Page 28 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Magic & Murder (The Hemlock Saga #1)
Avery could feel the vibrations of Saga’s labored breathing and shaking form against her.
It beat into the pang of her chest and that new pain began to bubble up into her throat.
She winced and exhaled roughly, attempting to expel the strangling sadness that tried to overcome her.
Her arms awkwardly shifted, resisting the urge to push the smaller woman off her.
It was increasingly impossible to breathe—not because she was held too tightly, but because the embrace sent tremors through her she could not quell.
This small desperate act of comfort had unintentionally sent Avery into a spiral.
She could not ignore it. She could not repress it.
She could no longer distract herself from it.
Two hundred years of isolation embedded its reality into her, and an ache of loneliness crashed over her like a tidal wave.
A breath choked in her throat as she tried to keep above it, but it was stronger—so unbearable it might have swallowed her had she not then caught sight of Riddle.
The black cat was staring at her, golden eyes glowering. Disappointed. He eyed the two of them pointedly as if to suggest Avery was doing something entirely wrong.
It was enough of a distraction from the physical sensation and her own despair that Avery found herself grounding in the moment. Was this cat trying to communicate?
Riddle’s tail flicked angrily back and forth, and he sat up straighter, focusing on Avery’s hand closest to him. He raised one paw and made a batting motion.
Bewildered, Avery became keenly aware of her hands still awkwardly sticking out at her sides, not daring to touch the crying woman who had thrown her own arms around her. Tentatively, she rested her hands on Saga’s arms, then checked with Riddle for confirmation.
His tail continued to swish in exasperation.
Avery’s hands moved to rest on Saga’s shoulder blades, but upon checking in with the disapproving cat, they at last wrapped around her fully.
It was a strange sensation, finding the exact spot her hands felt like they were meant to rest—much akin to the same satisfying rush when the last clue fell into place.
The embrace would have been commonplace to any accustomed to such comforts, but to one familiar only with solitude, it was a phenomenon.
A curious experience that her mind would later longingly return to whenever it found itself unoccupied.
She said nothing for a good while, not of the embrace or of Saga’s tears. Words were clumsy and superfluous.
So she simply let Saga cry. And neither said anything.
There were, of course, things one should say at that moment; condolences were customary and polite but they felt hollow, regardless of how true they might have been.
Expressing sorrow for one’s loss was especially appropriate.
There was no better word than “loss” to refer to the death of the Hudson matriarch.
It had been some mortal lifetimes ago, but unless the family had broken entirely from their custom, they had been a fixture in both fey and British society.
But she could not bring herself to say something so bland and unspecific.
It felt too dull a sentence to be spoken in the face of such grief.
Yet an uncomfortable nagging within Avery insisted something should be said, and so after the ongoing nothing between them continued past its expiration, she finally spoke.
“How long has she had a heart condition?” Platitudes Avery could not abide, but curiosity was an addiction even the sleeping curse couldn’t snuff.
“She didn’t,” Saga spoke into the fabric of Avery’s shirt and coat. “Or if she did, she never told me—but that doesn’t mean anything. Apparently, I’m not worth telling things to—”
“You know that’s not true.”
Saga pulled back enough to look at Avery, and while her face was streaked with tears, her eyes held something new: fear.
“What is it?”
“Something weird happened before I passed out. There was this darkness. I’m not sure how else to describe it. I couldn’t breathe—that’s why I passed out. It was like what happened yesterday, only so much stronger. I couldn’t fight it.”
Avery’s eyes narrowed. “Saga,” she spoke very carefully, very deliberately.
Names had power and she needed the woman to hear her clearly, to be able to fully grasp the meaning of her following question.
“Did it feel similar…or was it the same as before?” She might have felt a little guilty for the magic interwoven in her voice, but there was little time to cater to shock.
Every moment past meant magic would be fading.
A small wrinkle knitted between Saga’s brows.
At first she was confused by the question, then as her eyes unfocused, drifting to the side of Avery’s gaze, her expression shifted into one of deep thought.
Analyzing. She took a steadying breath before looking back to meet Avery’s eyes.
“The same as before. I’m certain of it.”
“May I go inside?” Another very deliberately asked question, though plainly asked.
Saga fumbled with this request, her eyes unfocusing again as the thought of going back inside sank in. She was back there, back in that moment. Avery could nearly see the scene play out in front of her companion as it must have mere minutes before the ambulance had arrived.
“Saga,” Avery spoke her name once more, firm and resonant, her voice filling each syllable and sound.
It did not demand an answer. Avery could not command a mortal mind with her magic, but she could beckon it in a way that made the sound almost impossible to ignore.
Much like the golden spiral of a great work of art drew attention to its center, her voice led the name’s owner back to the present, back to Avery.
It took a while—stepping away from a traumatic memory always did—but Saga lifted her eyes to Avery’s once more, her pupils contracting back into focus.
“You don’t have to come with me,” Avery assured. “But may I go inside? I’d like to investigate.”
Saga only nodded.
As hard as it had been to fully embrace her, Avery found it more difficult to release her.
The cold that flooded in as she pulled away was biting and harsh.
She paused, lingering in the proximity of Saga’s warmth.
She busied herself by adjusting the blanket back around the other woman as if this were the reason for her hesitation.
Then up the steps, through the door, and over the threshold.
Thresholds were tricky. The magic of the hearth and home had been so ingrained in cultures that most families worked protective spells around their abodes without even realizing it.
It manifested when someone decorated, cleaned, and cared for the space.
It strengthened as a house became a home and consequently beckoned benevolent spirits like the nisse28 to aid in its protection.
Most people, magic or Mundane, could sense a proper threshold, even if they didn’t quite recognize it for what it was.
It was the quality of warmth and comfort that enveloped you when you were invited in, or it was the uneasiness of being watched when you hadn’t been.
This kind of protection didn’t typically outright stop burglars, especially those so desensitized to the buzzing of a violated threshold—though particularly protective house spirits had been known to activate previously deactivated alarms, gnaw holes in loot bags, and ruffle area rugs in a fashion that made one continuously trip over.
A proper threshold did keep unwanted magic out, however.
Mostly. Provided that unwanted magic wasn’t being deliberately and maliciously targeted. That was another story.
But the threshold of a witch was different. The magic of the home was deliberate. Incantations were sung while furniture was placed or walls painted. Nesting was merely an affectation of abjuration and each item attached to memory or sentiment added to the spiritual armor of the place.
Unwelcome magic did not easily violate the home of a witch.
As Avery stood in the entryway, she understood why Saga had been so reluctant to return.
The air was cold and thick with a faint haze that smelled of gunpowder.
It was a scent she often associated with evocation—the kind of magic that required brute force and power, but not necessarily focus.
It had utterly ravaged the magic of the threshold.
If a nisse had made a home in the in-between spaces, it was long gone, abandoning what felt like the remains of a dynamite explosion.
Yet there were no signs of the kind of aftermath channeling such powerful energies usually caused. No signs of scorch marks, or even a struggle. Absolutely nothing but a charming sitting room, with a deeply unsettling aura.
Whatever magic had happened here, it was more recent than the last, and it had violated one of the oldest laws of fey and humans in order to carry out its purpose: hospitality had been extended and subsequently betrayed.
It was the kind of magic that would leave a haunting imprint long after the rest had dissipated.
Avery picked her way around the sitting room, looking for any physical anomalies.
She considered asking Saga to join her—it would have been advantageous to have the perspective of someone who knew the space.
But asking anyone to reenter the place where a loved one passed so soon felt unkind.
To ask an ill-protected witch back into a space so teeming with magical malcontent was cruel.
Turning back to the front door, she was surprised to see the black cat had followed her.
Riddle was sitting on the threshold, ears attentive and eyes sharp.
Avery took a few testing steps to the left and back again.
The cat’s eyes followed without faltering.
“Are you keeping an eye on me?” came the incredulous inquiry.