Page 8 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Magic & Murder (The Hemlock Saga #1)
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.