Page 55 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Magic & Murder (The Hemlock Saga #1)

“Anders Celsius. Swedish mathematician, physicist, and astronomy professor, proposed a unit for measuring temperature in 1742. Though a year later a French physicist suggested we invert the measurements, and it apparently caught on rather wildly in the scientific community. I’m happy to hear Anders was still given credit—that’s not often the case.

” Avery raised a finger importantly. “Speaking of case, we should get back to this…” She made her way to the boxes.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but do you think you could stand to look at a few photographs the detectives took when they came to collect the garbage and such? See if you notice anything odd?”

Saga didn’t think looking at photographs of her grandmother’s home should cause an issue. It was just walking in it. “I want to help in any way I can.”

Avery pulled a few photographs from one of the boxes and held them out to her. “Anything that seems even a little out of the ordinary, no matter how Mundane.”

Saga took them and slowly sank into the armchair opposite Avery. “That word means something different to you, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve said it a few times. I remember when you were asking about the café—you said something about not being sure how mundane it had become. What does it mean?”

“Of this world. Non-magical.”

“Oh,” Saga chuckled in surprise and focused on the photos in her lap. The living room looked the same as it always did. Comforting in its predictability. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“What does it mean to you?”

“Boring.”

The context of the conversation Saga had thought they were having that day dawned on Avery and she rubbed the back of her neck. “I am so sorry if you thought I was implying…”

“It’s okay,” Saga assured. “I’m just glad we understand each other a little better now.

” She flipped to a photograph of the kitchen.

Through the photographs, the warm shades of the wood and lighting seemed colder, empty.

Perhaps it was the flash of the camera, or simply the emotional scar left by watching her grandmother collapse.

The teacups were still out, having never been used that morning.

The simple white china was uncomfortably stark against the tablecloth beneath.

Hospital white against a deep bloodlike burgundy. Saga shuddered.

Another photograph of the cupboards and the open dishwasher.

Such an odd glimpse into her grandmother’s life.

Three port glasses, carefully stacked—she’d have one every night before bed, a tradition that spanned all the way back to her honeymoon.

Then there were a few plates, cups—the small plates that she’d placed Saga’s lemon tartlets onto, and the teacups they’d used, and… “Huh…”

“Did you find something?”

“Maybe nothing…” Saga frowned and flipped to the next photograph that showed a more detailed image of the contents of the dishwasher. “But there might be something inside the dishwasher.”

“Inside the…” Avery looked mildly disturbed.

“It’s a machine,” explained Saga. “I realize that was a name probably reserved for a person in your time, but now it’s an appliance—like a teakettle.

” She showed her the photograph. “See this tea set?” She tapped her finger against the bone china with the intricate design.

“Odd that my grandmother put it in the dishwasher in the first place—it can go in there, but she preferred to wash it by hand just in case. This tea set was a wedding gift from the Goff family when Mamó got married. In all the time I knew her, she only used it on two occasions, even after Grandpa died: Her anniversary, and whenever Eira came to visit.” She peered at Avery expectantly, studying her features for that same look she’d entered with.

Was this a breakthrough? Did it mean anything? It must.

“Perhaps Eira visited her before she passed,” Avery offered.

“Except Eira passed away eleven days ago, and, as you can see, these dishes are dirty. Furthermore, there are only three port glasses present, and I know for a fact that there wasn’t a night Saoirse O’Donnell didn’t have a glass of port before bed.

These dishes are only three nights old. I met her early on the fourth day, which can only mean that at some point in the three days leading up to her death, my grandmother used that tea set, and her anniversary is in March. ”

“It’s intriguing,” Avery hummed. “But unfortunately it’s purely circumstantial at this point. Her best friend had just passed, she might have brought it out for nostalgia’s sake.”

“Two cups?” Saga persisted.

Riddle hopped up onto the back of the chair, arching his back in a stretch before finding a comfortable seat on the arm, positioning himself like a sphinx.

“You’re a witch. Have you ever poured a beverage for the dead?” asked Avery.

Saga deflated. She had a point. She hated it, but she had a point. She slumped back and absently stroked along Riddle’s back with her fingertips. “Did we ever figure out what in the rubbish bin gave you the rash?”

“Foxglove.”

“Oh gods,” said Saga. “That could have killed him.”

“If he were actually a cat, it would have,” said Avery. She hadn’t looked up from the file she was reading.

“What else was in there?”

Avery flipped a few pages before reading, “Tea leaves, some food containers, goat milk, honey, a broken dish, paper towels—”

“Goat milk?” Saga asked.

Riddle trilled and perked up.

Avery quirked an eyebrow. “Is that uncommon?”

“Mildly, it’s a kind of treat. Not for us, I mean, for Riddle.”

Riddle trilled again now that multiple words he rather enjoyed were being spoken.

“What sort of treat?”

“May I?” Saga asked, leaning forward and extending a hand for the file. “He usually only got it when Mamó had company over. The ceremony of it would help keep him calm. Which, now knowing he’s able to understand us, I have to wonder if he was acting out specifically to get goat milk.”

Riddle fixed an innocent, wide-eyed stare at her as if to say, “Who, me?”

Unconvinced, Saga studied the list again.

Something clicked in her mind with the pieces she’d already been sifting through.

“What if the poison wasn’t originally contaminating the tea?

What if it was the goat milk that was poisoned and it only soaked into the tea leaves after the fact?

This broken dish—I bet it contained the goat milk.

The honey might have successfully concealed the taste of the foxglove.

If it caused Riddle to feel woozy or unwell, he might have accidentally knocked the dish over and broken it, and if it broke, it would have spilled the poisoned goat milk everywhere—that’s evidence.

So they would have had to throw away the dish, and mop up the milk with the paper towels.

They must have been sopping wet, it would have dripped and seeped into everything.

” The conclusion these facts drew her to made her extremities feel cold and detached.

“They weren’t trying to poison Mamó, they were trying to poison Riddle. ”

Riddle hissed quietly.

“Then the killer knew what he was and knew Riddle would have to be dealt with if they were going to perform the ritual. It would have had to be someone close, someone she trusted. Someone your grandmother would have invited in for tea.”

Saga’s heart plummeted. “God forgive me, what I wouldn’t do…”

“Pardon?”

Saga struggled to raise her voice above a hoarse whisper.

“It was the last thing Elis said in his speech. I thought he was talking metaphorically, but maybe he was truly asking some higher power for forgiveness. If he went to see my grandmother under the guise of seeking comfort after Eira’s death…

She’d have brought out that tea set. He would have brought goat milk because Eira always brought goat milk.

She wouldn’t have given a second thought before giving it to Riddle. ”

“What about Valentina LaRosa? What was his connection there?”

“She worked in his mother’s house, he’d have extremely easy access to her.”

Avery clicked her tongue and rested an arm back on the chair behind her, still lounging on the floor as if posed. “Except she wasn’t living there when the ritual was performed. We know that happened in the apartment she used to share with Rachel.”

Saga opened her mouth to protest, closed it and sighed heavily. “Oh, cock, you’re right.” She leaned back in the armchair, defeated. Which was when she noticed the sparkle in Avery’s eye and the hint of a smile spreading slowly over her pale pink lips. “Why are you smiling?”

“Come on, Trygg,” Avery teased with encouraging urgency. “You can’t give up that easily if you’re going to keep up with me.”

Saga’s eyes widened, then narrowed abruptly in irritation. “Do you already know the answer?”

A noncommittal shrug. “I might.”

Saga leaned forward accusingly. “How long have you known?”

“I had my suspicions once I realized the motive, but what you said about the milk and bone china made for a rather damning confirmation.”

She squinted, scrutinizing the changeling before her. “Are you testing me?”

Avery flashed a grin and took a swig of her tea.

“Think of it as an exercise in abductive reasoning. We believe that Elis Goff is our killer. You have already identified how he could have received an invitation into your grandmother’s home and how he could have introduced the poison to Riddle.

Now do the same for Miss LaRosa.” She then used her cup to gesture to the files around them. “The information is all there.”

Saga slid to the floor again and began to carefully prod in the box until she found the file on Valentina.

Opening it, she was greeted by two photographs, one from her identification, the other a headshot from the morgue.

Bodies had never made her uncomfortable, but she’d never been able to shake the sadness that washed over her when she came across untimely deaths.

“She was really pretty.” And far too young.