“Your grandmother’s familiar pointed me to the dishes, and then the garbage. I extrapolated that your grandmother may have consumed something and then unknowingly disposed of it—something Riddle seems to believe was at least partially responsible for what happened here. Poison is a reasonable guess, wouldn’t you agree?”
Saga blinked. Hard.
“Where…did I lose you?” It was not a patronizing question; on the contrary, it almost sounded sheepish. Saga got the notion Avery was often accustomed to riding a speeding train of thought only to realize her companions had not had a chance to board.
“Riddle…”
The cat trilled at her feet as if to answer.
Saga involuntarily smiled at the sound, but it was rapidly replaced by a suspicious frown. “You said Riddle is a what?”
“Your grandmother’s familiar. Any witch or wizard worth their salt has one. He was hers. Nowyours, I suppose, depending on what you both decide. They’re often types of lesser fey, or spirits that act as a companion and guide through magical training and navigating the Twilight. They’re a kind of protector.”
Saga reluctantly met the golden eyes of the cat at her feet. The same golden eyes every cat named Riddle always had.
He slowly blinked at her.
It was strange how something so obvious could stare you in the face for years and yet not be given a second thought because no matter how plain it was in front of you, the reality was too strange to accept. There hadn’t been many cats with the same name. Exactly as she’d imagined as a child, there had always been just one. One ageless fey creature who’d spent countless nights curled up at the foot of her bed growing up. But despite his ever-watchful eye and constant companionship, something did not sit well with her. “Then why didn’t he protect her?” she whispered.
Riddle’s ears tucked back and he wrapped his tail around his feet.
“An excellent question,” Avery answered. “One I intend to find out the answer to. Are you okay to lock up here? I need to call on an old friend. Lahiri thinks she’s still operating out of Covent Garden.”
“You’re leaving?”
“There’s a lot of spell work here that I could really use some clarification about. How Riddle was circumvented, how the wards were burst—what sort of magic can enact transference on a delayed trigger. I know a witch who might have answers.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No.” Avery shook her head. “I couldn’t ask you to do that. Not now. Not after you just went through all this.”
“You’re not asking,” Saga declared. “I’mtellingyou that I am coming with you.” She felt a strange sensation of emotional pins and needles. Anger began to rise and seep through what felt like cracks in the numbness, bothpainful and invigorating. “Whoever is doing this took her right in front of me, and I was completely powerless to stop it. If there isanythingI can do to find them—tostop themfrom doing this to someone else, I’m going to do it. The more I learn about how this magic works, the more useful I will be to you.”
“There areotherways you can help. Less hands-on things.”
“Why are you wasting time arguing with me about my feelings?” Saga demanded. “I want to go. Let’sgo.”
And so they went.
They took a Bakerloo train to Charing Cross with the plan to walk the short rest of the way to Covent Garden Market. At least, she was pretty sure that was where they were going. It was possible in the years since Avery had been there, it had either grown or shrunk—but regardless, it was a good place to start looking.
Avery was buried in thought, and Saga’s heart was pounding with so much anxiety neither said much on the journey—especially with the tube so packed it would have made eavesdropping child’s play. The absolute silence of a packed train car was always fascinating to Saga. It was the only place she knew other than a library where there existed an unspoken understanding to simply not speak above a low volume, else you be condemned by the rest of the car as incredibly rude.
Eight minutes, four stops, and they were exiting the train into the tile-covered underground.
Saga could hear the distant resonance of one of the early bird buskers strumming what sounded like a guitar. The sound bounced off the walls and through the halls with an enticing and ethereal quality. As they approached, the thrum of the guitar was joined by a sweet tenor voice—both from a young man with sandy brown hair and a distressed leather jacket that hadn’t been made for him but had been loved in every lifetime.
It was the sort of everyday magic that could make her momentarily forget her life had crumbled earlier that morning.
“How do the stairs move?” Avery asked on the escalator.
“A motor of some sort, I think? I always assumed it was sort of like clock gears, but I’ll have to look that up.”
“You mean like at a library?” There was an excited tone in Avery’s voice now. “Saga, how have libraries advanced since I’ve been away?”
Saga grinned back at her. “Oh, that will be a field trip all its own, Avery, I promise you.”
As they came to the surface and began to weave through the morning shopping crowds, Saga absently reached for Avery’s hand, which jerked away immediately.
