Page 96 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

“Open up your gates!”

Avery anticipated it would grow quiet again, but instead Eugenia began to hum, and even as this tune began to catch on, the four within the circle began to speak.

“Have you forgotten me?” Blake cried out, his eyes closed and his head tilted backward. Avery began to wonder if this was a question for Luna, but then the young woman spoke in much the same manner, her body seeming to convulse.

“My daughter, I am so proud of you.”

Then the other, and the other, until the four were speaking as if channeling voices from beyond, their bodies shaking as they shouted out over the humming of the crowd.

“My medals, why haven’t you hung up my medals?”

“You act like you don’t miss me at all.”

“You don’t bring flowers to my grave anymore.”

Overlapping, again and again, these sentences that were both specific yet vague enough they might have meant something to many, the four “speakers” shook as if possessed, and yet… It didn’t sit right. Something about what she was watching did not feel connected to anything. Even theater, which was blatantly playing pretend for an audience, at least felt connected to something—to the audience, to each other. There was an aspect to what they were watching that felt more like self-stimulation than seeking connection—whether with the audience or with the beyond.

Avery looked over to Saga who, unsurprisingly, looked bewildered. “Where did you bring me?” Even at a whisper, it was difficult to keep the amusement from her voice.

The woman put her finger to her lips, but Avery thought she caught a hint of a smile.

Avery’s attention turned back to the four speakers, who, still convulsing theatrically, were screaming now.

It left an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach, and she began to turn her focus elsewhere again—to the other faces around her crying or praying or intently watching the inner circle. They were invested, and perhaps that was all that mattered. This sort of ritual didn’t need to work for her, because it was never meant for her. She didn’t need to understand it to show it respect, and perhaps it was better she…

Avery’s eyes locked on a face directly across the circle. A face partially obscured by the four, Eugenia, and the altar. A face that also did not look quite as invested in the activities before her. It was the face of Patricia Aldridge—the witch who had petitioned the Mercy to reconsider her case.

The hair on the back of Avery’s neck prickled as realization dawned on why both the brunettes’ faces in the photograph looked familiar. The round face, the tawny brunette hair that with a little taming would be less frizzy and form more wild curls—time had left its mark on Patricia Aldridge, but the foundations of her features were the same. This was the owner of the photograph—this was the curly-haired girl wearing the UCL sweatshirt. Avery’s eyes narrowed on the woman.

Patricia Aldridge, the former school friend of Betsey Paris and, very likely, Theresa Abernathy: two women whose murders eerily resembled the murder of John Hingley eighteen years prior. John Hingley’s murder, the Mundane case file of which had been forged and his sentinel file sealed. Sealed like the file Patricia Aldridge had been lobbying for years to appeal.

Avery’s breathing turned ragged, and her pulse quickened. Her awareness of the rest of the ceremony faded away as she dropped her voice to Saga at her side. “Woman directly ahead of us, she knew the victims, I’m almost certain of it.”

“She’s at her funeral,” Saga whispered back. “Of course, she knew the victim.”

Avery looked to her, feeling desperate. “No, Saga, I mean both of them—and John Hingley. There’s no time to explain, but we should…”

“Which one?”

“Big hair, early forties, directly in front of me across the way.”

Saga slightly lifted up on her knees and leaned toward Avery to see, which was regrettably not the most subtle of actions.

Patricia must have noticed, because her posture shifted. She seemed more alert. She fiddled with something in her pocket and brought it up to her eye: a hagstone. She would see through Avery’s glamour, and her cover would be blown, even if Patricia didn’t recognize her.

Patricia sat up straighter; she looked worried—panicked.

“The circle is closed, but the magic will remain, and Luna is at last with the Mother once more,” Eugenia’s voice rang out, cutting through Avery’s focus. “Merry did we meet.”

The chorus of the group joined in, with the exception of Avery, Saga, and Patricia. “Merry do we part, and merry shall we meet again. Blessed be!”

Patricia stumbled to her feet and quickly made her way toward the exit.

“Faex,” Avery cursed under her breath and tried to maneuver through the crowd, but it was difficult as mourners came together to embrace one another. She could feel Saga behind her as they tried to break through to get outside the Ephemeral gallery. She looked down one side of the street, then the other, but there was no sign of Patricia Aldridge or any chaos left in the wake of her retreat.

“Well, that seems…guilty,” Saga breathed.

“Or she’s concerned for her safety.” Avery showed her the photo she’d taken of Patricia’s altar offering. “Two of her former friends are now dead by some violent magic, and she’s just seen a glamoured fey take a very particular interest in her. I cannot say I blame her for being too antsy to stick around to find out why.”