Page 14 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Magic & Murder (The Hemlock Saga #1)
“Because Eira was of the belief that you don’t always get to pick your family, and funerals are times to bury the hatchet before you bury your dead.”
“Yeah, but Hedda wasn’t family, right?”
“No, but she tried to sling so much mud at Eira in life, I assume Eira wanted to make sure that she had the ability to apologize or something. I’m not sure I’d be so gracious, or that I believe that withered socialite will say anything short of a gloat…”
Saga frowned. Between them and… Well, if her mother was coming…
“Are you going to be able to…” She stopped before she found herself saying “enjoy the funeral.” She sucked in her cheeks and struggled to figure out the right way to phrase her question.
“Will you be able to pay your respects at the funeral or are you going to be too occupied wrangling problematic mourners? I mean between Hedda and Carys and Elis and…anyone else who may cause issues…”
Saoirse shrugged. “I’ve been assured that I will not need to manage anyone, but…
” She stopped and forced a smile. “Eira’s lawyer hasn’t had to deal with all of these people in one room before, let alone under emotional circumstances.
” Then unexpectedly she laughed. “Don’t look so gloomy, child, I’m not upset about it, and neither should you be. ”
Saga ducked her head, self-conscious of how obvious her discontent had been that her grandmother took note of it so quickly. She tried to busy herself with her own tart, poking it with her fork. Saoirse hadn’t offered the information, but the need to know nagged at her. “Is Mom coming?”
Saoirse laid a hand over her heart, her lips pressing together, and exhaled as if breathing through a sharp ache. “Your mother received an invitation to the funeral like everyone else in our family.”
Saga tried to keep the disappointment from her expression. How could her mother not see how important it was for all of them to be there for Saoirse during this time? “How is the tart?”
“You truly have a gift, Saga.”
The compliment made her heart dance, and she quietly hoped the baked goods would do more than merely satisfy her grandmother’s taste buds. “You like it?”
“It’s delectable. So bright, and yet the warmth of the vanilla in the shortbread—and the cream…” Saoirse’s gaze sharpened. “You’re not considering being a baker, are you?”
“No,” Saga laughed, paused, and thought about it. “Well…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s dumb.”
“Brigid doesn’t think it’s dumb,” came the familiar assurance.
It had become a sort of mantra in the home, especially whenever self-doubt reared its ugly head at Saga.
Saoirse paused, then added, “There’s little mystery in baking.
” It was the sort of statement that could have been colored with so many tones, and yet she left it blank, almost bland.
But Saga knew this strategy too well to not see it for what it was: a challenge.
A statement said without judgment to see if the listener would interpret it in their own way, and in their reaction, give far more away than they intended.
“It’s chemistry you can eat,” Saga offered simply.
Saga had not taken the bait, so Saoirse took another bite of the bake. “Does it make you happy?”
“It does…”
“But it is not what you wish to do.”
“What I wish…” Saga struggled with this idea. She fiddled with her Brigid medallion. Such a complicated notion. More than anything she wished she knew what she wished…
Saoirse nodded to the other lemon tart. “Perhaps your own heart would do well to have some of that.”
Saga felt sheepish, though she wasn’t sure if it was because her grandmother recognized her heartache, or that she’d been caught in her intention. She stopped poking at her food and took a bite, peering around the town house. “Where’s Riddle?”
For as long as Saga could remember, Saoirse had always had a black cat, and for as long as she had had a black cat, she had always named it Riddle. It was an odd quirk that had resulted in Saga, as a child, firmly believing it had in fact been the same immortal cat all along.
“He isn’t feeling well,” Saoirse murmured, taking another bite. “Been lethargic and sleeping all day.”
Saga’s brow furrowed. “How long has he been ill?”
“I’m not sure.”
Saga startled at that. Despite her years, Saoirse’s mind had only sharpened with age, able to catalog far more complex information. To not know when her cat had started displaying symptoms was far more revealing of her state of distress than anything else.
“I could take him to the vet,” Saga offered, watching her grandmother’s reaction carefully.
Saoirse frowned and shook her head. “He’ll perk up in a day or two.”
“Mamó.”
“I promise, I’ll keep an eye on him. If you’d like, you can swing by later and check on him.”
“I will.” If Saoirse wasn’t concerned, then Saga probably had no reason to be either. Even in mourning, Saoirse did not let the care of those around her fall into neglect. But it would be a decent excuse for Saga to check on her grandmother again.
16 The Spell for Healing Lemon Tarts with Lavender Earl Grey Whipped Cream may be found on page 421.
17 There are many better terms for an umbrella, all colloquial of course. “Brolly” is delightful, but less likely to be understood in the narrative by a US audience.
“Bumbershoot,” of course, being most superior, because why would you use “umbrella” when “bumbershoot” is an option?
But then one must resign themselves to the fact that it is uncommon slang in the United States, and, in this story, the United States does not exist. But that’s another tale entirely.
18 Gaeilge: Grandma/Granny. A term Saga uses for her maternal grandmother.
Saga also has a paternal grandmother whom she calls Farmor (Norwegian), though growing up she saw little of her father’s parents as they lived in Oslo. Now she sees even less of them, as nearly a decade ago they moved back to her Farmor’s home of Cape Town, South Africa.
19 Gaeilge: My darling/my sweetheart.