Sloane woke the following day and stumbled to the kitchen. She searched through the cupboards and groaned. No coffee. There was ibuprofen, so she took two tablets with a glass of water and stretched. Her muscles were sore from traveling and sleeping in a strange bed.
Bear sashayed through the kitchen with her tail in the air and leaped onto the window seat in the breakfast room, staring into the yard, perfectly still.
“More birds than you know what to do with, huh?” The moment she spoke, her memories of last night flooded back, and she hurried to the living room, searching the framed photos displayed on every surface.
“Bear, look at this.” She walked back to the breakfast room. “It’s a picture of Jane and her cat. You look exactly like it, especially your eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was you.” She studied the picture and her cat. “Jesus, is this you? Not that it would be. But you could be twins.”
Bear meowed and leaped off the windowsill, padding out of the room.
“Is it your mom?” she shouted and laughed. Bear had an attitude, often leaving the room when asked questions as if she were human. Sloane looked at the ceiling and an overwhelming urge to search Jane’s childhood bedroom came over her. Jane had always kept journals. She figured there were diaries up there and maybe answers.
Just then another vibration shook her as an older woman carrying a basket appeared at the back door. “I say, my scones will not stay warm much longer,” the woman said in a polished English accent. The outside chill had reddened the woman’s cheeks and her long, narrow nose.
Sloane set the photo on the breakfast table and opened the French doors. “Can I help you?”
The woman stepped inside and swooshed her rain-sprinkled indigo wrap past Sloane. Turning to Sloane, she eyed her head to toe. “At the moment, I believe you require my help. Here, take these. They are the only pastry I bake well. And I have made them for you.” She removed her cloak, and entered the kitchen as if the cottage was her home.
With a thud, Sloane dropped the basket on the island. “All right. You barging in might be local etiquette, but I don’t have time for a welcome-wagon visit. Let’s just exchange names. I need to get to work.”
“Welcome wagon?” The woman chuckled and stepped closer to Sloane.
Sloane found her scent—cloves and black pepper—oddly comforting.
“You have no idea who I am, do you?” They stood face-to-face. “I am Dorathea Denham.”
Sloane recognized the name immediately from Harold’s letter. “You’re Dora? The Wests’ friend. How are you?”
“For goodness’ sake, who told you that nonsense was my name? Never mind, obviously Harold did. I abhor nicknames. They are absurd.” She tutted. “The villagers called Nathaniel, Natty. What kind of name is Natty? It is ridiculous. Terms of endearment are fine, but you will call me Dorathea. Now, shall we have tea with our scones, pet?”
Sloane crossed her arms and rested against the island.
“Does your silence mean no, or is something wrong with you?” Dorathea gathered cups and saucers on a tray.
“You called me pet,” Sloane said.
“I’m quite fond of the term, indeed.” She moved to a cupboard opposite Sloane. “I suppose your mum called you pet, too.”
“Yeah. She did.”
“No surprise. It is what I called her.” Dorathea retrieved a teapot and canister and placed them on the island.
“Wait. Where did you find those? I just looked through the cupboards. I didn’t see coffee or tea.”
“Oh, dear. Are you a coffee drinker like your grandfather?” She opened the cupboard again and pulled out a French press. “Nathaniel preferred beans to leaves, too. Obviously, he had no idea about civil hospitality. Luckily, your grandmother did. But do not despair. There is a canister of coffee here, somewhere.”
“Harold said you knew the Wests well.”
“My ancestors have lived next to yours since relocating here from England,” she said, gliding to the sink. She filled a teakettle and set it on the stovetop. “I am your second cousin, twice removed. Your great-great-grandfather and my great-grandmother were siblings. My hair is graying, and my skin is no longer youthful. Even so, do you deny our family resemblance?”
Sloane recognized certain features in Dorathea’s face. “Yeah, I can see it.” But there was something else in her cousin’s eyes. Something familiar beyond color and shape.
“And you favor your family in every way, except for the color of your eyes. I cannot recall anyone with those ice-gray eyes.” She stepped away and gathered plates. “Let us have the truth, then. What did your mum say about your family?”
“She lied,” Sloane answered. “Jane said she was born in New Jersey and her parents died when she was a baby, yadda, yadda, yadda.”
Bear appeared next to her and meowed.
“Where’d you come from?” she asked the dark-gray cat. “Dorathea, this is my cat, Bear.”
“Is it really?” Dorathea pursed her lips and pointed to the opposite countertop. “Please hand me that copper canister, pet.”
Bear padded to a barstool and leaped on it, sitting alert on her haunches.
The metal container was behind a ceramic vase full of cooking utensils. It was decorated with a Tree of Life. Sloane handed it to Dorathea. “What is this? A talisman or something?”
“You have no idea?” Dorathea retrieved a necklace with a Tree of Life pendant from under her black tunic. “It is the West family heraldry.” She handed Sloane a tray with three place settings. “Would you take these to the breakfast table and have a seat? I think you are going to need it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Sloane shook her head and set the crockery in front of three chairs. “Why three? Are we expecting someone else to show up at the back door?”
“No, we are all here.”
“Who’s the third? My cat?”
“She will join us, indeed.”
“Jesus,” Sloane mumbled to herself. Dorathea made Gary Prence seem like an ordinary neighbor. But she decided to indulge the odd woman. She could have some insight into why Jane ran away and lied about their family. Dorathea placed a platter with scones, marmalade, milk, tea, and coffee in the center of the table. She sat across from Sloane and spread a napkin over her lap. “Tell me, what do I call you?”
“You haven’t already heard my name in the village gossip?”
“No, I am afraid not. I have been in seclusion since Nathaniel and Mary’s accident.”
Sloane pushed down the French press, poured a cup, and took a long swallow. “God, I needed that. My name is Sloane.”
“Pshaw. Are you having a laugh?”
“No. My name is Sloane. Sloane West.”
“You are a West, indeed.” She poured a cup of tea and smiled. “Your cheeky mum. When she was young, I had a black Labrador retriever. Her name was Sloane. Jane spent more time with the dog during school holidays than with us.”
“Seriously, Jane named me after a dog? Why am I not surprised?”
Dorathea added milk to her teacup. “You can consider your name an honor. Most people prefer the company of dogs. And Sloane, the Labrador, was exceptional. I suppose worse namesakes exist. Have a scone, and let’s move on.”
Sloane breathed in the familiar aroma of orange and cranberry. “Jane used to make these on Sunday mornings.”
With a quizzical expression, Dorathea sipped her tea. “I find calling your mum by her given name quite disrespectful. Why do you do so?”
“Jane and I had a difficult relationship. I’d rather not talk about that.”
“Hmm.” Dorathea helped herself to a second scone. “Tell me, then, how old are you?”
“I’m thirty-one.”
“Ahhh, a summer in New York City to spread her wings, indeed. I suspected many things when your mum did not return. But you were not one of them.”
Sloane took another scone off the platter. “Yeah, I just figured that one out, too.” They sat in silence until Bear strolled across the room, brushed against Sloane’s legs, and jumped onto the table.
“I let her sit on counters and tables.” Sloane expected a reaction from Dorathea, but her cousin filled the second teacup, added a splash of milk, and slid the cup in front of Bear. “But I’ve never given her tea.”
“Well, I am sure your mum did.” She looked at Bear. “Didn’t she?” She set a dessert plate with crumbled pieces of scone beside the teacup.
“I definitely don’t give her pastries,” Sloane said.
“No? She asked me for a bite, and the dear is tired of canned tuna. Aren’t you?”
Bear lifted her head and meowed.
“You see. She says she has never liked it.”
Sloane was silent for a moment, studying Dorathea’s face. Her only living family was reclusive, eccentric, and probably certifiable. “All right. You can tell Bear that I’ll do better from now on. I’ll serve her a variety of fresh fish. No more canned tuna.”
“For goodness’ sake. I haven’t lost the plot.” Dorathea sipped her tea. “I’m terribly disappointed in your mum. She hid you from us, but she also hid you from yourself. Foolish girl.” She stared at the photo of Jane and her cat and then at Bear. “Why did she give you to Sloane, dear?”
“Gave who to me?” Sloane asked.
“Her familiar , pet.”
“What’s a familiar?”
“Your cat is not a cat. Her name is Elvina, not Bear. She is a spirit guide meant to protect and train you.” She turned to the dark-gray cat. “Does your mother know what you and Jane did?”
Elvina’s whiskers twitched, releasing drops of milky tea, and suddenly a deep, velvety voice filled Sloane’s head. There’s no need to bring my mother into this, Dorathea. Jane asked me to protect Sloane. What was I supposed to do? Deny her?
Sloane raised her hands. “Whoa, whoa. What the hell was that?”
“Well, you could have trained her,” answered Dorathea. She set down her teacup. “This is going to be harder than I thought.” Dorathea flicked her wrist, and a kitchen drawer opened. A knife flew from it, across the room, to her hand.
“Holy shit!” Sloane scooted her chair away from the table. She stared back and forth between her cousin and the drawer. “What the hell is going on?”
Dorathea spread jam on her scone and set the knife on the side of her plate. “For goodness’ sake. Surely you are not so ignorant. I am wiċċe .” Sloane scrunched up her face. “A witch, pet.”
“And I think you’re mad. Witches don’t exist.” Sloane burst out in nervous laughter.
“Yet, I sit before you.” Dorathea frowned and twirled her finger, and the teapot floated through the air, refilling hers and Elvina’s cups. “You know nothing of who you are, then?”
“Ah, Jesus, you think I’m a witch?” Sloane paced, a gravelly moan escaped her clenched teeth.
“You are a wiċċe by birth,” Dorathea answered. “Your mum’s actions were inexcusable. She took too many risks. The biggest was raising you in a world that erases our existence. Even their naming reduces us to the other. Paranormal. Supernatural. Otherworldly. We are but fiction to the Nogicals’ reality.”
“Nogicals?”
Naw-gi-cals , corrected Elvina. Non-magical humans.
The familiar’s voice floated through her mind, and Sloane realized that the answers she had desired for a lifetime were coming too fast, overwhelming her. The possible reason for her unnatural strength, her anger. Why Jane seemed to always know so many of her private thoughts. “All right.” She gulped the last of her coffee. “It was nice to meet you, Dorathea. Thanks for breakfast. We’ll have to do this again before I leave.”
Dorathea’s brow shot up. “What do you mean? It is time you learnt who you are.”
Heat spread to Sloane’s face. “I’m thirty-one years old. You had three decades to inform me if you wanted to. But today, I’m busy.”
“You foolish girl. We searched every day for Jane.” Dorathea’s voice had a sadness that surprised Sloane. “You and your mum were both wrapped in spells strong enough to keep us from finding you. We are unaware of their source or how she accomplished them.”
Sloane turned to Elvina. “What about you? I’ve taken care of you for years. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Elvina lowered her head, unable to respond.
“Oh, now you don’t speak. How convenient.” Sloane turned to Dorathea. “You can show yourself out.” She left the breakfast room and returned to the guest suite, slamming the door behind her.
Her mind raced. She was a witch? How absurd. Why did Jane and Elvina lie to her? Why did they have spells around them? She fell back on the bed and took several breaths. The diaphragmatic breathing Jane had taught her. She calmed her mind and thought, what or who the hell was Jane hiding them from?
Sloane pushed the thoughts out of her mind and put on a pair of jeans, a clean T-shirt, and her favorite cardigan. Now was not the time to get pulled into a spectacle of flying knives and talking cats.
It was time to catch a killer.