Page 6 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

“Your initial sentence being five hundred years under the Restless Dream in Blackthorn Correctional?”

Parole had come three hundred years early, and though her exhaustion had finally abated, the nightmares had not. “It was.”

“And your crime?” The smile crept into the words.

Avery stood a little straighter. “Regicide.”

The silence from the spectators in the gallery possessed a discomfort so palpable, one might suspect it could have only been incited through the magistrate’s gavel.7 The same tense quality of unspoken impulse hung in the air—the unsettling experience of a scream too terrified to release.

Venom dripped from every word of Norton’s next question. “Would kindness have prevented that too?”

Crystalline swirls of frost waltzed from the tips of Avery’s fingers to her knuckles. “Had it been my father’s kindness, I wager it would have prevented far more deaths than his own, Justice Norton.” She did not meet the other eyes she could feel on her, not Gideon’s nor the gallery’s. She stared down Norton’s dark glasses as she descended from the stand. The biting prickle of frostbite was climbing up her wrists now as she clasped her hands behind her back. “I thank the court for its time.” With that tightly spoken gratitude, she departed through the side door.

3Context should also be noted, as many quotes—Shakespeare’s especially—are spoken willy-nilly without any regard to whom the author assigned to say them or when. People hear it was spoken by a famous name like Shakespeare and take it as gospel.** This particular quote is spoken by a character referred to as Dick the Butcher, who, in notably emphasizing the “lack” in lackey, rather colors the validity of the suggestion.

**It should also be noted gospels are not without this problem either, but that would require another footnote entirely…beyond this one.

4Cockatrice: From the Latin calcatrix, meaning “to tread.”

Though upon meeting Justice Norton, it has been suggested “because he’s a cock, thrice over.”

Cockatrices, or basilisks, as they are sometimes known, are a type of wyvern capable of changing their shape. Their preferred form, to the human eye, is something resembling a giant rooster spliced with a serpent.

5Hemlock is a highly toxic and invasive flower. There is no known antidote for its poison. Among the fey, for a time, it became an insult for changelings as a union between human and fey introduced mortality to the bloodline. A poison with no antidote.

6Zână (Romanian) have been known by many names throughout the ages. Perhaps most commonly regarded as “fairy godmothers,” historically granting blessings to unborn babies and acting as guardians for lost children. An unfortunate quirk of their magic, however, is they are unable to perform any wonder, minor or miraculous, for themselves.

7The enchanted gavel is perhaps the most valued difference between Magic and Mundane courts. Charmed with a silence spell, it is widely credited as the chief reason for expediency within magical trials—cutting down impassioned speeches and unruly audiences and clearing most threats of holding anyone in contempt. Most.

Chapter 3 Saga

Saga Trygg was regretting her choices. Her stomach churned. She could feel her pulse in her ears. She tried to shift her stance, but her feet felt stuck to the floor.

Distantly, she knew time was running out, but all she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat. Bile burned the back of her throat.

And then her opponent came toward her, his hands grasping for her neck.

Saga wanted to scream, but that would not help her. It had not helped her. She closed her eyes, fighting the oncoming dizziness and the heat of tears beginning to well up. It had been but a moment of hesitation, yet when she opened her eyes again, the darkness still circled her vision like a wolf assessing its prey.

A sharp, bitter flavor flooded her taste buds. Adrenaline. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe!

Her assailant released her and took a step back.

Saga gasped and her knees crumpled beneath her. She couldn’t get enough air, and an intense pain was spreading through her chest. Head swimming, she planted her hands on the floor. Was she going to throw up?

A soft rumble. Someone was speaking. She might have heard her name?

Her mouth was too dry to answer, and yet she was drowning. The aperture of her vision had reduced to a pinprick. There were no shapes or even colors. Amid the terror and the panic, some part of her desperately clung to that speck of light. It was her guiding star; it was the candle she could not let go out. An ache began to swell in her head as she focused on that white dot, willing it to grow.

“Saga?” The rumble repeated. The lighthouse in the storm. It asked another question, but she couldn’t translate the sound into words.

She would not die. Not here. Not today. This was all in her mind. It was just a panic attack. It would pass. It was going to pass. If she could only remember.

“Breathe.”

Right. Saga strained, drawing her gasping inhalation for longer than her impulses begged her to. Oxygen shakily flooded her lungs until there was no room for more. And then she held it. It was just for a second, but that second lasted eons. And then, through pursed lips, she tried to release it as slowly as she could manage. Then again. It became easier with each repetition, until she had enough mental clarity to count the seconds in her head. Breathe in for one, two, three, four, five. Hold. Out, two, three, four, five, six. The light was growing.

“Saga?” The rumble was a pleasant and familiar voice. “Four things you can see.”