Page 70 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

“Her interests are otherwise engaged,” Matilda mused.

“Precisely,” agreed Avery, but the shared look between Matilda and Isabella made her doubt that she’d understood Matilda’s true meaning. She cleared her throat and continued on. “If I am right, if Saga’s parentage is not between two mortals, it would explain her gift.”

“It would also make her a changeling,” said Matilda. “It would mean she was like you.”

Avery hesitated and began to gather the cards together, organizing them neatly back into a pile. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

“She would live longer.” Isabella spoke the observation like she was dangling yarn over a cat.

Avery shrugged. She was not going to be baited. This was not a trial, and she had nothing to confess.

“Don’t be a coward, Avery,” sighed Oliver. “You are better than that.”

“I am being cautious,” Avery corrected. “I want to have all of the information. Is that wrong? I do not wish to see her hurt again.”

“Avery.” Matilda shook her head. Disappointed. There was something about disappointing Matilda that always felt like Avery had disappointed her own mother. “I think we all know the person you’re trying to avoid hurting again is you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Avery scoffed, but her play at ignorance and apathy was not convincing anyone.

Thomas crouched down to be eye level with her in her sitting position. “Stop being stupid and let her in. Whether or not she’s like you or if she’s going to die before you. You’re being an idiot. Trust me.”

Avery jolted awake feeling sore everywhere, with a shaft of pale morning light inconveniently hitting directly over her eyes. The stone bench she was lying on was hard as a rock, but the ice-cold temperature was at least soothing on her throbbing head. When at last she sat up, her eyes blearily focused on the names carved into the mausoleum stones on the wall opposite her.

In Loving Memory of Thomas Wild & Matilda Lewis Wild: They saw a better future for us all. Died 1855 & 1861.

Rest in Peace, Oliver Wild: A Fighter Til the End. 1847

Isabella Levine, Healer & Friend, Laid to Eternal Rest. 1860.

Chapter 17 Saga

Saga had always believed libraries possessed a very specific kind of magic. Every tome within had the ability to transport the reader to another time, another place, another personality. This came at the small price of a vow that you would be a guardian to the volumes in your care.

Even the building itself seemed to have a transportive quality about it—whether it was her local lending library or the many different specialized buildings at Oxford. There was a humbling comfort in a library. With all the knowledge of the universe around you, it was impossible to not feel small, but that was somehow reassuring. You were not small because you were insignificant. You were small because the world and its depths were oh so very large and populated by other small and curious things.

The infamous Susan was surprisingly lacking the demonic aura or three heads Saga had been expecting from Avery’s passionate descriptions. Susan showed Saga to the separate room that held the computers connected to the library database and apologized for the colder temperature. She explained it was necessary to balance the heat from the machines. A terribly polite woman. Saga might even dare to call her sweet—though not in earshot of Avery.

Saga also suspected Susan’s accommodating demeanor might have waned if she knew what Saga was carrying in her large leather tote, so she held it tighter until the librarian had left and the door had closed behind her. Then she circled the room, checking every cubicle to make absolutely certain she was alone.

It was 1:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, but assuming magic could be safely cast had been Avery’s careless mistake. She was grateful for that mistake (it had opened her eyes to an entire other world, after all), but she still wasn’t going to risk making it herself.

Saga sat at a computer in the far corner that would give her the most privacy and set her tote down carefully beside the chair. If anyone walked in while she worked, she would have time to hide anything that might look out of place to a Mundane eye.

She had wanted to bring Avery, but Esteri warned her it would be some time before her friend was fit to do anything but sleep. So Saga had left Avery in the comforting warmth of Hygge and brought her next best option. “Okay, all clear.”

Riddle popped out of the tote and into her lap, setting Saoirse’s grimoire on the computer desk. He trilled, pleased their ruse had been successful.

“Don’t get too cocky. If you’re seen, we’ll both be in trouble.”

Stuck between the pages of the grimoire was a copy of the list of names Avery had collected. Saga had been carrying the book around wherever she went so she could look through its pages whenever she had a spare minute.

With no dates to be seen, it was hard to pinpoint what period of Saoirse’s life this grimoire was from, but given how precise and careful each letter was penned on the first few pages, it was likely one of her first. There was a common pitfall many new witches fell into (herself included): the belief that a grimoire had to look perfect without a mark out of place. If not one of grandmother’s first grimoires, it was at least the first after she had chosen Brigid as her patron. There were notes in margins about the goddess throughout, like she jotted them down wherever she could as she learned them.

Saga produced a stick of charcoal, pulled up her sleeve, and turned to the pages about sigils.34

She’d never made a sigil before, but her grandmother’s notes were thorough, and she was confident she could accomplish it without accidentally hexing anyone or setting something on fire. At the very least, it felt safer than attempting to bond with Riddle as her first spell in a discipline outside of hearth magic.

Her attention shifted to the familiar, who was watching her far too closely. “Don’t look.” Doing new magic for the first time was one thing, doing it with an audience was entirely another.