Page 52 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

“If they found what they were looking for,” Avery corrected. She nudged the mess to the side with her toe before planting her foot with each step. She glanced over her shoulder at the empty hallway, then gathered enough shadow around her fingers to form her own gloves.

“Did the neighbors hear anything?” Saga asked.

Lahiri shook his head. “I questioned the only neighbor she shares a wall with, and he didn’t hear a thing the other night.”

“What must that be like? Not hearing your neighbor’s every move?” Avery mused. It was meant as a joke to Saga, but then she remembered Saoirse’s town house. That Saga had the very opportunity before her to remove them both from a situation where they could hear the goings-on above and below. “Lonely, I would think.” Her eyes darted to Saga, who only gave her an amused smile. This was not comforting.

“Well, I can’t credit the architecture, the man was half deaf and couldn’t find his hearing aid this morning.”

“Still, you’d think someone would hear whatever made all this.” Saga picked up half a crystal ball that had broken after rolling off a high shelf onto the hardwood floor.

“They might have used something to silence the noise. A charm or spell…” Avery bent and picked up a piece of discarded mail marked IMPORTANT with big red letters. “This is addressed to Betsey Paris?” she remarked, then glanced at the magazine beneath it. “As is this.”

“Ravenwood is a pen name,” said Lahiri. “I suppose it would be hard to perpetuate a mysterious stereotypical witch brand with a name like Betsey…”

“Why didn’t this come up before?” Avery demanded.

“We didn’t know until we found her purse.”

“Which was?”

“In the back office?”

The back office that had been locked. “With her keys?”

Lahiri looked uncomfortable. “Yes?”

Avery pointed back to the door. “No immediate evidence of forced entry.”

“They could have picked it like you—like you have seen criminals do,” Saga quickly corrected herself, but the half smile remained.

“No.” Avery returned the smile. “Not like how I do. They’d use physical tools, correct?” She made her way back to the open door and peered at it. “What sort of metal are those tools typically made of, Lahiri?”

The detective was taking photographs as he moved throughout. “Steel, I believe.”

Avery tapped the doorknob. “This is brass. If her keys are anything like ours, they are also brass, which makes sense. You’d want the mechanism of lock and key to be made of similar metals so one does not destroy the other. Brass is rather malleable, that’s why you can forge it into pipes and beautiful doorknobs such as these without it breaking. Steel, on the other hand, while far more durable, is quite a bit harder. As such, unless our burglar is incredibly adept, they likely would leave a scratch or two wiggling a steel tool around the opening of a brass keyhole.” She looked at the far-too-pristine lock. “This has been made to look antique but is relatively new and does not seem to have even the day-to-day scratches a key would leave over time.”

“You think someone used her keys to get in,” Lahiri concluded.

“She thinks there’s a suspicious lack of evidence to suggest otherwise,” corrected Saga.

“What’s the difference?”

“One confines us to only one option, the other allows for methods we might not have yet conceived,” said Avery. She wrapped the shadows from her hand around the doorknob, gathering up dust from the air and crevices to pull over any oils lingering on the metal.

“You’re exhausting,” grumbled Lahiri.

“I’m exhaustive.” No fingerprints. The doorknob had been wiped down.

“Two things can be correct.”

“I also think it’s strange that the only keys Luna had to get into the office were also locked inside. Not damning proof of anything. We’ve all been victims of our own folly when it comes to keys, but curious and strange when you take everything else we know into account.” Avery picked up a stuffed bear that had fallen over on its side. It was dressed in a graduation cap and a dark-blue robe embroidered with the letters UCL on its breast. “UCL?”

“University College London. Public university, not far from here.”

No. It couldn’t be. Could it? So much had lasted through the years, had it as well? “Originally London University?”

“Yes, it…” Lahiri’s smile faltered. “Did you go? Back then?”