particular felt the burning sensation of pins and needles all down her legs and arms, making her unsteady even when standing still.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Puck said in a low voice, echoing her thoughts.

Before she could respond, however, something heavy slammed into her back, knocking Emmi to the forest floor. She tried to push up out of the soft earth and crushed flowers but yelped in pain as teeth clamped over her left shoulder.

“Get off her!” Puck bellowed, aiming a kick at whatever thing was on her back. Emmi squirmed when the creature shifted, rolling through the grass to get away, her shoulder aching. Puck grabbed her uninjured arm, hauling her closer toward him.

A snarling red cap glowered at them both, blood dripping off its yellowed teeth. Emmi’s stomach turned as she gingerly touched the spot where the fae had bitten her, breaking the skin. Blood seeped into her t-shirt. Emmi knelt on the ground, unable to work up the strength to fully stand. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in her bed, sleep for a week, and hide from all this.

Nearby, cheers and jeers flooded the grove, Gwyn’s laugh rising above them all. The king had been in favor of a fight between the three of them until Emmi had proven he couldn’t fully break them. Now, it seemed, he didn’t mind a little help from his friends.

And he had a lot of friends in the Wild Hunt.

Puck knelt, yanking up leaves and grass and sparking a light between his fingers. They couldn’t defeat everything in the forest. The only thing they could do now was escape and get home.

But before Puck could make an ash sigil, an arrow streaked through the air, inches from his hand, thudding into the soft ground.

“Did you think of escaping?” the king laughed as a nearby faun notched another arrow on her bowstring. The group had all been merry moments ago, but their eyes never stopped glittering with bloodlust. The Wild Hunt was not merely cruel; they were hunters at their heart. If Emmi and Puck didn’t play by their rules, there would be consequences.

But Emmi was in no mood to play.

Her left hand tingled all the way to her shoulder bite as she clenched her fist. The flowers near her were twisted and broken, mangled from the scuffle.

But they still bloomed.

Weak, pale green stems had been bent or crushed, the paper-thin petals of the flowers pressed into the mud. Cosmos and asters and poppies, pink and purple and yellow and red. Emmi knew these flowers because Elspeth had known them. Her ancestor, a witch, who had seen with her powers what the Wild Hunt and the Witch Hunters did, how cruel they were, how merciless.

How much they wanted to hunt, not for survival, but for the joy of inflicting terror.

And while hunters of both kinds had rampaged through fae and human worlds alike, Elspeth had made bubbles of protection. She had been wrong in some ways, and her mercy had been cruel for Puck, but she had tried to rise up and push back against the fae and the men who had wanted to use her and, failing that, crush her.

Power crackled down Emmi’s spine.

Wasn’t that what happened to every witch, every woman she had learned about so far? Let the women learn potions and herbs to heal and protect, but if they’re better used as a distraction, let them burn.

“Emmi?” Puck asked, wary.

She was standing now. She didn’t remember standing up. She rolled her shoulders back, lifted her chin. All eyes were on her, all voices silent.

The flowers swirled around her. They rose up in clouds of color, drifting faster and faster as they circled her and Puck.

They were not perfect silken blossoms. The petals were torn, dirty, ragged. These were flowers that would have been swept up off the floor of a shop, not gathered into bouquets and tied with pristine ribbons.

Something didn’t have to be pretty to be powerful.

The forest floor was littered with blooms, all of them turning to Emmi as if she were the sun. Trampled and crushed and yet still rising to join the battle. Faster and faster, the greens and yellows and reds and purples turned in a tornado of blossoms surrounding her and Puck.

“Emmi?” he asked again, concern laced in his voice. She was standing because she had to—she had to fight—and because of the magic of the witches who came before her. But she could feel her energy draining from her.

“Try now,” she said, sparing a glance at him. “Try to get us home now.”

The flowers were neither a shield nor a weapon. They were just flowers, and the most they could do in this moment was distract. But that was all Emmi and Puck needed. All the fae of the Wild Hunt, even the king, watched the flowers, waiting to see what Emmi could do with her power, preparing to fight back.

Emmi no longer wanted to fight. There was no point in playing games with this king who toyed too easily with human hearts and human lives. It was a battle that no one could win, because Gwyn didn’t care about winning. He only wanted to fight.

But Emmi just wanted to go home.

Puck shot her a weary grin as he grabbed a handful of flowers from the whirling wall of botany surrounding them. Quickly, he sparked flickers of flame between his fingers, igniting the plant matter. As soon as it fell to ash, he squiggled a pattern with his finger and made a portal.

“You first,” Emmi gasped out.

Puck shook his head. He wove his fingers through hers and gripped her hand. “Together.”

By the time the swirling petals fell to the forest floor like golden coins, they were gone.

Epilogue

A New Deck

One Month Later

“You have it, right?” Grandfather’s eyes skimmed over Emmi, not seeing the salt lace cloak on her shoulders. He didn’t have the same powers of sight that she did; so far, Emmi hadn’t yet met a human who could see the cloak she wore.

“I do.” She adjusted the gossamer material. Grandfather bit his lip, clearly conflicted. Emmi leaned over. “I’ll be fine,” she added, dropping a kiss on his cheek.

“It’s a school night.” Grandfather’s tone was severe but belied by his genuine smile.

“Thank goodness I know my teacher will let me sleep in tomorrow.” Emmi’s eyes sparkled. Grandfather had started homeschooling Emmi, which allowed her to continue her magic practice as needed.

“Most high schoolers don’t go to Germany for an afternoon.”

“True,” Emmi allowed, grinning as Puck came down the hall, Sabrina mewing for attention at his feet.

Grandfather had adjusted well since coming back to the Museum of Magic after being imprisoned for so long in the Wild Hunt. Emmi was glad that he didn’t recall much of being under King Gwyn ap Nudd’s sway, but he remembered enough to maintain a healthy amount of fear for the fae. He wasn’t concerned about Emmi popping across the Atlantic for a quick mission; he was concerned that she was going to find the Loreley of the Rhine, and he worried her salt lace wouldn’t be enough to protect her.

Grandfather’s scowl grew wider when Puck slipped past him to stand beside Emmi. He might have accepted the brownie as a protector and caretaker of the Museum—in fact, he remarked often about how much he appreciated Puck’s help around the house—but he wasn’t entirely happy that he and Emmi were so close.

Since returning from her battle in the Otherworld, Emmi had first helped Grandfather get readjusted to normal life. Once it was clear he’d recovered from his jaunt with the fae, she and Puck had started traveling to various locations around the world where there were hints of magic or rumors of supernatural events. So far, Emmi had relocated a kelpie to a remote Scottish lake where humans would be less likely to encounter it, helped some trolls in Norway hide their village from tourists, and sent a werewolf in France to Oberon’s realm. Using her magical vision and his lore knowledge, Emmi and Puck were doing their best to protect and help both the fae and the humans that came across them.

Notably, Emmi had yet to run into human Witch Hunters or fae members of the Wild Hunt. She didn’t believe either were gone for good, but it was clear they had learned to avoid her.

Puck grinned down at Emmi, ignoring Grandfather’s sour face. “Ready?” he asked, fingers sparking with light as he ignited a brochure from the front desk, turning it into ash.

“Be safe,” Grandfather said, his tone somewhere between a warning and a threat.

“Absolutely,” Puck said. Then he added, “Sir.” Grandfather’s face softened almost imperceptibly.

Puck drew the portal sigil, and together, he and Emmi stepped from the foyer of the Museum of Magic to the rocky banks along the Rhine.

Emmi looked around, shifting immediately into her magic vision. She had never been to Germany before, but it was lovely—the river snaking through the valley; the leaves on the trees just starting to turn red, yellow, orange; the sky a gorgeous gray-blue and speckled with low hanging clouds, threatening rain.

A road followed the river’s path, a few cars rounding the curve at the base of a large stone cliff. On a little spit of land reaching into the river, a statue of a beautiful young woman looked out at the cold water—an artist’s interpretation of the Loreley. The Loreley statue was made of dark metal streaked with weather-worn green, and it showed a woman sitting, long hair over her shoulder, her face tilted wistfully toward the Rhine.

Atop the cliff, Emmi could see the real Loreley. It wasn’t a woman at all—that was the imagination of the men who originally crewed boats on the river, projecting a siren-like mermaid figure over the creature they couldn’t see like Emmi could. The Loreley had two legs, two arms, and was roughly human-shaped, but the resemblance ended there. She was far larger than the statue which was already larger than a person. The Loreley sat atop the cliff, long legs dangling down, arms extended behind her so she could look up, not down at the river. Her skin was slick and gray, shiny like a wet rock. The Loreley was completely bald, her head pointed at the top and crowned with a ridge of webbed spines that extended down her back, each one glistening like silver. Emmi couldn’t see the Loreley’s eyes from this vantage point, but she knew from Puck’s information that they were milky-white and mostly blind. The Loreley sensed the world through sound, not sight, and she loved the music made by the gentle flow of the water below her cliff.

“Are you close enough?” Puck asked.

A hiking trail led from the base of the river to the top of the cliff, and Emmi was deeply glad they wouldn’t have to make the whole trek up the cliff.

“I think so,” she said.

The spell was simple, a variation of the protective bubbles she’d made before, but she’d refined it with Puck’s help so that the fae she wanted to protect had free access to leave or re-enter, but anyone with bad intentions would be unable to pass. The Loreley was a lonesome creature, but the hiking trail and increased popularity on the Rhine had put it in danger of coming into close contact with humans.

An older pair of gentlemen walked around Puck and Emmi, holding hands and chatting as they headed up the trail. Emmi found herself frozen, watching the men intently, looking for silver pupils or a mischievous smirk.

Puck squeezed her hand. “Bak said he’d come visit.”

The changeling had left almost as soon as Emmi and Puck had returned from the battle. Bak was no longer under Oberon’s command. While they’d not told Emmi where they were going next, she suspected Bak might be looking for the Shadowlands and the orddu witch who had known them.

But there had been a few times when, out of the corner of her eye, Emmi had caught a flash of silver or had felt a keen, knowing gaze from a stranger. She knew she would see Bak again, but she suspected Bak might have already seen her.

Once the men were out of sight, Emmi summoned her power, weaving together the spell of protection for the Loreley, magic that would also keep people like the hikers safe from getting too close to the fae. Puck couldn’t see her magic the same way she did, but he watched her, a proud grin on his face.

“All done?” he asked when she lowered her hands.

Emmi nodded. “It’s getting easier.”

“Or you’re getting more powerful.”

Emmi bit back a smile. Maybe that was true. She certainly felt more comfortable with her powers.

Her phone buzzed, and Emmi checked the message on the screen. She’d progressed from social media messages to texting the woman she’d met in Orkney, Izzie. Emmi had been reluctant to tip her hand too quickly, worried about scaring her off, but it was clear that Izzie had similar powers to her, able to see things no one else could. And Izzie seemed relieved to discover that not only did Emmi believe her, but she could help her harness her magic.

Puck leaned over her shoulder, looking at her screen. “You’re going to be the head of a coven before you know it.”

Half a year ago, Emmi would have recoiled at the idea. Now, she smiled. What more good could she do with help from someone like Izzie?

“The Loreley is protected,” Emmi said, “and maybe Izzie and I will get our own coven later, but not right now. Right now, I’d like to get a pretzel.” They were in Germany, after all.

Puck grinned. “I think we can arrange that.”

The town nearby was only a short walk away, with half-timber houses along the waterfront and a promise of pubs and bakeries. Boats cruised around the sharp turn at the Loreley’s cliff, one of them playing a folk song on loudspeakers, and Emmi caught the mention of “Loreley” amidst the German chorus. She paused, looking back at the magic bubble she’d made, at the Loreley lounging on the top of the cliff, at the signs of humanity all around, at the tranquility of it all.

And then she turned to Puck. He presented as a human teenaged boy to anyone else, but she could see the truth of him. The hints of fae, the magic that clung to him.

The love in his eyes.

She tipped herself up on her toes and pressed her lips against his. This—all of it—was the magic she had never realized before she’d been missing.

And she would never let it go again.

Bonus Short Story

Author’s Note:

In Museum of Magic, Emmi is a modern girl living in a home in New England that’s been remodeled into a museum honoring her ancestor, a famed witch. Emmi’s adventure starts when she encounters Puck, a fae boy with loads of secrets. If you’d like to know one of those secrets—how Puck met Emmi’s ancestor—read on.

This story was originally published by Scribbler, a book subscription box by and for authors.

A Map of the World

England, 1619

Elspeth Castor was tired of starting over.

Canterbury had proven…less than safe. Witch Hunters were based in the east, and they were both brutal and ruthless.

No, it wasn’t safe in the east.

The north, too, was not an option. Not for a young witch like Elspeth. She had hoped she would find a home in the Highlands. The old tribes kept to the old ways, and they might value someone with Elspeth’s unique knowledge, even if she were more maid than crone. But she had made it only as far as York when she encountered some of the shadow witches. Those ancient beings had spoken to her from the mouth of a cave.

“It is not time yet,” the shadow witches hissed from the dark, the damp scent of calcifying stone clinging to Elspeth’s skin.

“Time for what?” Elspeth had shouted back, frustrated. She’d taken a boat up the rivers and canals this far, and that had taken nearly all the coins she had. All that Elspeth owned was strapped to her back in a bag that was mostly full of vials to collect herbs that called to her. Elspeth preferred plants; she didn’t mind having only one spare kirtle, not if that meant she had more room in her bag for the delicate flowers, hearty herbs, and stubborn weeds that called to her.

“It is not time yet,” the shadow witches repeated, their voices fading under the constant sound of trickling water in the cave. “Go. It is not time for you yet. Do not be here.”

Shadow witches were daft anyway. They lived in the Shadowlands, a place where time had no meaning. Perhaps Elspeth would come back to this area in a year and fulfill whatever destiny the shadow witches could see in their cauldron of time, or perhaps they meant one of her ancestors had been there a century before or one of her descendants would come to York a century later. The shadow witches were bad at distinguishing the difference between one person or another, much like they couldn’t really tell the difference between past, present, or future.

Still, it was best to heed their words, even if they didn’t make sense. Elspeth had sighed. The east had given her no home; the north was off-limits. South again, then. Slowly.

Because she’d spent most of her coins on the boat, now she had to walk across the hills and moors. She had only a vague idea of where to go. Cornwall, perhaps. Or Wales. She might fade into the city of London. She could go there.

Eventually.

Being a witch of any sort of power wasn’t particularly a safe occupation in the seventeenth century. Hunters couldn’t see magic themselves; they didn’t have the sight. But witches were seers who could glimpse past the veil, spot which lights were reflected moonlight and which were wills-o’-the-wisp; which flutterings of wings were butterflies and which were piskies. A Hunter desperate to take magic from the fae would capture a witch first, torture her until she pointed out where to hunt, use her like a bloodhound baying for a fox. Hunters were “witch hunters” in name only. Their true prey was the fae, but few knew this. Any human could see a witch, but only witches could see the fae.

Still, it was easier to be a witch than a woman. A witch was hunted only by a certain sort of man, one that craved magic more than anything. A woman was hunted by all the rest of the men, and they didn’t care about magic at all.

Elspeth pulled the hood of her cloak up, covering her face. She turned away from York, her feet already aching at the idea of walking all the way across the country. She kept to the woods.

She would rather face a wolf or a red cap than any man she might meet on the road.

Elspeth made her way vaguely south and west, using the sun to guide her when she glimpsed it between the trees. She kept to the forests when she could, along the rivers when the trees thinned. She ignored the devas but listened to the dryads. She gathered many new herbs for her collection.

Elspeth didn’t always know why she picked up some of the plants she did, carefully putting them in glass vials and attaching a paper label to the neck. When she slept under a sweet fir one night, she awoke with a small branch of needles in her hair. That went in a vial, its scent heady with a promise of future use. A squirrel scampering between oaks dropped a bit of mistletoe in front of her. Elspeth wove the waxy green leaves and white berries into her hair, a crown she was grateful for when a group of highwaymen, using the forest as a hidden base, raced their horses near a pond she’d stopped at. The horses sniffed the air in her direction, but none of the men noticed her.

Mistletoe was powerful protection. Elspeth was grateful she’d not ignored it. She didn’t take the berries from her hair until a full day and night after she saw the highwaymen.

A week or more had passed when Elspeth saw a gnome. She’d almost missed him, the brown eyes peeping up at her from behind the tree trunk of a burned oak, the white woody flesh of the tree streaked with black from an old lightning scar.

“Hello,” she whispered. She knew better than to ask the gnome for his name.

The gnome blinked at her. His hat was green but streaked with mud, his beard barely to his navel, a bright red that crinkled with golden streaks. This gnome was young, careless perhaps, and not tethered to any family unit that Elspeth could see. A wildling, sent off on his own to prove his worth before claiming his own territory.

It was clear the gnome wasn’t used to being seen. Most humans’ eyes would gloss over the gnome or any other fae creature, seeing trees and stumps and branches but never the creatures that lived within them. Smaller fae like this gnome had learned that freezing like a startled deer was the safest thing to do when lumbering humans crashed through their lands.

There were other fae that did not freeze. But those fae never had need to fear a human, unless it was a Hunter with iron, and even then…even then, there would be blood.

The gnome took a tentative step around the tree trunk, his eyes unblinking as he watched her. Elspeth didn’t break eye contact as she slowly pulled her satchel around to her front, reaching blindly into it, fiddling for bottles.

She felt the cool glass and woody cork of one of the vials. She pulled it out, not knowing which herb she retrieved.

The gnome’s eyes widened as Elspeth revealed a perfect white toadstool with a red cap, big white spots speckling the top.

Elspeth didn’t need to read the label she’d affixed to the glass vial to remember the toadstool. “Fly Agaric,” pulled from the forest near Boscastle in mid-October, a bright spot of vivid cherry red under the shadow of a birch tree with yellow leaves. That had been nearly a month ago, but the toadstool was as fresh as if it had just emerged from the earth.

Elspeth had always been good with plants.

The gnome took another step closer, his gaze fixed on the toadstool.

When Elspeth had taken the fungus, she’d thought perhaps it would be needed for a potion. The toadstool was poisonous, after all, and both witches and women may need such defenses. It had other uses, though, not all of which Elspeth was familiar with. She had merely known when she’d plucked the toadstool up that she would eventually have need of it.

And now, with the gnome creeping a bit closer still, she knew her instincts had been correct.

“Would you like it?” Elspeth asked. She tugged the cork out, tipping the toadstool into her palm and offering it to the gnome with her palm flat, her fingers stiff, much like she would offer an apple to a skittish horse.

The gnome paused, his body rigid as his eyes flicked up to her, to her hand, to her, to her hand, and he darted forward, snatching the toadstool and scurrying back to the burned tree trunk. Elspeth had three lines of dirt on her palm—the gnome had muddy fingers—and nothing else.

She put the empty vial back into her bag.

The gnome gobbled the toadstool up so quickly that Elspeth saw only a flash of red before it was gone. It blinked at her with yellow eyes that reminded Elspeth of the golden birch leaves.

“Sorry, little guy,” Elspeth said gently, sitting back on her heels. “That was the only one I had.”

The gnome watched her silently.

Elspeth could see the fae, but she couldn’t always communicate well with them. Some seemed to understand her when she spoke; some did not. She knew the fae had their own speech, a different language that Elspeth had never understood.

The gnome peeked out around the oak trunk again, a wooden pickaxe in his hand. Elspeth’s muscles tightened, but she stood her ground. She didn’t know what the gnome would do with his pickaxe—she wasn’t even sure how the gnome had gotten a pickaxe—but the one thing she knew, without a doubt, was that the fae believed in fairness.

She had given the gnome something he wanted. He would give her something she wanted.

That was the way of the fae. Nothing could be given. Everything was a transaction.

Elspeth liked that quality among them. Men may take and take and take, take all they please, and never once question whether they would have to give anything in return.

The fae, however? They might take something, but they always paid their debts.

Elspeth watched as the gnome started to dig out the gnarled roots around the burned trunk with his pickaxe. Although his tool was made of wood, it seemed strong as iron, gouging out chunks of earth and scarring the pale white wood under the lingering remains of crusty bark. The little gnome turned once, measuring Elspeth with his big brown eyes. Elspeth squared her shoulders back and tilted her chin up, and the gnome nodded once, satisfied, and tackled the earth again.

Soon enough, the little gnome had dug out something that looked like a den, suitable for an entire family of rabbits, cousins and all, nestled in the knobby roots of the old tree. The gnome gestured, pride evident behind his red beard.

“Very nice,” Elspeth said respectfully, even if she wasn’t sure what the gnome had made.

The gnome smiled, beard twitching, and then knelt down in front of the den. He gestured with his arm, pointing to the center of the dirt, then looked up at Elspeth, a question in his eyes. Elspeth shook her head, confused. The gnome then crouched down, waving his arm over his body before glancing back at her.

Elspeth understood that she needed to make a choice, but she wasn’t sure what it meant—to go into the dirt or to cover herself with something?

The gnome repeated the movements, more impatient this time. He was eager to pay Elspeth for the toadstool and be done with the human.

“I…” Elspeth started, her voice trailing off as she tried to understand the choice before her.

It clicked into place the third time. When the gnome covered himself, he darted toward her, daring to tug on the hem of her cloak before skittering back.

The gnome was offering her magic.

Elspeth could choose between two spells. One would cloak her and protect her, a shield against enemies. She would be safe in this forest, invisible like the fae against any who would harm her.

Elspeth chose the other spell.

The gnome nodded, clearly pleased that she had finally made up her mind. He knelt in front of the dug-out earth and used his grubby finger to etch a runic symbol in the disturbed earth. For a moment, the den looked like nothing but dirt, but then a bronzed glow burned up, wrapping the area in light.

Elspeth couldn’t tell where the portal would lead her, but just as she gathered herbs without always knowing why, she was acquiescent about letting fate determine where the door would deposit her.

The gnome had measured Elspeth’s body with his eyes, but she still had to crawl to go through the portal on her hands and knees, her bag awkwardly swinging down and shifting her body weight, her skirt staining at the knees with wet earth. The den’s walls should hit her in the face, but the bronzed light glowed, and Elspeth slipped through the portal.

The first thing Elspeth saw was the cathedral.

The gnome had built her a portal in a forest outside of York, removed from any population or village, but Elspeth found herself in a city now, small but decently sized. The portal had opened up behind a cobbler shop in a shadowed alleyway with puddles of standing water…at least, Elspeth thought it was just water, but the stench belied that hope. Even though she stood now behind a lowly shop little more than a stinking shed, her senses accosted by the cobbler’s poorly tanned leather, her eyes drew upward, to the elaborate cathedral looming over the city.

Cathedrals held a strange fascination to the witch. They were often filled with people who didn’t respect her on principle and who hated her for her actions.

She made her way out from the alley toward a large road that led up to the cathedral. As soon as she emerged on the road, muddy and thick with refuse, Elspeth was assaulted by the presence of so many people. Men, women, children, all running about, moving as if their actions were so very important, their focus single-minded. This was a city, Elspeth knew, not because of the size—buildings all along the road, all the way to the stone wall surrounding the boundaries—nor because of the number of people around her.

No, it was a city because none of the people bothered to glance her way, question her appearance, or wonder at who the stranger was. Cities were places where a person could hide, even a witch. All she had to do was pretend that she belonged, and the city would swallow her whole.

The cathedral bells tolled out the hour. The gnome’s portal had not, to Elspeth’s knowledge, taken away any time. It had merely transported her in location. The language spoken around her was still English, but in an accent Elspeth couldn’t quite pinpoint. She was in the west, she thought, perhaps near Wales.

Going into the cathedral may give her clearer answers. Not only where she was, but what she should do here. Elspeth was fine with serendipity guiding her actions; it didn’t bother her to have no direction as long as she kept moving.

She headed down the street toward the cathedral, ignoring the stalls of merchants. Not too far, she saw a glint of water—a river. The cathedral was the tallest building in the city. Its square Norman tower rose up like a pale mountain on the green. A walled city near a river would likely have a castle or fort, though…Elspeth paused, looking around. Beyond the cathedral, she thought she saw wooden pillars, but the taverns heading down that street held signs that bore images of castles. So there had been one here, but it had been destroyed somehow, rebuilt but not to the grandeur of the cathedral.

It wasn’t the largest cathedral Elspeth had ever seen, but it certainly demanded respect. Pale stone had been carved into strong blocks with gothic details adding a delicacy to the exterior. Elspeth approached the building as if entranced, although she was moved more by the architecture than any holy reverence. There were a few pilgrims around, gathering for mass, and Elspeth joined their throngs, reciting the prayers she knew by heart alongside them. Although she spoke, she walked into the cathedral with eyes wide open, drinking in every detail, noting the moment when the sounds from outside were replaced with the hushed, muted sounds within.

Elspeth had no qualms about God. She didn’t think any Maker hated her for the way she was made. Elspeth had done nothing to gain the magical sight that enabled her to see the fae, so why would a God who knew all and created her with her gift hate her for it? But the men in the Church rarely thought with logic, God-given or not. They claimed the supernatural made a woman evil, when most often what they really despised wasn’t any paranormal trait but education and wisdom.

A woman with education could not be as easily controlled, and most men in palatial positions of power found it easier to limit the knowledge of others through fear and repercussions against any who opposed them. Better to burn a witch and terrorize those forced to watch the murder than dare argue with a woman who had learned more than what she’d been told to think.

But the building itself, a cathedral with spires pointing to a heaven far different from the ones described within, had always fascinated Elspeth. Grand holy buildings were given care in their design to the tiniest details. They were made art. Castles were, first and foremost, forts and strongholds used for war. Most of the castles Elspeth had seen had started as mounds of earth, evolving into mead halls or guard towers. They were added to in increments over the centuries, and the additions were always purposeful and economical, strategy taking dominance over beauty.

Holy buildings were allowed to bloom like flowers, the narthex opening up to the nave, the transept creating a cross-section of light, the apse representing a false end, radiating chapels blooming behind with bursts of color and glimmers of gold. But even better were the places most didn’t see. Grotesques and gargoyles perched outside, clinging to the high-up roof, too far away to be scrutinized, despite the years of work that went into carving every tooth of the snarling dragon or hair of the monstrous beast that was no more than a glorified water drain. Windows hidden behind buttresses were no less intricately leaded and cut than the ones much closer to the floor. Even the ceiling held carved decorations, stone laid in artful precision. There was beauty here, whether the people on the floor bothered to look and see it or not.

Some of the pilgrims had gathered near the choir and, curious, Elspeth stepped closer.

A map hung near the reredos, made of thick vellum and highly decorated. The vellum was cut in a square shape on the bottom with a pointed arch at the top, but the main design of the map was circular, representing the roundness of Earth. While the map was certainly not to scale—it showed Eden near the top, Jerusalem in the center, and it left out most of the world—it was designed to teach about history, not geography. This was a map of, if not the entire world, the Christian one.

The artist had not only labeled the different parts of the world and cities represented, it helpfully added in pictures of animals so that visitors could learn about the exotic beasts that lived in other lands. A camel in the desert, an elephant near the Red Sea, which jutted out on the right side like a pair of lungs, painted crimson to match its name, despite the blue rivers and seas that flowed from it. A unicorn had been added to the bottom left of the map, stuck between the Nile River and Rome.

One part of the map was smudged as pilgrims touched it, reverently stroking the place that marked where they were.

Hereford.

Well, that answered Elspeth’s question as to where the gnome had sent her. Hereford. That meant she had been right—she was close to Wales. The river nearby must be the Wye.

While most of the pilgrims were focused on the part of the huge map that showed Hereford or the Christian sites—Noah’s ark or Jerusalem or the Tower of Babel—Elspeth’s eyes were drawn to a circular maze etched on an island near the center. Unlike nearly all the pilgrims, Elspeth could read, and she recognized the lines as a homage to the Cretan labyrinth of Greek mythology. Her eyes traced the puzzling path.

This felt important. Elspeth wasn’t sure how, but the maze intrigued her. Circles etched in a maze-like path…She closed her eyes, and she could almost see the same circles etched not on vellum but on stone, the air around her cold and dark…

But when she opened her eyes, she saw only the map, the pilgrims, the stone walls of the cathedral, none of them replicating the labyrinthine circles.

Perhaps Elspeth was something of a shadow witch, too, slipping sometimes out of her own time.

Past the map, Elspeth caught sight of something that belonged in the church even less than a unicorn belonged on the map.

“A brownie?” she muttered, her feet already drawing closer to the fae creature.

The young fae was male, and he wore a cap to cover his budding horns. His skin looked muddy, as dirty as many of the pilgrims, to be honest, and he would have blended in with the unwashed masses had he not had such verdant eyes, bright as new spring leaves, sparkling with the type of mischief that only the fae had. When his gaze met Elspeth’s, he jumped back, ducking his head, instantly aware that she had truly seen him, seen what he was, in a way no other human in the church had.

A brownie should be in a house somewhere. This one would surely be more comfortable in the cobbler’s shop Elspeth had found herself in on the other side of the portal. A cathedral had no use for a brownie, and a brownie would never wish to be here. There were fae that Elspeth would have ignored in a holy place like this; a brownie was not one of them. Brownies were a common type of fae, generally harmless. But seeing this one, here, told Elspeth that fate—or the gnome—had sent her here for a purpose.

The brownie, however, didn’t seem to want her help. He quickly turned away, ducking through the crowd.

Elspeth rushed toward him, ignoring the protests of praying pilgrims. The brownie swerved around, scooting into the shadows, trying desperately to blend in. Elspeth’s legs were longer, and she’d nearly caught up to the brownie as he headed toward the chapels behind the altar.

A priest—one without magical sight, who’d been completely oblivious of the brownie—stepped in front of Elspeth as she approached a chapel with a carving by the entrance of the Virgin Mary, a crown of golden stars above her painted head. The priest glared at her sternly.

“I wish to pray in the chapel,” Elspeth said, lowering her face respectfully. One hand groped under her cloak for her bag, slipping her fingers inside and rooting around for…something.

“Our Lady Chapel is closed. The Precentor is converting it to a library.” From the priest’s tone, Elspeth could tell that she would not be allowed entrance into the chapel, not to pray or read. He likely considered her incapable of the latter and the former could be done in any other of the chapels.

Over the priest’s shoulder, Elspeth caught a glimpse of brown and green lurking behind wooden bookshelves.

She knew better than to try to argue her way past the priest in front of her. Her hand inside her bag brushed up against something cold, and she grabbed it up—a small mirror, the silver pure and polished by her own hand. The priest’s eyes widened with curiosity as she held the mirror in the flat of her left hand; with her right, she groped inside her satchel again, trusting that fate would give her the vial of herbs she needed.

It did. The tiny corked jar Elspeth pulled from her bag held chamomile buds.

“That’ll work,” she muttered. Elspeth used her thumb to push off the cork, dumping a dried bud of the flower onto the mirror. In one swift motion, she crushed the dried flower onto the glass with her finger while sliding the crumbling herbs into the shape of a sigil. She raised the mirror to her lips and blew the dust in the priest’s face.

He blinked.

His eyes glazed over, a dreamy look clouding his vision. Elspeth didn’t pause as she slipped past him. The spell was weak, capable of nothing more than brief distraction, but it would be enough to gain her entrance to the chapel-turned-library.

As she stepped under the arching roof, light slanting over the room, Elspeth’s breath caught. For a moment, she forgot about the brownie she’d chased through the church. She had never in her entire life seen so many books. Real books, not merely scrolls or folios, bound in leather, carefully placed along the shelves. The pages peeked out at her; the books were stored with their spines pointing up, hiding their titles.

It was because of the chains. Each book had a shining metal chain extending from the spine. Little wonder; a treasure such as books was locked up for a reason. Tables under the shelves made it easy for a reader to pull a volume down, open it on the table, and replace the chained book when done…but the chain itself ensured the book would not be stolen.

Elspeth walked closer to the nearest shelf, marveling at the volumes. So many. She had a small journal bound with scraped leather that she took notes in so she might recall details of herbs and track her journeys. It had cost her far more than she cared to admit, money she’d saved for more than a year, and the pages were roughly hewn and dapple-edged. Elspeth had seen Bibles in other cathedrals, of course, and ledgers among the rich when she visited them. She had even visited a duke once who had a similar system of chains on his books, but there had only been ten books in his library, a vast wealth.

Or so she had thought. Elspeth couldn’t wrap her mind around the sheer number of tomes on all the many shelves. Hundreds…maybe a thousand or more.

This was more valuable than gold.

“What do you want?”

Elspeth jumped at the sullen voice. The brownie peered at her from behind one of the bookcases.

“I could ask the same of you,” Elspeth said tentatively.

“I want to be left alone.”

She looked around at the rows and rows of books. “Do you read?”

“Some.”

Elspeth wasn’t sure this was true. The fae were wary of written words, almost as cautious of them as iron. Fae couldn’t lie, but they could trick—the brownie could have meant he read tea leaves or the weather’s signs, not the written word.

“Do you have a name I may call you?” Elspeth asked. She knew better than to request the fae’s true name, but nicknames and identifiers were common enough and held no magic either of them could use against the other.

“A human called me Puck once,” the brownie said, shrugging.

“Puck.” It was a good name, one Elspeth knew from a play she’d seen when she was a child. She could imagine why a human would call this creature by such a pernicious name.

“Do you live here?” she asked.

The brownie nodded, once, his sharp chin swiping through the air.

“Why?”

Puck squinted his eyes, an angry glint to his gaze.

“I just mean,” Elspeth said, holding her hands up to show she meant no harm, “why do you not have a proper home? A library is not anyone’s home.”

“It’s home enough for the books,” Puck spat out.

“But you are not a book.” Elspeth pulled a tome from a shelf, the metal clattering as she lowered it to the table. “And these books are chained. Are you bound?”

She used her magical sight and saw no constraints on the brownie.

But he hesitated in his answer. Elspeth saw the fear in his eyes, the tightly coiled tension in his ropy muscles. The brownie was as trapped as the books locked on the shelves.

She just couldn’t tell how.

“Can I help?” Elspeth asked softly.

Puck snorted. “I can’t pay you.”

Sometimes, Elspeth appreciated the way the fae always paid their debts. But other times it frustrated her. Aid could not be given; it must always be purchased.

“Do you want a home?” Elspeth asked. She knew the answer. All brownies wanted a home. It was all they wanted. They needed the safety and love a home provided the same way Elspeth needed food and water every day.

And it wasn’t just the walls and roof of a building. A house wouldn’t do. A cathedral wouldn’t do. A brownie needed a home.

“I wouldn’t mind a home, either,” Elspeth confessed.

This made the brownie more trusting than anything else Elspeth had said so far. He took a step closer. Elspeth could see the ruddy dark behind his tanned skin, the outlines of his budding horns at his temples. His eyes seemed to see everything. His whole body was tense, like a deer that had heard a snap of a twig.

“I had a home, near Canterbury,” Elspeth said, hoping to build that trust more.

“What happened to it?” Puck asked.

“My mother died in childbirth when I was seven,” Elspeth said. “My father remarried soon after. His wife…did not like me. And I did not wish to marry the man she chose for me.”

“You fled?” Puck’s voice was a whisper.

“I have not stopped running.”

Puck nodded. He understood this.

Elspeth waited.

Eventually, the brownie spoke. “I had a home. I lived there for four human generations.”

“A good home, then.”

“It was. Until it wasn’t.”

When Puck didn’t continue, Elspeth asked the obvious question. “Hunters?”

Puck nodded. “It was the baby.”

“The Hunter came for a baby?” She couldn’t keep the disgust from her voice.

“The parents called for him.” Puck’s shoulders sagged. “The baby didn’t cry. They thought a changeling had come, that she had been swapped at birth, that the babe was one of my kind.”

“She was one of mine.” Elspeth could see the story unfold as vividly as if she’d been there. The baby was born with the same ability to see the fae that she herself had. And Puck, the brownie of the home who’d been there for four generations, had—for the first time in all that time—been seen. When the baby would start to cry, Puck would amuse her. The baby would watch.

Her eyes tracking something her parents could not see. Her giggles coming in what they thought was silence.

Witch Hunters had grown increasingly proficient in the past decade. Of course they would be called. The Hunters made it seem as if they protected good, righteous people from evil witches, but what the Hunters actually wanted was a witch who could see the fae.

Hunters may not be able to see that which they truly hunted, but if they used a witch the same way humans used dogs in a fox run, well…They had iron enough to trap a fae they could not see. And once that fae was trapped, the Hunters would drain the creature of its magic, storing it to use for their own nefarious purposes.

A fae could not live without magic.

“What happened?” Elspeth’s voice croaked as she looked at the brownie, trying to see scars, a sign of escape.

“I left before the Hunters came.” Puck smirked, the look more a grimace than one of mirth. “Somehow the door stuck, and they couldn’t open it. Then the chimney clogged. So much smoke. The cow got out of its pen and wandered down the road, and no one could find their shoes so they could chase after her.”

“Mischievous.”

“The price of time.”

The delays the brownie had given to his family—the family he had spent four generations serving to make their house a home—had bought him enough time to slip away. By the time the Hunters examined the baby, she was likely crying. Wailing for a friend she would never see again.

Elspeth let herself imagine that. A brownie running away, running for his life, the weeping screams of a baby chasing him down the road. Away from home.

“You’ve found no home since then?” Elspeth asked. She glanced behind her. Her short spell would wear off soon; the priest would notice her, or someone else would.

“I’ve slipped into a few,” Puck confessed.

“Then why come here?” Elspeth asked.

“There are no babies in a church.”

That wasn’t entirely true, of course. Every human came to mass, despite their age. But none stayed. And no one would notice a baby’s eyes tracking a being no one could see in a crowded church filled with murmuring worshippers, flickering candles, and distractions galore.

“I have no home to give you,” Elspeth said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the priest outside the chapel move. She was running out of time. “But you can come with me, if you’d like. Perhaps you’ll find one.”

Puck cocked his head. “Why?” he asked.

She thought of the gnome. “Can you make portals?”

“With ash.”

Easy enough to get. “We could travel together. I could help you find a new home; you could help me go to new places to find one.”

He seemed to be considering. Beyond the library, the priest started to turn toward them, and Puck slipped between the shelves, Elspeth following him. A scrap of parchment had been left on one of the tables beneath the chained shelves. Elspeth could see marking on it—some attempt at recording and organizing the books into a proper library, she assumed—but before she could get a better look, Puck lifted the corner to the candle flame. The parchment sputtered and burned, and Puck gathered the ashes in his palm.

The brownie had an affinity for fire. Cornwall, Elspeth thought. There was an ancient being there, another one who liked fire. That place felt…right.

“Do you know where we should go next?” Puck asked, dipping his finger in the ash on his palm.

Elspeth could only ever see one step ahead. The path she took was never fully illuminated, but she trusted it nonetheless. She’d been turned away from York, but that let her meet the gnome. The gnome had offered her passage to Hereford, and that had shown her Puck. If she squinted—with her mind’s eye, not her true vision—Elspeth thought she may be able to see some of the curves in the path of her life. A seaside town. A ship. A new land. A new adventure.

She shook herself.

She didn’t need to see more than one step ahead to know she walked the path meant for her.

“Cornwall,” she told the brownie.

Behind them, they heard the priest shouting. They’d been spotted. Quick as a spark, Puck drew a sigil with ash on the wall, and together, he and Elspeth stepped into the unknown.

Historical Notes

As with Museum of Magic, while Emmi Castor and her family are fictional, nearly everything else is based on history or folklore.

The myths around changelings, such as Bak, are particularly dark in history, and should be acknowledged. The idea that magical creatures swapped babies with one of their own exists across multiple cultures and is likely a reflection of early societies’ misunderstanding of mental health issues.

Oberon as king of the fae and dreams is a nod to Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, where I also picked up Puck’s name. Indeed, the flower potion that Emmi uses to see also came from that play, although it’s likely Shakespeare lifted it from folklore and mythology himself.

Stonehenge, of course, is very real. I’ve always thought the pillars and lintels look like doorways, something that some historians agree with me on, although they theorize the site was used as a gathering place or market.

Undine or water fae exist across cultures as well, and—aside from Hans Christian Andersen’s tale—water creatures are among the most vicious and bloodthirsty. For many early cultures, water presented a dangerous, sometimes impassable boundary, so it’s not that strange to link undine with death. Ships crash due to rocks on the bottom of the river? Blame a siren. People go missing in the boggy area of a marsh? Perhaps a kelpie lured them there.

A rare exception, as this book notes, are selkies. They are limited to areas linked to the North Sea, particularly northern Scotland and the Faroe Islands. Unlike many other water fae, selkies are often portrayed as being kind to humans…until a human steals from them. Even then, nearly all the tales don’t portray vengeance but instead a struggle to escape. Fishermen would lure female selkies to be their wives, hiding their skins so they could not escape, and keeping them in captivity for years. Long enough for children to be born. For the fisherman to assume his selkie wife can’t leave.

Once the fisherman drops his guard and the selkie finds her skin, most stories have the fisherman in a vulnerable position—at sea—and the children not gifted with the powers to transform like their mother. Many fae stories would have ended in dark murder here, but instead, the selkie stories generally have the selkie donning her skin and escaping to the sea…but not killing her fisherman husband in revenge, and typically visiting her children and loving them from afar.

Selkies, I decided, were survivors.

All of the locations in Orkney are real, from the standing stones in the sheep pasture to the prison in the cathedral. And, unfortunately, Black Patie was also real. He was a horrifically evil man who kicked off the witch trials in Orkney, inspired by his cousin, King James I & VI, who started the trials in Britain, a story explored in Emmi’s first adventure with Puck in Museum of Magic. Including Black Patie felt like coming full circle to that moment, and a way for me to link Emmi back to the root of inspiration for all her stories: the real women of history accused of witchcraft.

Allison Balfour was also real. She lived in Orkney and was the first victim of Black Patie in 1594. Black Patie was so evil and corrupt that his brothers and other men tried to murder him. Whether they got a spell from Allison or not is up for debate. She adamantly professed her innocence until her children were tortured in front of her. Black Patie’s brothers were not tortured and were eventually forgiven.

In the end, the Orkney witch trials claimed the lives of nearly seventy people, almost all of them women. Most were hung at the hill at the top of Clay Loan Road after being tried in the cathedral.

With Special Thanks

This book was originally written in serialized form, releasing one chapter at a time, with input from readers to determine the outcomes of twists and turns. In particular, thanks go to my active Patreon community and friends in Discord for supporting, sharing, and shaping this story!

Author and designer Jessica Khoury developed the cover for this book, and I am indebted to her for her art.

I am also deeply appreciative to Jess Read for proofing the manuscript and helping me make it shine.

As always, my thanks to you, the reader. Stories are nothing but ink and paper until they come alive in your imagination. Thank you for making mine real.

About the Author

Beth Revis is a multiple New York Times and USA Today bestselling author with books available in more than twenty languages.

Beth is best known for science fiction and fantasy, but she has published widely in multiple genres and formats. Beth is the co-owner of Wordsmith Workshops and the author of the Paper Hearts series, both of which aid aspiring authors. She is currently working on multiple new novels. She lives in rural North Carolina with her son and husband.

Subscribe to her monthly newsletter at bethrevis.substack.com or discover her latest serialized novel and weekly writing advice at patreon.com/bethrevis. For more information, visit bethrevis.com.

Also by Beth Revis

Fiction

Across the Universe

A Million Suns

Shades of Earth

The Body Electric

Star Wars: Rebel Rising

A World Without You

Give the Dark My Love

Bid My Soul Farewell

Star Wars: The Princess and the Scoundrel

Blood & Feathers

Museum of Magic

House of Hex

Night of the Witch

The Fate of Magic

Full Speed to a Crash Landing

How to Steal a Galaxy

Last Chance to Save the World

Nonfiction

The Paper Hearts Series

A collection of advice &

interactive workbooks

designed for writers.