Page 105 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

Claws lightly pricked her palm, just enough to get her attention and bring it back to Riddle.

“W-what? I wasn’t going to…” But even as she said it, she knew it was taking every bit of willpower she could muster to not chase after Avery’s retreating footsteps. Her eyes focused on the thirteen underlines on the page to remind herself she mustn’t leave that circle.

Riddle eyed her suspiciously and retracted his paw to point to her wine and then his own.

Saga obeyed, gently clinking her cup against his before they both took a sip. “Can cat-sìth get drunk?”

His expression conveyed an amused bewildered sort of reply, like “To what end?”

And to that Saga had no answer. There were a myriad of reasons mortals got drunk. She assumed fey would be no different. How had Avery described him? A lesser fey or spirit? What exactly did that mean? Was he, much like a house cat, unconcerned with world’s problems? Was that an impolite thing to ask him? What if Avery had been wrong? What was wrong with Avery?

Saga hadn’t realized her attention had drifted back toward the hallway until Riddle growled a warning.

“S-sorry. Do you think she’s all right?”

Riddle looked perturbed.

“It’s just, normally she doesn’t make so much noise going up the stairs is all.”

He was starting to look less like a cat and more like that friend who was really sick of you talking about the crush you were refusing to do anything about, and Saga did not appreciate it.

So she stuffed her mouth with cake. She couldn’t be criticized for not doing something with a mouth full of honey cake and while being stuck inside a ritual circle. Honestly, what did he expect her to do?

Riddle’s gaze was unmoving and unforgiving.

She peered over the grimoire theatrically, avoiding eye contact, and licked the clinging sweetness of the honey from her lips and fingertips. “Let’s focus on the matter at hand, shall we? If it works, you can give me a proper lecture on what a coward I’m being.”

The cat’s tail flicked back and forth, and he made a rather judgmental chirping sound.

Saga shook her head and placed a star anise pod in front of Riddle and took one for herself. She held hers over the cauldron. “For protection, spiritual guidance, love, and prosperity, the foundation upon which we will build. I promise you will always be safe with me. I promise to listen even when it’s hard. I promise to carry my family’s legacy, and yours, with respect. I promise, no matter what, to always be your friend.” She dropped it onto the charcoal in the cauldron.

It took longer than the mugwort to start burning properly, but it was infinitely more pleasant: woody, sweet, and spicy. As a child it had reminded her of black licorice; as an adult it drew out memories of absinthe bars.

Riddle picked up his own pod in his mouth and held it over the cauldron. He met her eyes with his own, frozen in place.

Saga had not expected him to speak, but as she watched she felt a warmth in her chest. It grew around her like the sort of embrace you only remember getting as a child. The kind that cradled you and assured you everything would be all right. The kind you believed. She did not have memories of her father, not really. But she imagined when he had hugged her, it must have felt like this. Her breathing hitched before she realized tears were falling down her cheeks.

Riddle seemed to smile as much as a cat’s face can smile, and he dropped the pod in the cauldron.

Saga returned the expression, grasping ground benzoin between her fingers and sprinkling it over the star anise.

Benzoin to amplify their oaths and bring prosperity. The smoke plumed up instantly, filling the air with a sweet perfume.

The warmth of the scent seeped into her skin and rested in her chest. She felt like a small ember remained there, burning gently with the sensation that in time it would grow.

“Did it work?” Saga whispered.

Again, Riddle did not speak. She wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be able to. But he nodded, and that warmth in her chest shifted from an idea to knowledge in her—like a gut feeling but stronger. A certainty so inalienable that she knew it could not be her own, and it was telling her she was now free to close the circle.

“That’s it?”

That was it. That was all it had ever needed to be. Magic did not have to be theatrical or complicated, only sincere.

38The recipe for Coffee Cardamom Honey Cake may be found on page 425.

39While it is agreed among most English witches that there are eight holidays marking the turn of the year, in the town of Glastonbury, they have taken to celebrating almost weekly. How they do love a parade.

Chapter 28 Avery