Page 14 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

“All black cats look alike,” Saoirse would muse, and if the Riddle-of-the-decade were present, he would meow as if agreeing that the whole matter was pure coincidence.

It was a simple enough answer. Saga had learned people, herself included, felt more comfortable reaching for the simple answer.

The reality in this case was both even simpler and entirely more complicated. It was simple in that Riddle looked like the cats in all the Hudson family photographs (dating back since the invention of the photograph) because he was the cat in all the photographs. It was complicated because the way this was possible was that he was not a cat at all.

One month ago, Saga had learned that Riddle was the family familiar, an ancient spirit from beyond the veil that separated Earth and Faerie who worked alongside a witch, guiding their magic and providing knowledge.

And after learning that, she had also been made aware that this ancient spirit who no longer had to pretend to be merely a house cat around her did not care for bow ties. Or bells. If venturing outside her apartment, he would begrudgingly allow a collar, but he had made it entirely clear he would not abide jingling.

Karnaby House13 was the sort of building that would have looked utterly out of place anywhere in London, were it not on Carnaby Street. It was a hub for fashion and lifestyle, and so the restaurant’s opulent facade blended in with the surrounding decorations and vibrant buildings. It was situated across the way from a hot pink teahouse and beneath a sign constructed out of small metal disks that glittered like rainbow sequins even in the late-morning light.

“Saga!” A voice called, and she caught sight of Peregrine waving to her excitedly from the mob of hungry loiterers huddled in a clump outside the doors. Peregrine was easily the tallest of the group, with a model’s height and frame, and with this advantage in crowds, she often spotted the others before they did her.

“Thank Brigid for the ‘Pere-scope,’” Saga laughed after swimming through the throng of people to meet her.

“I’m glad you’ve kept the pink. You’re a lot easier to see in a crowd.” Peregrine stooped to hug her. “Careful of my nose, it’s still healing.”

Saga angled her head away from Peregrine probably more than she needed to and gave her a gentle squeeze. “How are you liking it?”

Peregrine pulled back and delicately felt along the bridge with her fingertips. She’d gone in for the surgery the week after Saga’s intended wedding. “Most of the swelling is gone—except for some in the tip.”

“Yeah, that can take about a year to go down completely, but how are you liking it?” Saga had noticed how quiet Peregrine had been about the process on their group chat.

“Oh, I am,” Peregrine said in earnest. “The healing has been quicker than some of the other procedures, and I feel more me when I look in the mirror, but…” She shrugged and began fiddling with her impossibly thick blond hair as if this would distract from the fact she had not finished her sentence.

“But it’s still hard to say goodbye to the face you knew?” Saga offered.

Peregrine’s smile was shy, and perhaps a little embarrassed. “I don’t regret it.”

“I know,” reassured Saga. “Even good change can be hard though.”

“Like when you notice you ignored your other friend,” a new voice pointed out by Saga’s ear.

Saga jumped, whirling around to be face-to-face with Darcy. She must have walked right past her to hug Peregrine. “Bloody hell, Darce!” She put a hand to her pounding heart. “I’m so sorry.”

Darcy’s bright-red lips parted and she cackled. She was all in black from her beret to her boots—even her hair, which she was cutting into a bob these days with blunt bangs fit for a flapper. She had a way of making the simplest things look elegant and expensive. “It was absolutely worth it for that reaction.” She held up her pinky and offered it to Saga to initiate their ritual “sword fight,” an old joke that always ended in Saga being “stabbed” and pretending to die dramatically. Darcy didn’t do hugs.

“You just come from the gym?”

Saga unbent from her latest “mortal wound” with a grin. “Yeah, I’m taking a class.”

“Ooh, what class?”

A month ago, Saga would have felt like she could have told these women anything. Now there were secrets she had to keep—other people’s secrets. Secrets belonging to an entire society of magical beings that were not hers to tell. Even if she were to leave out the whole “nearly becoming a human sacrifice” bit, explaining that she was taking a self-defense class seemed like it would only invite a thousand more unanswerable questions. She forced a smile. “Pilates.”

“Well, you’re looking well fit. I’ve been bent over a sewing machine all week, feel like I’m going to perma-hunch like my ah ma.”14

“Tell me about it. Most of my life is spent in front of a computer these days,” Peregrine sympathized. “You know that piece we did about Caspian Starr?”

Darcy nodded vigorously. “Phil and I listened to his music obsessively for like three days straight after he died.”

“Well, I got literally no sleep that week, because my boss was determined to do the first in memoriam tribute.” Peregrine rubbed her eyes out of habit. “So many details to verify.”

“Wasn’t he our age?” Saga asked.

An aggressive chuff of air laughed its way out of Peregrine’s thin form. “Yes, and it was a humbling timeline to piece together, let me tell you.”

“Shut up, you’re incredibly accomplished.” The notable absence of their opinionated fourth member not chiming in caused Saga to look around. “Where’s Mags?”