The statue’s soft smile seemed a little too impish. As if she found amusement in Saga’s growing awkwardness.
Saga glanced at her watch. It was 8:30. Well, she’d almost made it. “We’ll talk about this…later.” She locked the door behind her and fled 221 to dash across the street to the small cluster of town houses.
Stepping over the threshold into her grandmother’s home gave her pause again. Undeniable still was that strange sense that something was off-kilter, like the furniture had been moved or was out of place just enough that it felt as if she was stepping into an entirely different home.
Her heart sank, worried. “Mamó?” She called out. Perhaps this was just what magic felt like. Perhaps she was now so much more aware of it. Perhaps—
“Mrow?” Something velvety, soft, and black leaned its entire weight against her legs. When she checked for the cause, she saw the shadow turn around and butt headfirst into her shins before rubbing itself against her once more.
The knot in her chest released, and she could not fight the smile as she reached down to run her fingertips along the creature’s back. “Hey Riddle-cat, how are you feeling?”
Riddle turned and nuzzled against her once more now in the other direction before plopping onto her feet to expose his belly. He was large for a housecat, but all lean muscle. His coat was pristine and sable save for a small white tuft at his throat shaped like a starburst—though this was mostly covered by the smart white bowtie around his neck that made him look like he was wearing a fine tuxedo. It was hard to think anything could ever be wrong with those bright gold eyes staring up at her.
“Is that my Saga?” Saoirse called from upstairs. “At this hour?”
Saga flinched and realized she was still holding the can of Spectral. She snuck it between the door and the shoe rack. “I told you I’d check on Riddle!”
“He’s fine. Big baby of a creature. Hasn’t left me alone all morning—that’s how I knew someone must have come to the door.” Her voice traveled down the stairs until she was finally turning the corner in time to see Saga removing her rain boots. “I hope you planned to stay for a bit.”
Saga nodded. “Yes, please.”
“Come into the kitchen, I’ve already put on a kettle.” Saoirse led the way into the house once more.
“Are you done with the pictures, then?” Saga asked, seeing the table was now devoid of albums as she sat down.
“Yes, and the solicitor will bring the box round after the funeral, so I put the rest of them back upstairs.” Saoirse paused before remembering what she was doing, then grabbed a teapot and began to fill the built-in steeper with an Earl Grey. “You didn’t happen to bring any more of those tarts, did you?”
“No, not this time.”
The older woman shook her head. “Shame. But probably for the best. Think I’ve had heartburn ever since.”
“Are you all right?”
There was a dismissive wave of her free hand as Saoirse emptied the kettle into the teapot. “Just fine, petal. Curse of getting older. Too muchof anything good, and your heart starts complaining. It’s silly if you ask me. Heart complaining about what the stomach and mouth get to enjoy. Though perhaps that’s really what heartburn is. It knows it’s missing out on all the tasty stuff.” She gave her granddaughter a playful wink.
Saga smiled, but it was tainted by the knowledge that her grandmother was not at any age to be ignoring what her body was telling her, whether she agreed with it or not. “Orit’s stomach acid rising up your esophagus because the lower esophageal sphincter isn’t working how it used to.”
Saoirse’s expression soured. “Don’t say ‘sphincter’ at the table. It’s impolite.”
Saga bowed in her seat. “Forgive me, Lord Table, I’ve misplaced my manners.”
This joke was pointedly ignored. “Have you had breakfast?”
Saga considered the handful of scroggin and gulps of electric blue liquid. “Sort of?”
A loud tsk. “Knowing you, that means at best you managed some sort of squirrel food before you scampered over.”
“I didn’t really have an appetite this morning,” Saga conceded.
“Is this about Hugh again?”
Saga flinched but held to her purpose. “No…” She chewed the inside of her cheek, debating how to approach the subject delicately. What she managed was an awkward sidestep relevant to the case. “Mamó, did you know Eira’s nurse very well? Valentina LaRosa?”
Saoirse looked puzzled as she set two teacups and the pot on the table. “Not terribly well. I think I met her physician more often. Eira didn’t like having her with her during social calls. Our time together was particularly important—she wanted us to feel as independent as possible. Like we used to. Why do you ask?”
The knot in her chest was back. Here it was. This was the moment. There was no turning back. “I met the new tenant in Apartment B.”
Saoirse stuttered in her movements. “Oh?” Her voice was strained. She began to busy herself by looking in the fridge.
