Page 30 of Muddled Magic

I dashed to the hole, releasing Sawyer so I could snatch up the grimoire and the claw. As the tomcat disappeared into the crawlspace in a blur of stripes, I shoved the claw into my dress pocket and clutched the grimoire to my chest before dropping down after him.

The mound of ashes and rosemary sprigs I’d created over the months to hide the grimoire cushioned my fall only slightly, exploding into a white cloud like a puffball mushroom exuding its spores. Coughing, I scrambled free of the cloud and smeared the crust from my eyes.

The faint glow of blue lanternlight shone from the west; Roland stood there with a lantern in his fist, flapping his hand at me to hurry up. Sawyer was already with him, bunched up tight against the ground, the pupils of his eyes so wide that the irises only shone like the thinnest amber rings.

Hunching, I loped-scurried-trundled-whatevered on bent legs and one hand through the crawlspace, ducking cobwebs the entire time, to where a trapdoor rose from the packed earth. Inside, more of that blue lanternlight revealed a vertical drop with a ladder embedded in one side, the bend at the bottom leading off towards the orchard.

Roland held the trapdoor open, insisting I enter the tunnel first. It was a short drop for a witch, maybe six feet, so I crossed my arms over my chest with the grimoire tucked against me and jumped.

No sooner did my feet hit the ground, my legs buckling under me, did the farmhouse door explode off its hinges.

My heart guttered in my chest, turning into a stone to drop past my stomach and hurtle down straight into my toes. I’d only known the man a short time, but I’d definitely befriended his wolf. “Lewellyn,” I whispered, throat tightening.

Then Sawyer was falling onto my lap and Roland was leaping off the last rung of the ladder, the trapdoor shut and locked behind him. After dousing the handheld lantern and shoving it into a little crevice in the wall designed for that exact purpose, he leaned forward and gave me a sharp slap to the cheek. The sting make me blink back to my senses and blink again to adjust my eyes to the dim lighting.

“No turning back now, lass,” the hob told me, already pulling me to my feet. “The wolf can take care of himself. Let’s go!”

“R-right.” I checked my pockets—the claw was still there, digging into the fabric—and clutched the grimoire to my chest before scurrying off after the hob.

Little lanterns no larger than my hand hung from hooked stakes buried deep into the packed ground. If I’d had the time to investigate, I would have pried open the latch with a fingernail to peek inside, wondering what exactly was the source of the blue light. There were no gas lines down here, nor electrical, and the lanterns didn’t have oil wells or wicks from which to draw fuel.

I knew we were no longer under the farmhouse when roots as thick as my arm created a natural arch over our heads.

The big maple, I realized. Planted at the southern edge of my fenced-in yard, just past the floral wards, it signaled that we were well on our way towards the orchards.

And away from whatever Lewellyn was facing in the farmhouse.

Magic hunters? My family? The rival coven? A new threat that had ferreted me out?

“Misty, come on,” Sawyer urged.

I hadn’t realized I’d stalled, looking back the way we had come as if the dimly lit tunnel would reveal an answer.

It didn’t matter what it was. I was going to end my self-imposed exile and the curse on the Hawthorne family grimoire imminently, and then I was going to rid myself of this wretched parasite bracelet and defend what I had come to call my own.

“Roland,” I said briskly, hurrying to catch up. It wasn’t easy; these tunnels had been designed for three-foot-tall hobs and not full-grown witches. And when the root structure of the maple had turned the tunnel floor rather uneven and bumpy, I realized I didn’t have any shoes on, just my thick woolen socks. There’d been no time to dress properly before my abrupt exodus. “Where do these tunnels lead?”

“Everywhere,” he replied. “How do you think we get around the orchard unseen? We can’t turn invisible like brownies.”

“I need to get to the moonflower grove.” There were crystals there, crystals I could take advantage of to create a protection barrier. Plus it was out of sight of the orchard and the farmhouse, a place someone who might be looking for me would not think to check. At least, I hoped. “It’s in the eastern—”

“Forest,” the hob finished, nodded. “Aye, we know of it, lass. There hasn’t been much around here that you could keep secret from us, except that, it seems.” He jerked his chin at the spell book clutched to my chest.

The tunnel eventually split into a four-way intersection, the right tunnel leading west towards the bakery stand at the orchard gate, the left east towards the forest, and the center—

“Why are you going that way?” I asked as the hob continued straight ahead without hesitation. “The forest is east of here.”

“For reinforcements, obviously,” came a smart reply. “And that leftmost tunnel doesn’t head as easterly as you think it does. Now less questions and more spring to your step, lass!”

The rebuke stung, reminding me not to question, or antagonize, the one so generously offering to help me. I shuffled after him, keeping my growing anxiety to myself.

There were a few more twists and turns, but Roland led the way at a confident jog, our journey terminating at a round wooden door on shiny black hinges. They must’ve been well oiled or spelled to keep from rusting under the earth, and when the hob depressed the latch, the door swung open silently.

Inside, shelf upon shelf carved into the cool earth were lined with amber glass bottles, each plugged with cork and sealed in wax. Half-gallon jars of beet-pickled eggs, barrels of apples, and jugs of hob grog labeled with this year’s date were stuffed in every available nook and cranny—the hobs were clearly storing away the essentials in case of an apocalyptic event.

An old copper still hunched in the far corner beside another round door, and the rest of the hobs crowded together around a large lantern set atop a stool, this one’s light a dappled collection of lemony yellows, palest greens, and muted pinks. The tiny lights floated on an unseen current, lazy and unhurried, like sleepy fireflies or dust motes.

“Grandpappy’s secret whiskey cellar,” I breathed.

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