Page 8 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

“Yeah, if that’d be okay.”

“You doing something nice for yourself after this? Something less…”

“Panic inducing?” Saga smiled. “Yeah, I’m meeting friends.”

Chapter 4 Avery

A high-pitched ringing in Avery’s ears drowned out every sound around her. The courtroom’s murmur, the doors closing behind her, and the clap of her boots on the marble floor as she stormed across the hall. Her fingers numb, the ice solidified over her skin so completely that vapor began to rise from it against the warm air. Her anger prickled in tandem with the growing cold, and as the sharpness of reality became unbearable, she raised her fists and slammed them against the wall.

The ice coating her hands shattered, but the remaining force of winter blew back onto her. As if she’d cast it on herself, the ice jumped up her arms, biting into her skin and dusting her sleeves with an eruption of hoar frost.

“Faex,” Avery seethed, recoiling into herself to warm her limbs and hurriedly wipe the crystals from her clothing. She should have known better.

The pretentiously titled Palace of Judication was once the terrestrial home of the Erlking, and while it now served the community as the courts of law, it was heavily fortified to prevent aggressive magics from being cast within its walls.

The talent to manipulate ice and shadow ran through her father’s bloodline, but ever since her reawakening, the winter had grown stronger and unruly. Or perhaps, Avery begrudgingly admitted to herself, it was not the fault of magic, but her own waning emotional restraint. She could not remember the last time she’d felt so volatile. Her father’s murder, of course, but prior to that… She lingered on the memories; she had been drunk on rage, Iona’s lips, and the promise of vengeance. Was her grip on stoicism just another casualty of that night? Was it by contract, or the curse that followed after?

Her fingers twitched at her side and pressed into her thigh like a violinist’s would shift across the fingerboard of their instrument. She swayed gently, re-creating the slow and graceful dance of détaché bowing. She could almost hear the sonata or feel the tension of the strings beneath her fingers.

With each elongated mental note she played, a muscle in her body relaxed. Memories of the Erlking fell away. Iona fell away. The endless onslaught of nightmares melted into the melody. Her thumb passed over her fingertips. The Restless Dream had frozen her body in time, and so the calluses from playing remained, but they had weakened in her month since freedom. In another month or so they’d be gone forever, and only the echo of beautiful music would remain.

She lolled her head back to stare at the fan vault ceilings. It was the safest direction to fix her gaze until her fury fully subsided. They were reminiscent of the cloisters of Gloucester Cathedral if instead of employing carved stone, the architects had been able to coax trees to grow into the desired shape. Intermixed in the fretwork above were deep shades of evergreen, a symbol of the life that persisted even through the coldest nights.

Beautiful and calming. It was almost unrecognizable as the residence she had known as a child.

Almost.

Like every window in the palace, the one beside her consisted of meticulously constructed panels of glass that illustrated unique scenes from the history of the Winter Court and Faerie. However, the one she had managed to stop in front of depicted the wedding of Anselm and Ulla, the Erlking and his Snow Queen.

One could fool themselves into believing they’d been happy together looking at that portrait, but Avery knew better. Had either of them ever known such a word as “happy”?

Her stomach churned as she met the artists’ rendering of the Erlking’s eyes. They lacked the cruelty and ruthlessness she’d known too well.

She’d do it again. There were many things about that day she would have changed, but killing Anselm Blackthorn was not one of them. Humanity was safer. The Winter Court, no longer ruled by terror, had thrived in his absence. Earth had thrived in his absence.

If all that progress was worth the cost of taking a life, it would also need to be worth the world knowing she’d done it. No matter how ugly and unwanted the attention it garnered.

She forced her gaze away from the window to the colorful shadows the glass cast on the silver-and-white marble floor.

“Detective Hemlock?”

Avery concealed wiping at her eyes by the act of running her fingers through her hair. “Mercy Radu.” Seamless. Smooth. Surely the woman wouldn’t notice.

The zână smiled at her. “Please, call me Velouette.”

No. That was the voice of someone who’d absolutely noticed.

Justice Norton moved past the both of them without a word or glance. Though, Avery had to admit that was far less likely to do with the man being a snob and more to do with him being blind. Funny thing, really, a blind Justice incapable of seeing past his own prejudice—the sort of character Lemuel Gulliver might encounter in his travels.

Velouette demurely cleared her throat. “I thought you might have already left.”

Avery realized she had been blatantly glaring after the cockatrice. “When my presence is so clearly valued here? How could I ever stay away?”

“He hasn’t been this worked up over a case in quite some time. You have a talent for getting under people’s skin.”

“Mm.” It would have been a point of pride for Avery under different circumstances. “Yet it is only a particular kind of fey that calls me a half-breed when it happens.” She idly brushed off her shoulder, dismissing the insult. “Humanity has changed its environmental trajectory entirely in two hundred years, yet we march on unchanged. How admirably constant.”

“Progress is slow in our realm,” Velouette admitted quietly. “For changelings and humans alike, I’m afraid.”