Page 40 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

Riddle hopped down and sat very still, his tail wrapping around himself.

Saga pursed her lips to one side and drummed her fingers on the top of the lid. It sounded full. What could it contain, really? Old clothes? Photo albums? And why would it make Riddle second-guess himself? The cat had been many things over the years but doubting had been more her department. Perhaps whatever was inside would emotionally devastate her? “Here goes nothing,” she conceded, popping the seals on all four sides before she lifted the lid dramatically.

It was an anticlimactic reveal. Nothing jumped out, nothing seemed nefarious or unusual. It looked like a green tablecloth. “Okay, that was a lot of to-do for nothing.” She picked it up to get a better look. There was an embroidered tree of life stitched in the center. “Oh…” She glided her fingers to the hem and peered at the intricate trim made up of patterned squares of Celtic knots. “Is this an altar cloth?”

An affirmative chuff at her feet confirmed what she already knew.

“Mamó would have used these if they were hers. Do you think this has been up here since Leigh stopped practicing?”

Riddle chittered sadly and hopped up onto a box beside it so he could watch her dig into the contents of the tote.

Saga set the altar cloth down gently and gasped at what had been resting beneath it.

A ceremonial robe of brilliant blue silk had been folded carefully so that the embroidered oak tree centered in the back was visible immediately, as well as the damask trim along the neckline.

“She said Mamó hoped she’d pick it back up again.” Saga shook her head. “I wonder if she made this for her…” She looked to Riddle. “I should ask her, right? Before I wear any of this?”

Riddle swished his tail back and forth.

“Yeah… I should. I mean, I know she’s not using it, and she probably wouldn’t mind, but how weird would it be if she just saw me…” Her voice trailed off as her eyes focused on what she had initially taken for the robe’s embellishment.

Carefully placed in the center of the fabric was a golden charm bracelet, and when she lifted it to examine it closer, she counted nine separate ornaments: a waxing crescent, a full moon, a waning crescent, a quill, an anvil, the rod of Asclepius, a sword, the sun, and an oak. Representations of Brigid the bard, the smith, the healer, the warrior. The sun and the oak were also symbols associated with the goddess. The moon phases were the past, present, and future; the maiden, the mother, the crone.

“Oh gods,” Saga repeated excitedly as she lifted the jewelry to examine it more closely. “This is…absolutely something I should ask her about. How clever, putting all her facets in charms. I’m surprised she didn’t keep this, it’s beautiful.”

Riddle mrowed.

“Hm, you’re right, if it was a gift from someone in her coven, it might have been too painful.” She held it out to him. “Doesn’t feel cursed or anything to you, does it?”

Riddle’s ears flattened backward and his head tilted to the side as if trying to decipher what angle would be best to swat at her for such a suggestion.

“You don’t know what you don’t know,” Saga protested, putting the charm bracelet around her wrist. “Fits nicely.”

He purred his agreement.

“We’ll ask Leigh before she sees it, of course.” Saga carefully moved the tub to the floor beside her. “Looks like an incense holder, a cauldron, and like twenty-year-old spices. Do you think those are still magically potent? I mean, I certainly wouldn’t use them to cook anything, but maybe decades-old spices still have use for spellwork?” She considered the other storage container that matched the ones behind it. Were these all related to witchcraft? She excitedly undid the latches of the second container and threw off the lid.

No, this was clothing. Leigh’s old clothing by the looks of it. She poked through it carefully. Broomstick skirts, bodices, the sort of thing one would find at a Renaissance fair. “Woman really hasn’t changed much, has she?” Not Saga’s style, and even if it had been, at least a size or two too small. “Well, on the bright side, that’s at least one box that can go to the charity shops, eh? See? We’re doing it. We’re cleaning it out. Let’s do it, here we go, next!”

But what she found in the next tote did surprise her.

A wedding dress. At least, she was fairly certain it was a wedding dress. The fabric was simple but of excellent quality, gauzy, white, and layered with crocheted lace. It did not match the photos of Saoirse’s wedding. Was it Leigh’s? The memory was hazy from her childhood; she would had been eight or nine then. No. Leigh had, at the request of her mother-in-law, worn a sari—Saga remembered the finely woven silk. It had a specific name that she could not remember, but it had been far more regal than this garment. This seemed almost wild. It was possible Leigh had worn it for a reception. It was very much her style, like something crafted by pixies out of cobwebs.

It was also possible this wasn’t a wedding dress at all, as white was also sacred to Brigid, so Saga began digging in the box for other items.

Unlike the first, however, this box was devoid of magical items as well as other clothing. Instead she found an old stuffed animal, a child’s blanket, and a shoebox. She anticipated the box would contain the shoes to the dress, but when she opened it, she found a stack of letters and photographs.

Saga pulled out one picture to examine it and dropped the box in surprise.

Two recognizable faces, though one almost entirely unfamiliar, stared back at her. The first was her father, dressed in a black kirtle with silver woven trim, and the second, her hair dyed the same fiery red as in the picture Saga had rescued, was her mother. And she was wearing the same dress from inside the container.

Saga looked to Riddle for answers, but the cat merely cocked his head to the side. “They…” She shook her head, staring hard at the smiling faces.

How could this…?

“No, they were never married, there’s…” She looked around the attic as if she might find someone who could answer her questions. Should she call Leigh? Why had Leigh never said anything about this before? “Mum talks about it like it was a one-night mistake. I get why she might downplay it, but why—I don’t understand…” She turned the photograph to Riddle. “What is going on here?”

The cat stared at her. How was he supposed to answer that? Charades?