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for cleansing.”
    Next to the pot was a trio of figurines. They could have been garden gnomes, except they were a fraction of the size, fitting in the palm of a hand. Bernadette picked one up. “Cute.”
    “Wizards,” Ashe said through a gray haze. “I’ve got those three and two out in the barn. My unholy quints. I’m not sure they’re going to sell. People might find them too … what’s the word?”
    “Mystical?” asked Bernadette, setting it down.
    “Ugly,” Ashe said.
    Garcia was getting impatient with the small talk. “We need you to answer some questions.”
    “I need a cup of tea first,” Ashe said, and started for the kitchen.
    “Sounds good.” Bernadette was right behind her, and stood in the doorway.
    Ashe turned the burner on under a teakettle, opened a cupboard, and took down a box of tea. “Want a cup?”
    “No thanks.” Bernadette ran her eyes around the galley, a cheerier space than the front room. The cupboards and walls were painted bright white, and the floor was tiled with black and white squares of linoleum. Bunches of dried herbs hung above the sink. Bernadette went over to the plants and examined them, crushing the leaves of one and smelling her gloved fingers.
    “Thyme,” said Ashe.
    “For cleansing?”
    “Cooking. I like to cook.” She motioned toward the full sink with her cigarette. “Doing dishes, not so much.”
    “I can relate to that.” Bernadette unzipped her jacket but kept on her gloves. “The dishes part, not the cooking part.”
    “I have to cook. If it were up to Karl, we’d be living off fried pork rinds and frozen pizza.” The woman fished out a tea bag and dropped it into a cup decorated with a winged monkey from The
    Wizard of Oz and the words DON ’ T MAKE ME RELEASE THE FLYING
    MONKEYS.
    “You aren’t what I’d call a closeted witch,” said Bernadette, nodding toward the cup.
    Ashe leaned her back against the counter, facing Bernadette. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Some sort of religious persecution. Dare I say it? A witch hunt.”
    “Are there any other Wiccans in the area?”
    “I’m what’s called a solitary practitioner.” She took a puff and tapped the cigarette into a lopsided handmade ashtray on the counter.
    “I thought you had to be in a coven to be a Wiccan, otherwise you’re just a—”
    “Otherwise I’m just a witch.” She gave a dismissive wave. “I’ve heard that before, and it’s nonsense. I honor and revere the earth. I celebrate the changing of the seasons, the phases of the moon, the gods and goddesses.”
    “What about Karl?”
    “He’s a lapsed Catholic. Sort of lapsed. He gets a Christmas tree every year. Goes to church on major holidays.”
    “He’s a CEO, then,” Bernadette said.
    “Huh?” Ashe asked through a haze of smoke.
    “Christmas and Easter Only.”
    She stepped next to Bernadette to drop the butt in the sink and returned to her resting spot opposite the agent. “Is that what you are?”
    “Pretty much.”
    “So where did you learn about the Witches Tarot? It’s a specialized deck.”
    “I have a little background,” said Bernadette. “Spent time in Louisiana.”
    Ashe scrutinized Bernadette’s mismatched eyes. “You should let me do a reading for you. You’ve got a yin-and-yang thing going on with the blue and the brown. I think we could have a cool outcome.”
    “I’m not a big believer.”
    “I know what you’re thinking,” said Ashe. “I’m not a charlatan. I can see. Intuit. I have premonitions. All the women in my clan have premonitions. It’s a female thing. Most women are better at watching and listening than men are, don’t you think? This is just an extension of that. I’ll bet you could see stuff if you tried. At least let me read your palm.”
    Bernadette shoved her hands inside her jacket pockets. “I had my palm read in New Orleans. Once is enough.”
    “New Orleans.” The teapot whistled, and Ashe took it off the stove. “There are