Page 3 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

Classic misdirection attempt. “Is that where you learned to be even more evasive? Stop deflecting, Saga. You are not a child. I have given you at least two avenues that I am willing to assist with. If you have an hour, surely you can spare one minute to tell me what you are thinking.”

“Henry VI, Part 2.”

Audrey pursed her lips. “Perhaps you could attempt to answer me sincerely.”

“Oh, I am, there’s a particular bit about lawyers that feels eerily relevant right now.”

1Under the correct circumstances, and perhaps a few strong incantations, Audrey Hudson might admit that a fool did make her suffer once. Very deeply. And she hadn’t let one since.

2Mamó (Gaelige): Grandmother. This is the name Saga uses to refer her now late, but still very Irish, grandmother.

To refer to her non-Irish but still very alive grandmother, Saga uses Farmor. However, that has far more to do with her father’s parents being Norwegian citizens most of their lives than the fact they’re still living. Truthfully, it only has to do with them being Norwegian citizens most of their lives. The author simply couldn’t refuse the pun. Audrey Hudson would be horrified by this footnote.

Chapter 2 Avery

The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.

—Henry VI, Part 2

It was comforting that even four hundred years later, Shakespeare’s3 words were still relatable to both the Mundane and Magical worlds. And Avery needed comfort.

“State your name for the court record,” Justice Wilhelm Norton sneered from behind his dark round glasses. From the waist up, he looked like every other lawyer in an expensive suit. From his abdomen downward, however, his body was that of a large serpent. It was not the most common form for a cockatrice4 to take, but one did need hands in order to sort through paperwork.

Avery flexed her hands at her sides, an attempt to still the faint trembling coursing through them. “Avery Hemlock.”

A few gasps and whispers bubbled up from onlookers in the court gallery.

Justice Norton pursed his lips. “Hemlock is your chosen surname?”

“Correct.” Avery smoothed down her vest with her palm as a guise for gently pressing against her rapid heartbeat.

“And your profession?”

Her mouth was dry. “I am a private detective appointed by the Winter Council to investigate magical crime within Mundane sectors.”

“Hm.” Norton’s mouth formed a wide, tight-lipped line that could only be called a smile by the most generous definition of the word. “So, it was your investigation that brought Osian Goff into custody?”

“Correct.”

“And it was your report we just now witnessed?”

“It was.”

Norton nodded the way lawyers always did when they knew they were about to corner their prey. “Do you certify that account was honest and the memories you provided were not tampered with in any manner?”

“I do.”

Norton’s shades protected Avery from the cockatrice’s literal death glare, but the violence was still palpable in his tone. “And yet, you insist on testifying?”

Avery glanced toward the box that held the accused.

Osian Goff was a man defeated. His daughter was interred beside her late husband, and all hope of her ever returning was gone. He had lost all the fire he once possessed, and he had nothing.

Avery set her jaw and turned her attention back to the Court Justice. “Yes. I do.”

A wisp of smoke exhaled from Norton’s nose. The role of the Court Justice was simple. They were appointed to remind the court what the laws dictated to the letter. They were intended to be the very embodiment of Aristotle’s notion that “The law is reason, free from passion.” They did not sympathize, they did not manipulate meaning, they advised on logic and logic only. “Was your report incomplete?”

“My report pertained merely to the investigation surrounding the crimes of Osian Goff. It would be foolish and cruel to ignore the events that led to those crimes.”