Page 27

He pawed the grimoire beneath him.

“Yes, and that is the plan, but I do not trust myself to manage something so important as my first real spell.”

Again, his ears flattened.

“What if I do something wrong and accidentally send you back? Hmm? What then? I could never forgive myself.”

His ears pulled down, but still he chittered, accepting her reasoning, but refusing to agree with it.

“It’s not like we could do it before she got here, anyway.” Saga rubbed the back of her neck, that low hum of anxiety buzzing in her ears. “Do you not want me to mention it, because you believe Leigh wouldn’t want me to have it?”

A firm chuff and nod.

“Because I’m not ready for it?”

Again the tail swished.

“Because she thinks I’m not ready?”

Riddle’s tail swished then paused. He lowered his head and chuffed softly. A tentative yes, perhaps?

She was running out of time. “All right. I trust you, so I will not mention it. But! The moment you are able to, you are going to explain all of this, deal? My family kept secrets from me, and we are not going to continue that.”

Riddle extended his paw, and she shook it.

“Good. Then you put the grimoire in the bedroom, and I’ll check the tartlets.”

Hearth magic had always woven its way into Saga’s everyday tasks. Even when she’d stopped being open about her practice, she found she still swept counterclockwise when cleaning, still sprinkled cardamom in her morning coffee, and still left out a small piece of whatever she baked on a plate for the nisse.19

So on the day she was to learn about other kinds of magics, it was only natural she had baked. Rosemary ricotta tartlets to help encourage the learning process. Rosemary and sage aided in mental clarity, and the slice of tomato invoked abundance.

But as she took a bite of one of the tartlets from the cooling rack, she frowned. It was moments like these when flavor combated with witchcraft. Saga wasn’t certain where the cultural understanding of “if it tastes bad, it must be good for you” originated, but she did not agree with it.20

The tarts were not bad. But there was something off. “The rosemary is overwhelming the ricotta,” Saga concluded. “Maybe I need something a little less mild so I don’t lose the flavor. Perhaps chèvre?”

There was a knock at the door and Saga froze, looking to Riddle, who froze himself as he was exiting the bedroom.

He sat back and nodded. He’d hidden the grimoire, so she could open the door. All was well.

But that wasn’t why Saga was so nervous. She was nervous because the ancient spirit who had guarded her family for centuries, who had guided them through countless magical spells, thought Saoirse’s grimoire needed to be hidden in the first place.

Saga bit her lip and moved to the door. She took the five seconds of undoing the dead bolt and chain to steel herself. With a deep breath and a determined smile, she swung the door open wide. “Leigh!” She greeted her aunt, taking a step back to allow her to enter. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Leigh Hudson dressed vaguely like someone who had just escaped from a Renaissance fair, with broomstick skirts and flowing sleeves. A bright scarf consistently tied around her head kept her long auburn hair from her face but allowed it to dangle down her back. She had a dancer’s grace and never seemed to fully lower her heels to the floor, as if gravity was a mere suggestion to her rather than a law. She removed her wool princess coat and hung it on the rack by the door in one fluid motion. “It smells fantastic in here, ducky.”

Saga’s cheeks warmed. “I made tartlets in case we got hungry.”

Leigh inhaled searchingly. “Sage, rosemary…butter, of course…”

“Tomato and ricotta tartlets with a sage and rosemary butter puff pastry.” Saga beamed.

Leigh’s brows knitted together in concern. “Our first lesson, and you’re stress baking already?”

“I wasn’t stress baking!” Saga laughed. Even she thought she sounded nervous.

Riddle mrowed lowly.

Leigh looked from Riddle to Saga. The jig was up.