Page 26 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Magic & Murder (The Hemlock Saga #1)

Stepping over the threshold into her grandmother’s home gave her pause again. Undeniable still was that strange sense that something was off-kilter, like the furniture had been moved or was out of place just enough that it felt as if she was stepping into an entirely different home.

Her heart sank, worried. “Mamó?” She called out. Perhaps this was just what magic felt like. Perhaps she was now so much more aware of it. Perhaps—

“Mrow?” Something velvety, soft, and black leaned its entire weight against her legs. When she checked for the cause, she saw the shadow turn around and butt headfirst into her shins before rubbing itself against her once more.

The knot in her chest released, and she could not fight the smile as she reached down to run her fingertips along the creature’s back. “Hey Riddle-cat, how are you feeling?”

Riddle turned and nuzzled against her once more now in the other direction before plopping onto her feet to expose his belly.

He was large for a housecat, but all lean muscle.

His coat was pristine and sable save for a small white tuft at his throat shaped like a starburst—though this was mostly covered by the smart white bowtie around his neck that made him look like he was wearing a fine tuxedo.

It was hard to think anything could ever be wrong with those bright gold eyes staring up at her.

“Is that my Saga?” Saoirse called from upstairs. “At this hour?”

Saga flinched and realized she was still holding the can of Spectral. She snuck it between the door and the shoe rack. “I told you I’d check on Riddle!”

“He’s fine. Big baby of a creature. Hasn’t left me alone all morning—that’s how I knew someone must have come to the door.” Her voice traveled down the stairs until she was finally turning the corner in time to see Saga removing her rain boots. “I hope you planned to stay for a bit.”

Saga nodded. “Yes, please.”

“Come into the kitchen, I’ve already put on a kettle.” Saoirse led the way into the house once more.

“Are you done with the pictures, then?” Saga asked, seeing the table was now devoid of albums as she sat down.

“Yes, and the solicitor will bring the box round after the funeral, so I put the rest of them back upstairs.” Saoirse paused before remembering what she was doing, then grabbed a teapot and began to fill the built-in steeper with an Earl Grey.

“You didn’t happen to bring any more of those tarts, did you? ”

“No, not this time.”

The older woman shook her head. “Shame. But probably for the best. Think I’ve had heartburn ever since.”

“Are you all right?”

There was a dismissive wave of her free hand as Saoirse emptied the kettle into the teapot.

“Just fine, petal. Curse of getting older. Too much of anything good, and your heart starts complaining. It’s silly if you ask me.

Heart complaining about what the stomach and mouth get to enjoy.

Though perhaps that’s really what heartburn is.

It knows it’s missing out on all the tasty stuff.

” She gave her granddaughter a playful wink.

Saga smiled, but it was tainted by the knowledge that her grandmother was not at any age to be ignoring what her body was telling her, whether she agreed with it or not. “Or it’s stomach acid rising up your esophagus because the lower esophageal sphincter isn’t working how it used to.”

Saoirse’s expression soured. “Don’t say ‘sphincter’ at the table. It’s impolite.”

Saga bowed in her seat. “Forgive me, Lord Table, I’ve misplaced my manners.”

This joke was pointedly ignored. “Have you had breakfast?”

Saga considered the handful of scroggin and gulps of electric blue liquid. “Sort of?”

A loud tsk. “Knowing you, that means at best you managed some sort of squirrel food before you scampered over.”

“I didn’t really have an appetite this morning,” Saga conceded.

“Is this about Hugh again?”

Saga flinched but held to her purpose. “No…” She chewed the inside of her cheek, debating how to approach the subject delicately. What she managed was an awkward sidestep relevant to the case. “Mamó, did you know Eira’s nurse very well? Valentina LaRosa?”

Saoirse looked puzzled as she set two teacups and the pot on the table.

“Not terribly well. I think I met her physician more often. Eira didn’t like having her with her during social calls.

Our time together was particularly important—she wanted us to feel as independent as possible. Like we used to. Why do you ask?”

The knot in her chest was back. Here it was. This was the moment. There was no turning back. “I met the new tenant in Apartment B.”

Saoirse stuttered in her movements. “Oh?” Her voice was strained. She began to busy herself by looking in the fridge.

“She’s a detective—working on a case with Reza, actually. Apparently Eira’s nurse got into an accident, and there were some suspicious circumstances.”

Saoirse nodded. There was a tension to her posture like she was holding her breath.

“Do you know her?”

“Not personally,” her grandmother dismissed, emerging with a small pitcher of milk. “Leigh and I discussed the living arrangement a little while ago is all.”

Saga could feel her gaze narrowing on her grandmother, who was now refusing to look her in the eye. “What exactly did you discuss?”

“Oh.” She practically sang the word as she hung on it. A poor attempt at sounding casual. “Logistics, mainly. Square footage, how much rent to charge, working out a credit system—”

“The intricate deception of keeping the existence of magic and the fey secret from your granddaughter?”

The world stopped.

Saga held her breath, knowing she should have held her tongue. There were better ways. Gentler ways. Yet the hurt and anger that had risen inside had boiled over, and she could not take back that accusation now.

Saoirse was deathly still. She did not look up, and she dared not move, as if Saga’s revelation had broken time itself and frozen them forever in that moment before confession.

“Mamó?”

“Go n-ullamhuighe an diabhal teinne dhuit, Hemlock!”25 The curse spilled out of Saoirse in a low growl. “How much do you know?”

“That you lied,” Saga offered. “That feels like more than enough.”

Her grandmother’s demeanor shifted. She looked more concerned than upset now. “We never lied, Saga. We kept it hidden, yes, and perhaps that was wrong—but we had every intention of telling you.”

Saga had never been more aware of her proximity to thirty years of age than at that moment. “When?”

“Well…” Saoirse slowly sat down across the table. She busied herself with serving both of them, pouring cream and sugar and then the tea. “Initially the plan was to tell you before you went off to university, but you were so determined about Oxford.”

“So I was punished for wanting an education?”

“No!” She sighed. “That isn’t what I’m saying. It’s just… You were so focused on going and ‘doing right by your father’ or what Audrey insist you should do. We thought that was what you wanted, and we didn’t want to confuse you.”

Saga could feel her temper flaring. “Confuse me? No, no. What confuses me is finding out our family is made up of a long line of witches, and not even the kind of witches I thought, but something out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales.”

Saoirse scoffed. “Hit pieces. Nothing but hags, cannibals, and kidnappers—the lot of them.”

“You’re changing the subject,” Saga protested.

“I warned Leigh.” Saoirse folded her arms. “Council protection or not, there are dangers in housing a convict.”

Saga blinked. “A what now?”

“And what protection was the council really offering us? Mortal witches are still on the fringes of the fey world at best. I’m not as optimistic as she is that this will help improve relations.

The whole point of waking her up was to help keep their world a secret.

Throughout history, our presence has been tolerated at best. We’ve never held a position of authority—half of their kind don’t take us seriously.

We are stuck with one foot on either side, and that has its own host of problems. Is that what you want? ”

Riddle was not fond of this heightened energy and raised voices and had begun to yowl at Saga’s feet.

Saga reached down to soothingly pet his head. “Hey boyo, we’re okay.” She continued this motion and directed her attention back to the conversation. “I’d at least like the chance to say no rather than have the option taken from me.”

“If we could walk away that easily, don’t you think one of our ancestors would have some time ago?”

“They’d have walked away from magic?”

“That word doesn’t mean what you believe it does, treasure.”

“I’ve always felt out of sync with my life, Mamó—maybe this is why!”

“You said that about Oxford.”

The words were simple but pried at an old wound in Saga, and Riddle continued to yowl. He was getting louder too.

Saoirse flinched, wishing she’d chosen her words better.

Though she continued, her tone was gentler.

“You were convinced following in your father’s steps was going to help you feel whole, and where did that lead?

Then the way you talked about marriage, or baking—Mo chailín, mo leanbh,26 you cannot approach magic with this same mercurial interest. It will tear you apart.

Riddle, Cad tá ortsa, oraibhse?27 Calm down. ”

Riddle had moved to Saoirse now, but he had not ceased his yowling, his tail bushy as it swished back and forth rapidly, agitated.

“I’m not mercurial,” Saga said, but she’d lost the power behind her voice. Perhaps her grandmother was right. “I’m just trying to figure myself out.”

“And until you do, this world is not for you. Magic is chaos incarnate. If you do not have order within yourself, it will consume and destroy you.”

“But there has been something missing in my life.”

Saoirse reached a hand out to take Saga’s.

“Listen to me: You do not find yourself with magic. You become yourself, and the magic finds you.” She patted her hand in a gentle but dismissive manner.

“We will talk no more of this.” She glared down at the anxious cat.

“Riddle! Please, stop this.” She winced, and her right hand moved to press against her left pectoral.

Saga’s eyes darted from this gesture to the cat, then back again. “Mamó? What’s going on?”

“It’s just the heartburn, petal. It’s making me a little dizzy.”

“That’s not a heartburn symptom…” Realization dawned, and something in her shifted. Suddenly she felt like she was back assisting in the ER as a calm washed over her. “Lie down on the floor?”

“What?”

“Please, Mamó. Don’t ask questions.” Saga stood and reached for the woman to support her weight as she helped her onto the ground.

“What is this? What are you doing?”

“I think you’re having a heart attack.” She reached into her pocket for her mobile and dialed 999.

“I’m not having a heart attack, I feel fine… I just…”

“Emergency Services, which do you require? Fire—”

“I need an ambulance.”

“Putting you through.”

Saga could hear the call connecting, and then another voice. “Where are you calling from?”

“228 Baker Street. Marylebone district, Westminster London. Patient is breathing and awake. Eighty-five years of age, displaying heart attack symptoms. Persistent chest pain, shortness of breath, sweating.”

“This is too much of a fuss,” whispered Saoirse.

“Are you with her now?”

“Yes. Same address. I’ve had her lie down.”

“Very good, ma’am. Please remain calm. Is this number good to reach you?”

“Yes.”

“We’re sending someone along.”

The call ended, and Saga moved immediately into the bathroom, fetching aspirin, then a glass of water. “This is going to be a little unpleasant, but I need you to chew this.”

Saoirse sluggishly shook her head, and her words were starting to slur together. “I’m fine, Saga, really. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

Saga kneeled beside her and offered the pill. “It’s not for the pain, it’s to help reduce heart damage. It will keep your blood from clotting.”

Saoirse took the pill in a shaky hand as she admired her granddaughter. “I love you, you know.”

“I do,” Saga answered. “And I love you too. Please take it.”

“I didn’t keep it from you to keep you out of this world.” She placed the aspirin in the side of her mouth and chewed it carefully. “We want you to be a part of it.”

“I know.” She didn’t, but she would have said anything to keep her grandmother awake and calm.

“I just didn’t want to lose you…” Her eyes were fluttering to stay open.

“You’re not going to lose me.” Saga took one of her hands in both of her own. “Please stay with me.”

“Riddle will keep an eye on you for me.”

“No,” Saga said firmly. “No, you’re going to keep an eye on me.” She watched her grandmother’s face relax, lids closing. “Mamó? Mamó!”

Was she breathing? She didn’t look like she was breathing.

Riddle was still yowling, but he sounded so far away now.

Saga quickly assessed her grandmother. She was lying on her back, her form straight. She carefully opened the airway before she began chest compressions for CPR.

Something felt wrong. Sickly wrong.

She managed one set of compressions before her head began to swim.

She moved to give Saoirse breath, but the air within her own lungs felt cold—everything around her felt cold, as if everything had frosted over.

The world went dark, or perhaps she couldn’t keep her own eyes open.

Her chest hurt, she was spinning, and nausea gripped her as cold sweat broke out along her neck and forehead.

She had the faintest sensation that she needed to stay awake.

That she could not let her eyes shut, regardless of whether she could see.

She fell back and choked, the cold air burning her lungs as her chest tightened.

She had to fight it, she knew she did, but she didn’t know how.

She clawed at her neck, certain that she would find a hand there, pressing, but there was nothing.

And then there was nothing.

25 Gaeilge: May the devil prepare a fire for you, Hemlock.

26 Gaeilge: My darling girl, child.

27 Gaeilge: What is wrong with you?