“Thank you, Alfred,” Sloane whispered as she entered the hobbit house. She tiptoed down the stairs to the covenstead.
Good morning, dear , Elvina said.
“Shh. Quiet in there. My head’s pounding.” Sloane dropped into a velvet chair, nursing a tumbler of black coffee. “I hope we aren’t teleporting today.”
It’s bestealce, dear.
Sloane glared at Elvina.
“We are not training today. The Grand Coven has requested a meeting with you this morning,” Dorathea said. “Unfortunately, we must attend.”
“Why? Do they know I found Jane’s research?”
“The Coven will reveal their reason when you arrive.”
Sloane stared at her cousin. “They want to speak with me but won’t tell us why. And you don’t think that’s a little sketchy?”
“Really, pet.”
“And what do you mean, unfortunately?”
“Don’t be daft. I can smell your spirit from here.” Dorathea stood. “Follow me.”
“Wait. Now? I’m all kinds of hungover. I barely got here. Let me rest for a few minutes.”
A few minutes isn’t going to fix it.
Sloane shot Elvina an irritated look. “Are you coming?”
The familiar was curled up in the chair closest to the crackling fire. Not today, dear. It’s drizzly and cold out there.
Sloane groaned and got to her feet. “Fine. But if I’m going, I’m forcing their hand. They know more about the Demon and the Ġewende than they’re telling us. And what do they know about the wiċċan?”
Dorathea walked toward the library. “You may try to get answers from them. But they will probably refuse.”
They dodged bored books and stopped at the back of the library in front of an enormous painting. “This artwork is my portal to Tagridore. My great-grandmother enchanted it when she arrived in Denwick with your great-great-grandfather. Lavinia Fontana was her favorite artist. The painting depicts two women fighting the biases of Western history’s male perspective.” Dorathea raised her arms. “To enter our portals, we lift our arms and say, ‘Onpenne .’”
The two women in the painting turned to them. “Jesus!” Sloane jerked backward. The woman closest to them smiled. She turned and opened a door in the back of the painting. The other woman continued to guard the men.
Dorathea bowed and, taking Sloane’s hand, they stepped forward and moved through the canvas as if it were a veil of fog. Their first step landed on a stone path on the other side of the opaque cover.
“Holy fuck. That was incredible,” Sloane whispered. She looked around and recognized the white building with lavender trim and the aroma of bread. Freya’s place.
A sudden chill overtook her.
“Are you all right?” Dorathea held her arm. “You’re covered in gooseflesh.”
“Yeah. I’m fine,” Sloane answered, shaking off the feeling. “So your painting dumps you here. Why?”
“Because I can choose where my portal leads. And it leads here. To Freya.”
“Where does the Degas take me?”
“Right now, to Tagridore’s Searugeþræoe .”
“What the hell is that?”
Dorathea tutted her. “The art museum. But you may choose your destination.”
“All right. That’s cool.” Sloane followed Dorathea to the front of the café. The sky was gray, full of mist making its way to the warm ground. “I’ll wait for you here.”
Dorathea stared up and down the street. “Very well. I will give Freya your regards.”
Sloane pulled her cardigan tight around her chest and sat on a wrought iron bench. After a few minutes, a man dressed in dark clothing appeared across the street. The posture struck Sloane as familiar, but his face was obscured with a hat. And the mist didn’t help.
When Dorathea returned, she stood before Sloane, blocking her view of the man. “These are fresh croissants, a peace offering from Freya. She is disappointed you fear her.” Sloane ignored her, moving side to side, trying to see around her. “What is the matter with you?”
“I think the guy who was watching me the first time I came here is standing across the street. C’mon.” Sloane jumped up and headed toward the Silas Lamp store.
Dorathea grabbed her arm. “No. We must not approach him. We need to reach the Héahreced at once.” They ran across the pedestrian street toward the building that looked like NYC’s Grand Central Terminal.
“Why are we running?” Sloane asked. “Is it because of him?”
Dorathea hurried Sloane up the stairs at the Héahreced’s entrance. “Freya told me the Weardas had sensed a Demon during our last visit to Tagridore.”
“Here?”
“Indeed. They believe it is the same presence detected in Denwick. If the Demon is here, we can be sure they are correct. And we can be certain it is following us.” At the top of the stairs, Dorathea paused and looked at the street below. She led Sloane by the hand across a wide landing.
Sloane turned and stared at the rows of colorful shops and tidy gardens on the other side of the street. “What did we just pass through?” she asked.
“A protection charm around the building. Unless you work here, only those summoned to Héahreced can pass through it.”
“A bit like a keycard to an office block.” Sloane reached out with her hand, pressing her fingertips into the warmth. It felt like gel without the moisture or stickiness. “How does it know who you are?”
“Whoever requested you activates your registration with the Brydranic , a registry of wiċċan.”
“Am I on a registry?”
“You are now. The Grand Coven made sure of it.”
“So how do you get inside if you aren’t summoned?”
“You don’t.”
Once inside the building, Sloane froze. “Jesus H. Christ.” The Héahreced looked like Grand Central and Escher’s Relativity had a love child. The celestial ceiling soared seemingly without an ending but paled in comparison to the myriad moving escalators where passengers rode right side up on the descending steps and upside down on the ascending steps underneath. The riders in both directions disappeared into thin air at either end.
The witches and wizards around Sloane sent vibrations through her body. She held herself tight.
“In time, you will grow used to sensing a large group of wiċċan,” Dorathea said.
“Yeah. Okay.” Sloane rubbed her arms. Her discomfort wasn’t so much the vibrations as the other Magicals she saw. Some were nonhuman. Half-human, half-animal. Wings. Tails. Lots of hair.
“Stop staring, pet.”
“All right. All right. I’m sorry.”
Dorathea approached a short man with pointy ears and a hooked nose. He wore a smart suit, and his brown hair, tied back with a red ribbon halfway down, cascaded to his waist. His skin was the color of dried sage, and his eyes jaundiced yellow.
“What’s your business?” he asked Dorathea in a nasal voice.
“We are here to see the Grand Coven.”
His eyes settled on Dorathea’s face before he dragged a bony finger with a pointy nail down an open page and tapped a spot. He gestured to the side, and a gate appeared.
“Follow me,” Dorathea said to Sloane. They approached an escalator coming down with one rider who disappeared as soon as his step reached the floor.
Sloane stopped. “What the hell?”
“There are many rooms in the Héahreced.” She walked to the backside of the escalator. “We are going up.”
Dorathea pulled Sloane toward the upside-down steps, moving up. When Sloane’s foot touched one, the building seemed to rotate around them, and the escalator became upright. She clutched Dorathea’s cloak.
A solid door materialized at the top of the ride and Dorathea led them into an intimate, resplendent auditorium. Sloane stared at three people sitting around a dark wood table in the center of the room. The two wiċċe and one wiċċa looked much older than Dorathea. She studied their faces, the placement of their hands, and how they positioned their bodies. Then her gaze shifted to the portraits of hundreds of men and women covering the walls.
Dorathea stepped up to a rostrum that faced the table, and Sloane stood beside her. “Ealdormenn ,” Dorathea said in a crisp voice. “May I present Leornestre West.”
One of the women raised her hand. “Dorathea, there’s no need for formality. We summoned you both here for an informal chat.” She smiled at Sloane. “Hello, Ms. West. I am Polydora Nenge.” She held her arms out to each side. “On my right is Cenric Verner, and Millicent Panas is on my left. We are your Grand Coven. Thank you for coming.”
“Did I have a choice?” Sloane asked.
Polydora laughed. “I’m sure you have appreciated your cousin’s propriety. And, Dorathea, I expect you have found her mordacity quite lovely.” Cenric and Millicent hung their heads and remained silent. Sloane glanced at Dorathea. Her cousin’s face was unreadable.
Polydora leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table. “Come closer, Sloane West. Let us look at you.”
Dorathea nodded, and Sloane walked toward the stage, her hands shoved in her pockets.
The Coven combed over her, whispered back-and-forth, and sat back in their chairs.
“You are, no doubt, Jane’s child,” Polydora said.
“Yes, yes. You are a West.” Cenric spoke in a breathy grunt, causing the wattle under his chin to flap. “We are pleased you’re here. I knew your grandparents. Very fond of them, I was. They were in the last class I taught at the academy before sitting here. I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”
“We all are,” Millicent said. She lifted her hollow-cheeked face and prominent lapis eyes to meet Sloane’s. “I understand you must be nervous but do try to relax. You can trust us. We are here to help you and only want to ask you a few questions.”
Sloane’s hands had balled into fists inside her pockets. She had learned from experience that people who broadcasted their trustworthiness were usually anything but.
Millicent held Sloane’s gaze. “We only want to help discover who is trying to end your coven.”
Sloane’s fists relaxed as Millicent’s silver voice lingered in her head, and a warm sensation spread through her body, soothing her muscles and releasing their knots.
Dorathea walked behind Sloane and squeezed her shoulders. Sloane’s muscles tensed again. “Millicent. You may begin with your questions. Sloane will stand with me.”
“I was only trying to help her, Dorathea. She might find our conversation difficult, and we don’t want to upset her.”
“You don’t need to explain your actions, Millicent.” Polydora glared at Dorathea and turned her attention to Sloane. “Were you and your mother close?”
Sloane shrugged. “Yeah. She was all I had when I was younger. Not so much as an adult.”
“There was no one else in your lives? Was that hard for you?” Polydora asked.
“Not really.”
“Even though Jane raised you alone in such a strange Nogical city?” Cenric asked.
“NYC is all I’ve ever known. It’s normal for me.”
“I’m pleased you were fine growing up without your coven,” Millicent said. “But it must have been lonely not being around others like yourself?”
Sloane shrugged. “Jane kept this world hidden from me. She told me she grew up in a girls’ home in New Jersey. That her parents died when she was a baby.”
The Grand Coven stared at her, then at each other.
“Do you know why your mother deserted her coven?” Polydora asked. The question was abrupt. Polydora’s voice was cold.
“I have no idea.”
“Who else lived in your home when you were a child?” Polydora asked again.
Sloane learned through experience to pay attention to people’s words, and practice made her economical with hers. “I already said no one.” She grasped the rostrum’s railing and leaned forward. “Is this a one-directional conversation? Or are you going to allow me to ask questions?”
Polydora smiled. “Go right ahead.”
“One thing has bothered me since I found out about you, about the Grand Coven, about all of it, really. Why didn’t you find Jane? You’re the most powerful, right? I think you could find one missing witch and her hidden daughter.”
Polydora’s mask slipped slightly, and the corners of her mouth turned down. Dorathea squeezed Sloane’s hand firmly.
“Our Weardas locate most wiċċan. But they failed to penetrate the spell around you, even with your coven’s help,” Cenric said.
“Has Dorathea informed you that we believe Jane had assistance in hiding from us?” Millicent asked. “The concealment spell that guards you is ancient. It’s beyond our ability to detect at the moment. But we will, in time.”
“Your mother was a gifted wiċċe. She hid that from you? Never trained you?” Polydora asked.
So that’s their angle, Sloane thought. “She did hide it. But I had a feeling she was lying about her past. I would ask her questions. But she managed to distract me and change the subject.” She gave Millicent a conspiratorial look.
“And you have no idea why she lied to you?” Cenric asked.
Sloane set her jaw. “None.”
“Do you know who your father is?” Polydora asked.
Sloane scoffed. “If she refused to tell me who we were, what makes you think she’d tell me about the guy who knocked her up at seventeen?” Dorathea released a quiet breath of exasperation. Sloane wasn’t sure if it was directed at her flippant answers or the Coven’s questions.
“We see,” Millicent said. “That’s understandable. But could she have mentioned something about him, a clue to his identity you didn’t notice as such at the time?”
Polydora added, “Were you not curious? Didn’t you ask who he was?”
“Yeah, I asked. I spent my childhood asking. When Jane thought I was old enough, she told me I was the result of a one-night stand. She didn’t know his name or where he lived. That wasn’t really the answer I was prepared for. I didn’t bother making her clarify the details.”
Cenric and Millicent sat back, but Polydora continued to press. “Did you find any information in Jane’s possessions? Any hints to our world or who your father was?”
Sloane’s face burned with anger. “You know, our informal chat feels a lot like an interrogation. You are wrong if you think I know why Jane ran from your world. I don’t. And I have no clue who my father is. She made sure of that. I thought you were going to help me find these answers.” Sloane narrowed her eyes. “Help us by telling us what you know about the Demon and the Ġewende in Denwick.”
The Coven sat in silence, staring ahead. Then, after a long pause, Polydora spoke. “We have every intention of helping you. That is why we asked you here. Our questions are meant to determine if you might know something and not understand its relevance to our investigation. As a detective, I’m sure you understand.”
“Yeah, well, you’re wasting our time. I don’t have any hidden clues. A month ago, I thought Jane was a psychologist who profiled occasionally for the FBI. A single mom who called me daily, wanting too much control over my life. And a notoriously bad driver.” Sloane waved her arms around. “If I ever thought we might be different, she didn’t allow those ideas to linger.”
Dorathea, stone-faced, had seen and heard enough. Her restraint had gone. “Sloane has answered enough of your questions. We are leaving now, Ealdormenn.”
Cenric grunted. “Wait, Dorathea.” He snapped his fingers, and Sloane’s cardigan appeared in his hands.
Crossing her arms over her chest, Sloane’s anger swelled. She had no doubt he was using a detection spell on her. The Coven suspected her of something.
As soon as Cenric closed his eyes, his body jounced, and he dropped the sweater. “I cannot read this,” he said, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.
Dorathea grabbed Sloane’s arm, and they left the rostrum.
Polydora’s voice rang out before they reached the door. “Stop!” They turned and faced her.
“One more question for Leornestre West.” Polydora’s eyes were suspicious. “How did your mother’s fictitious parents die?”
Sloane recalled the memory with ease. But the words stuck in her throat. Then, finally, she replied, “Jane said they died in a car accident.”
Polydora raised an eyebrow. “How horribly prophetic.”
* * *
Dorathea and Sloane returned to the covenstead through the Denham portal.
Sloane dropped into the chair next to Elvina and growled, “He stole my favorite cardigan.”
The familiar woke with a start. Who stole your favorite cardigan? The navy one? To be fair, it has seen better days , Elvina said, lifting onto her haunches.
“You will get your sweater back.” Dorathea sat on the other side of the familiar and summoned a tea service.
Sloane let her head fall back on the velvet chair. “When? After they harass me again?”
Elvina’s whiskers twitched. What do you mean they harassed you?
“I do not believe that that was their intent, pet.”
Why did they harass her and take her sweater? Elvina asked Dorathea, her voice getting louder in their heads.
“How would you know their intentions?” Sloane said to Dorathea. “They spoke to each other in their heads most of the time. I could tell. I might be new to this, but I’m not naïve.”
Elvina flicked her tail, and Sloane and Dorathea began to mouth silent words. Dorathea turned to her in protest.
I’ll release your voices, but you must stop talking over me and tell me what happened at the Coven. Dorathea nodded, and Elvina tapped the burgundy velvet seat with her tail.
“Do not make that a habit, dear,” Dorathea said. “I disapprove of being silenced. Now, my apologies for ignoring your questions. I will answer them.”
Sloane wondered what her cousin would say, the truth or a lie in line with the Grand Coven.
“They requested to see Sloane under false pretenses. Rather than an informal chat, they wanted answers to specific questions. They seem to believe Jane and Sloane are somehow a part of the plot to end our coven.”
“Yeah. I got the impression the GC doesn’t think I’m on the level.”
Elvina broke out in a fit of laughter. Who suggested that? Polydora? Certainly not Millicent or Cenric.
“Yes, Polydora. But Millicent and Cenric allowed it,” Dorathea answered.
Elvina hissed. Outrageous. This isn’t about Jane and Sloane. It’s Polydora’s pettiness.
“What do you mean?” Sloane asked.
Elvina’s pupils widened. Dorathea was to take a seat on the Grand Coven, dear. But she turned it down.
Sloane looked at her cousin. “You? On the GC?”
Oh, yes, dear. Dorathea Denham. Elvina curled her tail around her legs. “She gave it up for love.”
“For love?” Sloane said with renewed interest, eyeing her cousin fondly.
“Enough, Elvina.” Dorathea moved her hand over the teapot, and steam instantly trailed from its spout. “I believe the Coven thinks you and Jane may have had a turned Magical or a Demon in your lives who emboldened you to do evil.”
That’s ridiculous. I was the only Magical in their lives. Elvina’s eyes suddenly turned into slits. Did you tell the Grand Coven about me?
“No. I did not. I am unsure how to explain your whereabouts for the last fifteen years,” responded Dorathea.
I’m not hiding anything. I was here in Old Denwick until Jane called for me and then New York with her and Sloane.
“Exactly. You were there with them. And no one here knew. You will be accused of consorting with evil if we are not careful.”
“Why would they blame Elvina?” Sloane asked.
“Because she is the only other Magical who was in your lives. And they do not believe Jane could have created the ancient concealment spell that surrounds you.”
When you say it like that, it sounds terrible for me. Elvina hesitated. Has my mother said anything about the spell?
“She has yet to discover its source.” Dorathea stared into the fire. “The Coven knows this as well.”
Sloane blew into her cup and sipped the stout tea. “Ooh, I like this.”
It’s a black tea only found in our world , Elvina said. She looked at Dorathea. What did Cenric want with Sloane’s sweater?
“I believe they hoped to gain insight into the concealment spell’s source. But from Cenric’s reaction, I do not think the sweater revealed anything.”
“Then why the hell did he keep it?” Sloane asked.
“He had an odd reaction when detecting it. I suppose they wanted to examine it more,” Dorathea answered.
She had no sooner spoken when Sloane jumped out of her chair, spilling her tea in her lap. Her cardigan had reappeared on her body. “Ouch. Damnit!”
“Take it off and give it to me quickly,” Dorathea ordered. Sloane removed her sweater, balled it up, and tossed it to her cousin. Dorathea closed her eyes, and the muscles in her jaw clenched. “How dare they.” Opening her eyes, she flung the cardigan into the fire.
Sloane ran to the fireplace, but the sweater shriveled away as the flames consumed it. “Why’d you do that? I’ve had that sweater for over a decade.”
Dorathea held her hands up. “It is no longer yours, pet. It has a séce spell on it.”
“Like a tracking device to watch me?”
Your every move , Elvina answered.
“What the hell?” Sloane watched the last of her cardigan turn to ash. “So much for their help.”
“The Grand Coven is being foolish. They will learn of their mistake soon enough.”
“Fine.” Sloane slung her tote over her head. “Are we done? I need to follow up on a few things.”
“We are,” Dorathea answered. “Where are you going?”
“Old Main. Fiona Keane and James Reed weren’t where they were supposed to be when Charles was murdered. And I need to find out why.”
Ooh, shall we have updates this evening? Elvina asked.
“Yeah. And dinner?”
“That sounds lovely,” Dorathea said.
Sloane turned to leave. “I forgot.” She removed the photo of Harold and the attractive woman from her tote and handed it to Dorathea. “Do you know who this woman is?”
“Why, yes. That is a young Alice Reed. Most likely from her time at the University of British Columbia, where she and James met. They were foolishly in love. But poor James had to return home to run the market when his father died suddenly. Our dear Harold escorted Alice from school in Vancouver to Denwick on the weekends. And when Alice finished her studies, she and James married.”
“This looks like Harold and Alice were the ones with a budding romance,” Sloane said.
“Yes. But looks can be deceiving.” Dorathea passed the photo back to Sloane.
“What if I’m right, though? Maybe James discovered the truth about Alice and Harold?”
“And therefore, James had another motive?” Dorathea asked. “You could be right. But James married Alice. They lived happily for fifty years. I would think his resentment would have faded long ago.”
“Maybe he wanted to wait until Alice died. Or something else triggered his anger at Harold,” Sloane said. “If Alice and Harold really did have a romance, I think it’s time we make sure James got over it.”