Page 93 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

She traced the perimeter of the large open room, lingering by a long set of tables that had been pushed together and covered with a cloth, soil, strings of garlic, and marigolds. At the center was a framed photograph of Luna in ceremonial robes. The photograph was adorned with a triple moon diadem set atop the frame, as well as a myriad of rings placed at its base. Mourners had begun to set their own tributes on the altar—some were items of sentimental value and others were photographs of moments with the deceased.

“Wine and cake?” a young man with a tray expertly balanced on his hand inquired as he stopped by her.

Avery glanced at the offering and smiled politely. “No, thank you, I’ve already eaten.”

He laughed and shook his head, lifting a small bamboo plate upon which balanced what appeared to be a small round cake and barely more than a thimble of wine. “It’s for the ceremony.”

“Ah.” Avery took the plate and forced another polite smile. “Of course.” She hoped her ignorance on the matter would be written off to her being the plus-one of a genuine mourner rather than an investigator looking to root out a murderer. She frowned at her sip of wine and wished it might be a touch larger so she could get away with draining it a touch for her nerves without risking a show of disrespect.

“Hey, you’re that investigator, right?”

Avery turned and found herself face-to-face with Blake Hingley. Wide-eyed, redheaded, freckled. He was a lanky creature, standing at six feet. He would have easily been able to reach over the garden gate to the latch.

Of course he would be at the ritual; she had been counting on him being there. What she had forgotten to consider was whether he would be willing to talk to her if he was guilty or if it would have been wiser to use a different glamour than the one she’d met him in. “Well remembered.” She took a step toward him and lowered her voice. “I would, however, greatly appreciate if you did not share that particular fact with your colleagues and coven members.”

“Do you think her killer could be here?” Blake whispered, his jaw growing slack with either awe or overacting. Or both.

“Due to the nature of the crime, it seems to us the killer had a rather particular vendetta against Ms. Ravenwood.” Seeing Blake’s blank expression, she elaborated. “It was personal. So I am investigating all possibilities.” She inclined her head toward the corner. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

The boy shifted awkwardly, clutched a deck of tarot cards closer to himself, and nodded as they stepped off to the side for more privacy.

“There were two names in particular on the list you gave me that I couldn’t find much on.”

“Oh.” Blake looked sheepish. “To be honest, near the end of that, I was kinda grasping at straws. You all said anyone who might have an issue with her… I actually feel really awkward putting Eugenia on there.”

“Yes, she was one of the names. Who is she?”

“She runs the coven with Luna—ran the coven with Luna. They would butt heads from time to time about how things should be run, but… Honestly, Detective, I should not have put her name down. Like, even at their worst, I don’t believe Eugenia would throw a shoe at her, let alone… I was upset and wanted to find who hurt her.”

“I will take it into consideration,” Avery said. “What about Abigail Rider? Or Writer? You seemed unsure of the spelling.”

“I’ve never met her,” Blake explained. “Honestly, I don’t know if she’s a real person? I mean, I’m sure she’s real, but maybe no longer of this world? Sometimes Luna would just…start muttering to herself about her.”

“Muttering to herself?”

“Apologizing? I got the feeling she might have let her down somehow. I asked her once about it and…” He shook his head. “She looked like I’d spat on her grave or something. Pointed at me and said, ‘You will never mention Abigail to me again.’” He lowered his own pointing finger with a nervous laugh. “It was like something out of a movie, you know?”

Avery did not know. At some point she would have to bother Saga about seeing one of these “movies.” Where did one see them? What exactly were they? “And were you aware that Luna attended University College London around the time your father was a professor there?”

Blake’s naturally expressive face answered well enough before he spoke in that it didn’t move at all. This was genuine shock. This was the surprise that did not also feed off the drama of other people’s misfortune. This affected him in particular. “No,” he said quietly, unable to hold Avery’s gaze as his mind raced. “She never mentioned that.” His brow furrowed and she imagined him fighting the kernel of doubt this information had just planted within him. “That’s…an odd coincidence, right?”

Coincidence was finding out your neighbor shared your name. Finding out the woman who had famously held a séance to connect you with your dead father likely knew him when she was younger was damning circumstantial evidence. “It is a large school,” Avery said agreeably.

It was enough to relax him, and he nodded. It was fascinating to Avery how the mind protected itself from shame to the point of ignoring rather glaring and obvious facts that might be right in front of it. He was looking less and less like a suspect, which left Avery with far less promising leads—but he was not the only party wronged by John Hingley’s death if they were truly connected. “Blake,” Avery began carefully. “May I ask what your mother thinks of your involvement with the coven?”

He shrugged. “She doesn’t understand. Thinks it’s weird.”

Something was knocking behind a door in her mind. Something she’d forgotten. Something potentially vitally important. “She was not part of the séance for your father?”

He looked surprised again but shook his head. “No, she wasn’t there. I asked her, but she got really upset and…” He attempted to shrug off what was obviously an emotional subject. “To be honest, I think that might have started the issues between us.”

Knocking. Knocking. She could feel her thoughts racing to find it. “You have grown apart?”

“She thinks Dad’s death made me morbid. That that’s why I’m into this ‘stuff,’ as she calls it.”

There! Hidden among what had seemed to be far more relevant information at the time was the name above Matthew Hopkins in the appointment ledger: Liz H., Luna’s 4:30 p.m. appointment the day she died. Could that Liz H. be Elizabeth Hingley? Is that why she’d given a vague name? “So, she’s never visited the store?”

Blake shook his head. “No?”