Page 13 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

“When you said you’d hoped…” Avery stumbled over the words in order to get them out fast enough. It was enough to get the other woman to pause at the open door, which bought more time, though it felt like more time to make a fool of herself. “Were you…” She cleared her throat. “Did you mean…” Fates, what she wouldn’t give for even a little finesse in these kinds of matters. “Was that intended to be an overture?”

There was no pity for her plight in the Mercy’s face. The woman looked mildly amused, and perhaps a little annoyed, but not sympathetic. “A mere bagatelle, it would seem. Good day, Detective.”

“Good—”

She was gone.

“Damn it.”

8The Hammer of Witches, a vicious tome detailing the torture and extermination of witches, was penned by Heinrich Kramer, a man praised for his vigilance by Pope Innocent VIII and called “senile and crazy” by his own local bishop. It should be noted, though obvious, only one of these men knew him socially.

9A glamour is a meretricious sort of spell relying on altering the perception of the beholder. You may firmly believe what you see is real, but this illusion is the magical equivalent of beer goggles.

10Oh come on, that was a little funny. Are you too good for puns and wordplay?

11She didn’t.

12Did you know Henry VIII had a vigilante phase? It’s true. Imagine him as Renaissance Batman, I dare you.

Chapter 5 Saga

Bevvies, Brunch, and Bitching, that’s what her friends had affectionately dubbed this morning’s meetup. She’d known Magdalena, Darcy, and Peregrine since her first year at Oxford, and while they’d gone their separate ways in study and career, they’d managed at least regular texts and phone calls.

Darcy and Peregrine were also in London, both working their own odd hours—Darcy for a rising fashion designer and Peregrine as a fact-checker for BBC News. Magdalena had just begun her second foundation year at a hospital, which for the past few months had her waking when the sun set and falling into bed when it rose. It had made any sort of get-together difficult, to say the least.

They had all managed to get the time off to attend Saga’s grandmother’s funeral, but with so many family members, guests, and things to arrange, there had been little time to connect. This outing would be the first time in four months they would be all together. The last had been an impromptu sleepover at Magdalena’s apartment after Saga’s fiancé left her at the altar. It had been a night of drinking and impulsive decisions.

They’d watched countless romantic films, and Darcy had invented a game called Hugh Davenport Could Never. Any time the romantic interest did something particularly swoon-worthy, one of them would shout the name of the game, and they’d all take a shot. Inevitably this had devolved into hearty cheers of “Fuck Hugh Davenport!” at any excuse, and the night was a bit of a blur after that.

Saga had woken the next afternoon with the worst hangover in her entire life, a heart that was still broken but feeling loved, a tattoo on her forearm, and freshly dyed bubblegum-pink hair.

Saga had been looking forward to this morning all month. Yet as she settled into her seat on the Central Line, her thoughts drifted to her mother’s mad purge earlier that morning—and the grimoire she’d rescued from the bins. She slipped the worn leather book from her bag, running her fingers over the patina that had formed on the spine and edges.

How many times had Saoirse held it in her hands?

It had taken Saga every ounce of willpower she could muster not to cancel her plans. She adored her friends. She was grateful for the time they would get to have together, but the loss of her grandmother was still fresh, and the promise of learning magic through her words made the grimoire incredibly enticing. Yet still, she had gone to class, so she was going to brunch. Because she knew if her grandmother could have words on that matter, they would be sternly reminding her that the book would still be there in the afternoon, but if neglected, her health and friendships wouldn’t.

But on the twenty-minute trip from Chancery Lane to Oxford Circus, with nothing but the quiet lull of travel, Saga had her first moment of indulgence and opened the book.

First, she untucked the photograph she’d also rescued. Standing together, actually looking like a family, were her grandparents, her aunt Leigh, and her parents. It looked like a Christmas photo. Not the best quality, but certainly not garbage, as her mother had called it.

Her mother’s hair was red. Almost shockingly so. Was this the reason she had been so desperate to be rid of the photograph? Proof that Saga’s parents had not only been together for longer than one night, but that Audrey Hudson may have had a wild side? It was something Saga planned to ask Leigh about, at least.

Viggo and Audrey had separated before Saga was born, and he’d died when she was only six, so she barely had photos of her father at all, let alone any of him with her mother. They looked…happy. Had she ever seen her mother look happy?

It was a question too uncomfortable to linger on, so she turned to Saoirse’s grimoire instead.

She pored over each page, giving as much attention to the contents as to the strokes that penned them. She noted entries where her grandmother took her time to write a thought, and where an idea was frantically jotted down before it left her.

It was hard to imagine Saoirse in a rush to do anything. In their time together, she had always seemed so at ease. Even in death, there had been a desire to not raise a fuss.

Saga traced drawings with her fingers, diagrams on how best to open, protect, and close a circle. There were handwritten prayers to Brigid and a journal entry on how to best create and power sigils. Some had been written on different sheets and glued in, some written directly, some merely tucked inside the pages precariously.

Happy tears spilled over a growing smile. For the first time in a month, Saga felt as if Saoirse was beside her, teaching Saga in the way she’d never had the chance to—the way she might have liked to had things been different. Saga turned the next page and sat up a little straighter as she read the heading: Ritual to Summon Familiar.

“Riddle!” Saga whispered in recognition.

For as long as Saga had lived with her grandparents, they had owned a black cat, and for as long as they had owned a black cat, they had called him Riddle. Until recently, this had been laughed off as a family joke with pictures documenting a suspiciously similar-looking black cat in different-colored bow ties.