From NYT bestselling author Ann Aguirre comes a cozy fae fantasy romance featuring a sunshine-shadow slow burn, a grumpy-but-secretly-tender love interest, an unforgettable found family, and a world lush with wildcraft magic. Perfect for fans of T. Kingfisher and Emily Wilde’s Encyclopedia of Faeries.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Hocus Pocus Handbook by Ann Aguirre, which releases on September 1st 2026.
Thea Winter didn’t choose to be a changeling — stolen from the mortal world as a baby, raised in the wildlands by a hobgoblin named Mudge who taught her everything worth knowing. How to read the weather in a crow’s wing. How to barter with brownies. How to stay alive in a world of capricious fae courts. What Mudge couldn’t teach her was how to stay out of trouble. Which is why she’s entangled in a objectionable marriage of convenience.
Or would be, but her spouse bolted. Now she has to hunt down Devan J. Fenelon, but she’s been saddled with a taciturn, humorless hunter known as Winter’s Hound. He answers only to his cousin, and she’s not looking forward to this quest at all.
Kerboros has survived the Winter Court by being exactly what they made him: relentless, invisible, and careful never to want anything at all. His life is an endless series of ceaseless commands from his reprehensible cousin, Lord Liskaal. Since his father’s failed rebellion, Kerboros has been permitted to survive only as an example to others, an object lesson as to how far one may fall. But traveling with Thea—wild, warm, impossible Thea—is a glorious torment for an enforcer who has never known freedom.
She is sunshine. He is shadow.
Their love is forbidden, but when irresistible force sweeps up an immovable object, the resulting reaction might be magical…
EXCERPT
1
A Spell for Skulking and Skullduggery
There will be times when you need to pass unseen, my gem. Your magic can be a mite irregular, but here’s the working I use to slip away unnoticed. Strongest cast at turning times; add more will as needed. Needs must and all that.
You’ll require:
A bit of black quartz to connect you to the soil
A silver athame to etch the air
Dried chamomile, burdock, and chicory, all steeped in a tea, to salute the sea
Dried dogbane burned in a clay pot to honor the inner flame
You can do these in any order, though it’s strongest to work fire first, then air, earth, and water. There are no magic words, whatever the brownies may try to tell you. I find it’s best to craft your own, as the old magic responds better to sincerity than rote recitation. In a pinch, you’ll do as you must and let your good intentions carry the rest. I trust you’ll do no harm. Even as a little one, you cared for helpless creatures. Countless times, I caught you saving creepies and crawlies, those caught in various snares. And you nearly always had a toad or a lizard somewhere on your person.
Use the sneaking spell to protect yourself and mayhap have a lark, but never to cause suffering. Not that you would, being made of joy and all. Use this knowledge well and carry all my affection with you, wherever you may go.
THEA
Pookas just want to have fun.
They really do.
Which is why it’s a shame that they’ve been rounded up and are confined in the royal stables for a pageant they didn’t consent to participating in. House Winter loves its spectacle. I should know; I’ve spent most of my life fleeing from sparkling diadems and gowns made of gossamer, flower petals, and raven feathers.
Da and I were summoned from Miremorel House, our place in the wildlands, in honor of the Winter Court offering hospitality to the Summer delegation, serving as hosts for the peace talks. Among the fair folk, there’s no greater rivalry than that between Summer and Winter. Though I try to stay out of such matters, sometimes I get dragged in because my presence has soothing properties, even if nobody seems to understand exactly why.
It also means that refusing this “invitation” is impossible. I’m supposed to get dressed up in a fancy gown and stand in the courtyard while the high host assembles, also in elegant attire. Then we’re meant to watch the pookas prance about in their decorative regalia. Someone will sing, and then there will be an impressive display of Winter magic. Then we’ll all proceed to the great hall for boring speeches and for Lord Liskaal to make promises he won’t keep.
Yeah, I won’t let things go according to plan. I haven’t told Da about my intentions because I don’t want to get him in trouble. Not that he disapproves. I learned most of what I know about fomenting trouble from him, but he’s better at not getting caught. I average about 50 percent, and I don’t like those odds, but I can’t ignore how despondent the pookas are. Right now, they’re in horse form, some dark, some pale, and all of them have glowing eyes. If they weren’t locked into this shape, they’d be fleeing as cats or hares.
High fae magic can constrain and compel them, forcing them to wear elaborate harnesses and prance around with braided manes and ribbons in their tails. The visual aspect isn’t the entire point, as there are layers on layers within high fae interactions. No, Winter is demonstrating their dominance in front of their primary rival, and if I were an obedient subject, I’d cooperate.
Instead, I have green and brown paint smeared on my face as I crawl through the garden toward the stables. I haven’t perfected the skulking spell Da tried to teach me, so that leaves me with mundane solutions. I don’t have much time, since I left this to the last minute, hoping they wouldn’t be able to round up the pookas again before the pageant, as they will race from the palace grounds with supernatural speed.
I pop my head up, scanning the area. There don’t seem to be any witnesses, so I open the wide doors and dart inside. Within, the pen is dim and smells muskily of misery. Anyone who could breathe in this much sadness and ignore it—well, nobody ever claimed that the high fae exude kindness and consideration. Knife-sharp beauty, yes, along with vainglorious conceit and gilded self-interest, all those things, but rarely mercy.
One thing I didn’t count on, however, was the pookas being already decked out in finery. I swear softly. It will take too long to remove harnesses and unweave braids and ribbons. Maybe a transmutation spell, but my magic is wild and thready at best. When I was younger, it tormented me, but then as I got older still, I heard the whispers.
I’m not fae at all. I’m a changeling, stolen from the mortal realm.
By that point, I’d eaten far too much fae food. I can’t go back, at least not to stay. I’d survive a visit, but fae magic has permeated my flesh and bones, both a poison that would kill me in the mortal realm and a cure for my mortality while I’m here. Consuming magical food, breathing the air, and drinking the water and wine conveys a certain fae-adjacent magic.
As Da taught me, I visualize the result: harnesses and ribbons shifting to puffs of silvery smoke. The magic dances just out of reach, and the number of targets complicates the process even more. I focus and strain, and—
Boom!
I stifle another curse—silver sparks instead of smoke, and they land on the provender scattered on the floor. I watch, eyes wide, as the flames spread. This is why I don’t try my hand at magic more often. My heart thumps furiously, but panic solves nothing. I race to the doors, opening them so the pookas can escape.
They can’t exit the compound without my help, so I run alongside the first majestic fae, the one known as Ferghus, and call, “With your leave?”
I speak the greeting because it’s rude to touch an elder’s mind without consent, even in urgent situations. There are always hierarchies at play, small matters that could create big problems if one misunderstands their own place in the rankings.
Hurry, comes the mind-sung response.
Now I have permission. To the gates.
I can hear the wild fae as many cannot. The high fae have lost these powers in exchange for more glamour and elevated magic. They can create gemstones and conjure silver and gold, travel through mirrors as well as stone and mushroom circles, make mortals wish to sell their souls for a kiss, but they don’t seem particularly happy about any of these abilities. To me, they seem like they’re starving; no excess or pleasure can ever be enough. They will never touch a pooka’s mind, cavort with pixies, swim in a moonlit brook with the river nymphs, or sit on a lonely beach as a naiad serenades her lost love. I would never trade those moments; I feel at home in the glades and loughs, where the magic is thick as honey and twice as sweet.
Soon, I’ll be back out there, and if I time it right, so will the pookas. This time, I’m careful as can be, and I burn just enough magic to give myself a boost and borrow the bounce to scramble onto Ferghus’s back. He doesn’t break stride, leading the charge through the garden toward the gates.
Fire crackles behind us, an acrid smell nearly unknown in the heart of the Winter stronghold. Everything here is white and silver, apart from the gardens. Those are carefully curated with deep green and icy blue, flashing past in a blur of cool and wintry hues.
We nearly trample several wild fae servants in our ride to freedom, but shouts echo in our wake, and the sentries will be expecting us.
I hunch low, aligning my body against Ferghus’s back, and hope nobody gets a good look at my face. The mud and verdant paste will help obscure my features, but there’s a short list of folk who would dare such an uproar. With magical aid, it probably won’t take them long to hunt me down, despite the precaution of concealing my identity. The reckless ride jolts my spine as we vault the hedge that separates the courtyard from the ward, a common area where guests are made to wait so they understand the importance of those who dwell deeper within the palace.
The gates are closing in response to the smoke or the horns or perhaps even the baying of the coin-shìth, who will be tasked with tracking us. I’m lucky they’re howling and not barking; that would be a death sentence for the pookas and me alike. I calculate our speed and find it will be close, too close, if I don’t stack the odds in our favor.
When I reach for the magic again, it burns, a slipping-slithering badness that creates a dark and fraying thread around the periphery of my vision. The black bleeds red when I insist on pulling taut, holding the gates steady, steady, steady—
Stop.
Stop.
I hold and I hold and I hold until pain is a color, glowing all over my body, brightness and burrowing, a worm made of needles trying to eat my skin. My ears whoosh and pop. We’re through, and the pookas put on speed, a glorious and thundering escape. Behind us, the gates crash closed too late, and the silver metal rings out a peculiarly dissonant tone.
Ahead, the wildlands unfold before us. No easy paths, just light game trails and flora that smells like home. Ferghus trots to a stop as soon as it’s safe, and I slide off his back.
We honor you, he sings. Thea-friend, we are a whisper away. We guard you, always.
We are kin, I sing back. Always, Ferghus-friend.
The herd shifts. Scatters. They’re ravens and cats and goats and hares now, all racing in different directions. It will be impossible for House Winter to provide the scheduled entertainment, and they will lose face before House Summer. Concern for my dad often keeps me relatively compliant, but I have no loyalty to Winter. I’ve seen how they treat the wild fae.
I’m on my own, no regrets. Ferghus has been a good friend, and the other pookas deserved my aid as well. Returning to the palace would be a terrible idea, especially since I don’t like the place at the best of times. Mudge, my da, has a suite in the stable complex, and I’m always welcome in the loft I occupied as a child, but I prefer his sylvan cottage, Miremorel House, a cozy little nest within a hollowed-out mushroom. Da told me that they’re tiny in the mortal realm, but plants and fungi grow to towering sizes here, feeding on the magic.
I have spent my best times at Miremorel. But it might not be wise to show up where they’d expect me to hide, as there will be hell to pay for today’s work.
It might behoove me to go a-roving in the wild, drink with brownies, and barter with hobgoblins, some of my favorite people in the entire world. I’ve read stories that travel across the fairy rings, tatty books left by human visitors, and the writers always get it wrong. Brownies may complete house chores, but they’re not peaceful like the fables say. If I gave a brownie a dish of cream in exchange for housework, I’d be slapped so hard, my ears would ring. And I’ve never been swindled by a hobgoblin. Not once.
I pause, breathing in the sweetness of the air. Inside the palace, it smells…tame, purified by layers of protective magic. Out here, there’s earth and moss and peat and the complexity of so many flowers that there’s a war of enticing scents. Darkly luscious inkberry mingles with the bell ambrosia, marrying the appeal of velvety darkness with a silvery sheen, an aromatic echo of the swirls of scintillating light in the sky. This is where I feel most free, entirely at home. I can breathe out here.
In a luxuriously self-indulgent motion, I stretch, feeling my shoulders ease. More tension trickles away when I pull my shoes off and sink my toes into the loamy earth. The wilds love me back, as brambles never tear at my skin and leaves caress me when I pass by. A dangling strand of ivy shivers in delight when I whisper, “Good day to you, green-friend.”
I set my course in the opposite direction of Miremorel House. Da doesn’t need my troubles to come knocking at his door, even if he’s not in residence. The guards might wreck up the place if they’re aggravated enough.
Hmm. I could visit Macha. She lives a day’s walk from the palace, past the point where the glade becomes fen. Though I know the way in my sleep, she can be cantankerous. I once spent some time as a lizard because I showed up without notice, and I have no desire to repeat the experience. Not Macha, then.
Who else would take me in?
As I walk, I contemplate where I might find refuge. Ordinarily, one’s parents should be their first port in a storm, but Rain and Fen have never been that for me. Nominally, I am their daughter, but not by blood. Their indifference has haunted me my entire life. No one has ever addressed the fact that my presence is a crime that’s received no redress—that the culprits among the Winter Court who stole me from my mortal kin to punish Rain and Fen for their forbidden love have yet to be uncovered. I feel so conflicted because I shouldn’t even be here, yet I love the wildlands with my entire soul.
And that brings me back to the changeling status, a tarnish to my name that I can’t shake, no matter how virtuously I behave.
And I decided long ago that I much prefer to be bad.
