Page 67 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

“May I ask, what was the plan before revenge entered the equation?”

“In truth, probably not a good one. Got Esteri involved, which of course got Fiore involved, and the Irregulars… Fates, I am glad that in the end Esteri convinced the Irregulars to stay back.”

Did that mean Esteri and Fiore had somehow aided in the Erlking’s death? Saga scooted a little closer, grateful that the sound of the crackling fire was likely covering their conversation. Still, while Avery was far more willing to share in this moment, discussing the secret involvement of two Archfey in the Erlking’s death should not occur in a public space. Nor would it be right to ask now.

Avery seemed clearheaded, but Saga knew the lavender could only do so much, and her friend was still under the influence of the curse. She was, all in all, still inebriated. So instead she asked a less intrusive question. “Who are the Irregulars?”

“My friends…” Avery smiled tiredly. “I bet you thought I didn’t have any.”

“That’s not true. I thought you were…an acquired social taste.” Saga laughed. “I knew Esteri was your friend.”

“I love Esteri.” And Saga knew she meant it. “I’ve known her since I was a teenager. Sometimes I think she still sees me that way.” Avery chuckled to herself. “If I was that old, maybe I would too.”

“How old is ‘that old’?”

“I don’t know,” Avery laughed. “Older than the word ‘old.’ When ‘old’ was still ‘ald,’ at least!”

Making jokes about the English language. Goddess, Avery was drunk. Saga reached back for the mug of wine, holding it close to her to take a drink but also because Avery didn’t need anything else removing inhibitions at this moment. “So these Irregulars. Were they changelings like you?”

“All human. Matilda, Thomas, Oliver, and Isabella. I met them a few years before I went under. Tragic, really. Finally find real friends and…” Avery shook herself. “Humans were catching on back then—seeing things they couldn’t explain. I met Matilda first. She had this gift…” Avery snuck her hand across the table, walking it beneath Saga’s own to lace their fingers together.

It was not the act itself that made Saga’s heart flutter. She held hands with friends and family, but the ease with which Avery had done it felt special. It was something she knew Avery was not prone to doing, and that she reached for her so naturally felt all the more intimate.

“A bit like your gift, she had sight—not true sight, mind you, but Matilda Lewis could see things. Ghosts and sometimes the future. I had an office back then—sort of. It was this tiny room in a boardinghouse down the street from Hudson’s. And by then I had made a small name for myself as a supernatural investigator of sorts. Mind you, it was not a good name—humans thought I was crazy, and fey thought I was a disgrace.” Avery shrugged in her most “what can you do?” fashion.

“Did she come to you for help?”

“A ghost had come to her, begging her to solve his murder.”

“Spooky,” said Saga. “Is that how you met all of them?”

“That case, yes. Oliver Wild was making money as an amateur boxer. A rather unfortunate encounter with werewolves as a child orphaned him and his brother but left him with a rather…impressive right hook. He was briefly a suspect, as was his brother Thomas—and the moment Thomas met Tilde, I knew there was no getting rid of him. Isabella Levine had patched up Oliver more than once and was working at Hudson’s at the time.”

“When it was an apothecary?”

Avery looked touched. “You remembered.”

“I do listen when you talk, you know.”

The smile on the woman’s face as firelight danced across her features was indescribable. “It was the first time I’d ever had any help on a case. It was refreshing, not being alone—for all of us. It was our first sense of community since the societies we were born in found us all a little…” Avery gave what could only be described as a bashful shrug of her shoulders. “Irregular.” Which she immediately amended. “Except Thomas. Irregular by association… Though I suppose one could argue he was unnaturally normal, and in that right he was rather irregular.”

Saga laughed. “Unnaturally normal?”

“Well,” Avery offered. “Have you ever met a truly normal person?”

“I suppose not,” Saga admitted.

“There you have it.”

“What happened to them?”

Avery’s expression fell, and Saga held out the wine to her as a peace offering. She took it but only stared into the mug. “They lived their lives. From what I understand, they lived them very well.”

“But you never got to say goodbye.”

Avery shook her head. “No. And that does haunt me.”

Saga had had only a few sips of wine, so she knew it was not what motivated her. She’d had similar feelings throughout her life about her father—the man she’d never know through anything but a few sparse photographs. And now possibly letters that suggested what little she had known was wrong. But she remembered what Saoirse had done for her countless nights when she was a child, and always on holidays—especially Samhain. She’d have them sing. Saga imagined Viggo, wherever he was, could somehow hear them.