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Chapter 30 Avery

It was odd, the things a person got used to despite never having wanted them in the first place. It had been another sleep without nightmares. Those nights were slowly becoming more frequent. And while she would not go so far as to say she missed her nightmares, there was something undeniably disconcerting when they were absent.

Firstly, on those mornings, she simply woke. It was such a subtle occurrence, she was never quite sure when it happened exactly. There was no flailing movement, no abrupt start, just a slow and creeping awareness that sleep had departed.

It was a slower realization on this particular morning, because as her eyes began to focus, it was on an unfamiliar ceiling. For a moment this puzzled her until she realized she was not lying in her own bed either, but rather on a plush rug on someone’s floor. Taking in her immediate surroundings, she saw the soft velvet fabric of a settee she did recognize, as well as the arm that dangled off it. She followed the limb with her eyes, stunned to find the fingers were enfolded by her own hand.

The previous night began to seep back into her recollection. Following the trial, Saga had been upset, and they’d stayed up late going over the record. It had not been a productive conversation in the strictest of senses. Avery had found it rather repetitive. Normally that would have bothered her. But she’d found last night she was not only willing to hear Saga recount her conflicted feelings on the matter, but she had wanted to.

She marveled at the softness of the other woman’s hand in her own, gently stroking over the back of Saga’s fingers with the pad of her thumb. Had she offered her hand as comfort in the night or had Saga reached for it?

Avery couldn’t see her companion’s face from her vantage point. She knew she was lying on her stomach, and it looked as if her other arm was tucked under the pillow beneath her head for extra support. Pink waves of hair cascaded over her face and shoulder.

Avery sat up, careful to not move the hand that held Saga’s as she got a better look at her.

The woman was covered with a knit blanket, her face pressed against the pillow in a manner that was perhaps a little undignified but made Avery smile. It was a deep sleep, marked by her peaceful expression, her diaphragmatic breathing, and her otherwise complete lack of movement.

Avery was struck by how quiet that morning was—not simply because Saga was still sleeping, or even that the bustle of Baker Street was absent, but that for the first time in her memory, there was a quietness in herself. Her mind was active, yes, but her thoughts were more present. It appreciated the details of her surroundings rather than buzzing impatiently for a puzzle or distraction to occupy it. To her surprise, this moment was enough. Could she stay there in that moment, content and quiet?

Though when Saga woke, it would raise some awkward questions about why Avery was just sitting there watching her sleep. Her eyes cast about the room, wondering where she had placed her library book. She was, after all, so very close to this delightful chap Poirot revealing who had killed Monsieur Ratchett. But as her eyes settled on the book, her attention instead focused on what was behind it—the tote bag Saga had brought home with the almanacs.

A new plan began to form, a better plan, and so gingerly, she released Saga’s fingers and awkwardly crawled away from the settee before standing. According to the clock and her pocket watch, it was after eleven.

First, the tea was to be made. All perfect mornings, even if they were clinging to the last vestiges of morning, had to start with tea. Thankfully, she had spent enough time in this home to know where Saga kept everything needed to accomplish this task. It was not until she was pouring the hot water into the prepared teapot that it struck her how comfortable she felt in this space. It halted her movements and she took in her surroundings with a new appreciation. This was a new kind of intimacy—foreign and exciting all the same despite how commonplace it must have been for everyone else. She felt safe and comfortable in someone else’s home.

This revelation tugged Avery’s lips into an involuntary grin, and she brought the teapot to the table, where she had laid out the yearbooks, and then two cups, the sugar, and a small pitcher of milk.

She’d been pleased find each almanac came with an index. John Hingley, as she came to find, was a professor of literature. He took his advanced class on an annual trip in spring that appeared to be a weeklong tour around the country, visiting Kent, Bath, Stratford-upon-Avon, Oxford, and Cambridge.

Patricia Aldridge appeared to have gone on that trip her fourth year, but neither anyone named Theresa nor Betsey Paris had gone with her. In looking up Betsey Paris, she found one photo from their second year of Betsey, Patricia, Theresa Duffy, and an Abigail Rhyder, with their faces painted the school’s colors at what appeared to be a football match.

Abigail Rhyder, the name Luna had ordered Blake to never speak to her again.

Investigating further, it seemed Theresa Duffy and Abigail Rhyder had been friends enough their first year to have a photo taken at what appeared to be an orientation their first day of school.

Avery leaned down to look closer at the photograph. With her face clear of the paint, Abigail looked familiar, and Avery retrieved her phone to examine the photograph taken on the memorial altar. It was the same girl. She’d found the fourth girl. “I’ll be damned… Blake was right after all…”

“What time is it?” Saga’s voice yawned from the couch.

“Half past eleven.”

“How long have you been awake?”

Avery placed her hand on top of the teapot. “Long enough that I’ve made tea. And progress. I found Abigail Rhyder.”

“From the enemies list?” Saga asked, blearily making her way to the table.

Avery’s gaze flicked to the side, mentally walking up the stairs to her own apartment to observe the wall they’d pinned evidence to. In her mind’s eye she took the scrap of paper from the wall on which Blake had scribbled down names, moving down the list to Eugenia Scrimshaw—the priestess who had run the memorial ritual—and Abigail Rhyder. “Yes.” Her attention shifted to Saga who was pouring herself a cup of tea now. “But when you looked her up, you found nothing, correct?”

Saga yawned again as she slid into a seat beside her. “Well, we didn’t know the spelling. But I did find one or two birth certificates for Abigails who would be around Luna’s same age.” She took one sip of tea before remembering, “Oh, I meant to tell you. Theresa’s maiden name—”

“Duffy.” Avery nodded. “It was easy enough to find with the almanacs you gathered. Our Abigail spells her surname with an H.”

“Of course she does.” Saga drew her knees to her chest and rested the cup on her knees, holding it with both hands. “What else have you found?”

Avery slid the fourth-year almanac to Saga, quickly catching her up on John Hingley. “It looks like Abigail was on that trip with Patricia.”

“Blake really does look like his dad. Down to the hair and the freckles.” Saga peered down at the photo and shook her head. “Blake really does look like his dad, doesn’t he? Same jaw, same hair—maybe there’s hope he’ll grow into himself and won’t look so…” She trailed off, her lips setting into a confused frown, taking a long sip of her tea.