The Hearth Witch's Guide to Magic & Murder, page 5
Avery took in this information as if Saga was passing on a great doctrine. She peered at the donut inquisitively, and when she met Saga’s eyes again, her own glistened. She smiled briefly, an expression that appeared almost uncomfortable for her to achieve. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re very welcome.” Saga felt like she’d walked into something unexpected. Something delicate. She gave Avery space to enjoy her breakfast in peace, ducking into the back room to start on the dishes she’d taken in before the order. Out of sight, she pressed her palms to her burning cheeks. Had her complexion been a mere few shades lighter, the flush would have given her away.
Her hands slid from her face to her neck and then fumbled for the golden pendant about her neck. A gift from her grandmother when she was very young, the carved medallion depicted a four-legged Brigid’s cross, from which flames curled outward like the sun’s rays. It was her constant companion. Her way of keeping her goddess close. And the method in which she directed her very furious prayer: “This better not be your idea of helping.”
7 It should be noted Audrey Hudson did not believe in ghosts, or she might have had to amend this statement, as the dead do sup, and no graveyard is stranger to a potluck dinner.
8 The spell for Heartache Tea may be found on page 425.
9 The word “mundane” (lowercase M) derives from the Old French “mondain” meaning “of this world, terrestrial” and first became common usage among mortals in the mid-fifteenth century.
For this reason, the fey adopted the term as Mundane (uppercase M) as proper noun to refer to non-magical mortals, particularly those ignorant of the existence of fey and the worlds beyond the veil.
It was not until roughly 1850 that the meaning of the word extended to “dull or uninteresting.”
Unfortunately for Avery Hemlock, she was imprisoned with a sleeping curse at the end of 1837, and since there is no audible difference between capital or lowercase letters, a misunderstanding was inevitable.
Chapter 3
Avery
Avery didn’t use the word “perfect.”
A good cup of tea was a criminally rare luxury. Despite its place as a cornerstone of British cuisine, its preparation was often tainted by neglect. Before finding their way into someone’s home, leaves had to be carefully gathered and allowed to dry until they could be rolled without tearing the leaf. This determined the shape but also the tea’s flavor and aroma. They had to be kept in cool but humid rooms for nearly half a day before being dried fully to pause the oxidation. Errors in this process could end a good cup before it even started.
Then there were the dangers in brewing: poor-quality water, water at the wrong temperature that either scalds the leaves or is too tepid to bring out the full robust flavor, leaves steeped for too little time, or the most common: leaves that had been left to brew too long, leaving a bitter liquid not even a field of sugarcane could salvage.
This, however, might have been a perfect cup of tea.
It was smooth, exquisite, and rather than milk and sugar covering up any imperfections, they complemented the warmth of the cinnamon, clove, and ginger. Her fingers wrapped around the cup, and she allowed her face to hover over the steam, taking in the scent like one meditating over a hot spring.
No one, until they had proven themselves up to the task, was going to make her tea, except that woman. Saga. Certainly not the Saga, but a Saga. A Hudson witch if there ever was one, judging by her knowledge of herbal charms, and clearly of fey blood by her own admission10—though with every sip of tea came the sobering mental clarity that she hadn’t been able to get a terribly good look. Her hair and eyebrows had been pink, she remembered that.
Like the donut.
Avery glanced down at the confection and felt her mouth involuntarily tug again at a smile. She was still exhausted, in pain, and fully out of her depth in an unfamiliar London, but the kindness and hospitality she had been shown tinged the morning with hope.
Avery had nearly drained the entire contents of the teapot before noticing the clock on the wall.
She was four minutes late. A negligible delay, really, to most mortals, but Archfey were particular. Historically, immortals were misers with time, inexplicably gripping every moment tightly in their fists while mortals eagerly shared the sands fast depleting in their hourglasses.
The clockface, while plain, ticked on as if it were judging her. Avery stared at it, her expression stony, while she proceeded to slowly and defiantly pour the remaining tea into her cup.
The council had stolen nearly two hundred years of her life. They could spare her reclaiming a few minutes.
Milk. Sugar. Drink.
Five minutes late.
If this Saga lived directly below her, it would be worth noting her work schedule and living habits. Who did she bring home? When was she out? What sort of magic, beyond perfect cups of tea, did she practice, and would it interfere with Avery’s own work? What sort of potential dangers did she bring past the threshold of the building, and how many of them would know who was being housed in the apartment upstairs?
Six minutes late.
Avery languidly drank the dregs of the tea, savoring every last sip.
Did Saga know who Avery was? Truly know? This was worth investigating—who knew what? She didn’t care for the notion that she might be surrounded by those who knew far more about her than she did about them.
Seven minutes.
That seemed satisfactory.
Satisfactory enough that it felt deliberate but not so much that it could considered the kind of insubordination that got one thrown back into Blackthorn. She stood, a feat which was not easy but that was made simpler with the invigorating elixir of an entire warm pot of tea running through her veins. Then she stopped. She hadn’t paid for her meal.
Out of habit, her hands dipped into her coat pockets, fingers brushing over a notebook in one and nothing in the other. A small thrill of anxiety twinged in her chest and she checked the inside pockets. A few small vials, a handkerchief, a wand…
Coin. She needed to leave coin. How much? Her search proved this question rather moot as she didn’t appear to have any. It also stood to reason that in the event she did have coin, it might no longer be of worth having been two hundred years out of circulation. Did they even still use coin? Had they adapted to something more resourceful?
She craned her neck around the room, but this provided no answers. She could catch no sight of the waitress who had been circulating before, nor the pretty pink-haired fey who had served her.
No one.
Logically, she knew Saga would likely understand. If the council had made her living arrangements, then she’d be well aware of the situation and so this would have to be on credit to be paid later.
Yet, it didn’t sit well with her.
An item given without exchange left the sort of empty creeping unease in one’s chest and stomach that kept them up at night.
Avery didn’t need another thing keeping her up at night.
The clock on the wall ticked another second, two, three—eight minutes late now.
She clicked her tongue distastefully and wrapped the sweet-smelling pink confection in a paper napkin before pocketing it into one of the empty compartments hidden about her coat. She took another napkin in hand and dipped her index finger into the residual sediment of her teacup to spell out a crude but legible “I O U £.”
She debated the £ in particular. Would Saga know she meant more than just one pound if the bill was larger than that? Would she think she was trying to stiff her? It felt safer than putting merely “s,” as suggesting she owed simply shillings might have been taken as an insult. She took a deep breath. She couldn’t worry about that now. The important part was it was an acknowledgment of an unfinished deal, and it was binding. She would not be haunted by the consequence that came with an ignored debt.
Nine minutes late.
She would have to ask Gideon for coin.
Her lip curled, repulsed. She was loath to request anything from Gideon, much less a favor. Yet, if her services were worthy enough to end a five-hundred-year sentence prematurely, then surely they were worth a small weekly stipend for meals and luxuries like tea.
Not even the council was monstrous enough to board her above a café yet deny her tea. The sleeping curse paled in comparison to such torture.
The rain was still pouring past the awning, but with a small gesture of her hand, the air stirred and the droplets fell away from her as she took a few steps toward the awaiting car, safe and dry. In what native Londoners dared call “sunlight,” she could see it was black, and despite the novelty of its design to Avery, was rather nondescript. The windows were dark and prevented anyone from seeing inside—rather dramatic in Avery’s opinion, but very characteristic of the Winter Council. The door opened, and she slid within.
Over the years she’d kept mental notes on everyone she encountered, much like an explorer cataloging a new species. These notes contained valuable information carefully outlined on a cerebral card and could be accessed quickly, filed near the front of the meticulously curated library of her mind.
The important facts she kept at front of mind for Gideon Blackthorn were these:
Gideon Blackthorn | Elf (Archfey), Age: 500+
6’10”, approximately 235 pounds. Pale skin, silver hair. Fine clothing worn for status rather than appreciation. Fangs, but his tongue is sharper.
• Innate ability to manipulate shadow and winter at whim.
• Winter Court Council Member; Renounced Winter Prince.
• Only child of the Erlking and the Snow Queen,11 but has yet to display the bloodlust of either parent.
• Half brother.
• He is arrogant and conniving, and his face is stupid.
Gideon was eyeing a large silver watch. She had mostly meant her commentary the previous night—he did look dangerously like their father. Pale, angular, and seemingly all limbs. He possessed the coldness but lacked the cruelty of the Erlking, and as she settled across from him, keenly aware of her own family resemblance, she dared to hope she lacked it too.
“I am late,” Avery admitted, securing the belt around her as she had the night prior. She didn’t care for the texture of the weave. It was strong, but there was something about the way it brushed against her fingernails that made her bones hurt. “And I could not possibly comprehend the demands on your infinite time, so I would be wise to not let it happen again, lest the council revoke its generosity in light of my deep ingratitude.” She mockingly punctuated “ingratitude,” chewing each syllable before spitting it at him.
The watch and car door simultaneously snapped shut. He swallowed slowly, soothing the nerves she might have frayed. “10:30 was your suggestion.”
“And I would have hated to get off on the right foot on my first day,” said Avery. “What sort of precedent would that set?”
“A cooperative one.”
“Exactly.” Avery waved a dismissive hand. “And no one wants that.”
“Do you ever tire of your own voice?” It was more warning than question.
“No, I rather liken it to music.”
“I’d rather like you to stop talking.”
Avery flexed her fingers defensively, palms toward Gideon, before sitting back without a word.
The Archfey took a deep breath of the following silence, and as he leaned back, the electric carriage began to smoothly glide down the streets.
Avery took in the sights as best she could from the darkened window, gazing through curtains of rain. She could see strange panels on the roofs that briefly glowed a soft blue wherever droplets of rain hit. She spotted occasional windmills, and even waterwheels on some of the buildings they passed, and, despite herself, she smiled curiously.
Were the humans using the elements to provide energy to their homes? The Dutch, of course, had been famous for their use of wind—and perhaps lesser known to the English at the time, Persia had incorporated wind pumps for food production since the eleventh century, if not prior. It was resourceful for a community, though not terribly profitable for any kind of capital gain.
It was a pleasant surprise to see how they’d grown. Something she could not have truly imagined for the London she’d left behind. It was infinitely cleaner—greener with all of the extra gardens that filled in every little space and stretched up some of the taller buildings. How it all came to be was a marvel she made a note to inquire about.
She became aware of the hard stare Gideon had set on her.
An inquiry, of course, for some other time. For some other person. Perhaps her new neighbor, should she prove trustworthy with anything beyond a cup of tea.
“You wanted to see the body.”
Avery’s attention shifted fully to him.
“It is contained within a secure room so that you may examine it in peace. It would have caused too much attention and too many questions with the humans if we’d moved it to one of our personal facilities. Still, we will have one of our own guarding the door to prevent interruptions and prying eyes.”
Avery just stared at him.
“Detective Inspector Lahiri is well respected within Scotland Yard, so it should not raise any eyebrows. He’ll be assisting you with any hiccups you encounter with human law enforcement, but as a denizen of our world, you needn’t worry about speaking out of turn with him. He smiles too much, but you may find him amusing. A talented jinn who has abstained from using nearly any magic for the past twenty years.” Gideon let another beat of silence fall between them. When Avery again gave no input, he asked, “Is this acceptable to you?”
Avery turned back to the window, giving a wordless thumbs-up with a cock of her head and pursed lips as if she was making a far less amiable gesture.
“No adorable comment to any of that?”
Avery gaped at him in mock surprise. “Oh, am I allowed to speak?”
Gideon grimaced, and despite both of them knowing the following question was leading the Archfey into a trap, he posed it regardless. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“It would seem to me you are a little confused as to what you expect of me. You ask me to stop talking, and now it is absurd that I am silent.” Avery’s tone was petulant, bitterness bubbling beneath every word. Gideon had a way of making her feel like a child, and she did very little to fight the impulses that often came with it.
“Fates alive, when did you start actually listening to me?”
“When I knew it would annoy you,” Avery muttered. She turned once more to the comfort of the passing scenery—the world both familiar and concurrently strange.
A minute passed before Gideon broke the silence once more. For a man who had claimed he wanted her to stop talking, he was doing an awful lot of it. “Did you sleep?”
Avery rocked her hand back and forth in a lackadaisical fashion. It had been her first sleep without the curse, but it had not been restful or without nightmares.
“Strong curses, even when broken properly, can have lingering effects. Should it begin to affect your work, you are to alert the council so some remedies can be made.”
“Should it affect my work,” she repeated snidely.
“Don’t make this an argument.”
“No, Gideon, stop trying to turn a hostage situation into small talk.”
“Very well, perhaps it would be better if I said nothing,” Gideon suggested, and the air around the back seat chilled to winter.
This, in turn, lit a fire in Avery. “That would be one of your stronger assets, would it not?” She did not wait for a retort. “They condemned me to five hundred years of mental and emotional torture, a fate far crueler than death, and you said nothing.”
“You committed treason.”
“I did what needed to be done,” Avery spat. “What your precious council was too terrified to do, what you were too much of a coward to attempt!”
The accusation hung in the air like the sword of Damocles, but disaster never struck.
“I know,” the Archfey admitted in a low tone.
It was the agreement that gave Avery pause. In the centuries they had been forced to interact, never once could she remember a time when Gideon had ever agreed with her, let alone to something that could be even remotely incriminating. To her distaste, it also didn’t give her the swell of pride she was expecting. Instead, the fire died in her, and she felt akin to a deflated balloon.
“But blood cannot go unanswered.”
“It was answered,” Avery said quietly. “I answered it.”
“The council did not agree.”
“Clearly.”
“Nor was I in a position to persuade them at the time.”
At the time?
Avery shifted, suddenly unable to find a comfortable position in her seat. Her focus on the passing buildings softened as his phrasing set a flock of theories racing out in all directions of her mind. At the time implied that times had changed. At the time implied the actions that had been were not the actions now. She took a slow controlling breath and pursed her lips. The inquiry rattled around within her, shouting, nagging. “Gideon,” she began cautiously. “Did you persuade the council to release me early?”
“Your incomparable skill as an investigator, knowledge of criminal psychology, and ability to move between the human world and ours is why the council released you early,” came the stiff reply.
It was the closest statement to an admission of advocacy she knew she might ever get. This did not comfort her. The council changing their minds was an enigma, but Gideon being the one to propose it likely meant he had a larger plan in mind. While not the mad king their father was, Gideon Blackthorn did not do things out of the goodness of his heart. This was leverage; this was a favor to be cashed in at a later date; this was a greater debt owed than first depicted, and it set her rightly on edge. In for a penny, in for a pound… “On the note of ability to move between… I hope the council realizes I will need some kind of compensation. I am afraid I had to pay for my breakfast on credit.”
