Sweet & Bitter Magic by Adrienne Tooley (speed reading book TXT) 📗

Wren didn’t reply.

She was a source, a girl made of magic, and still she had nearly been played by a toad. It was another thing she hadn’t known. Another brand-new failing. Normally, Wren wouldn’t have minded the lesson. But Tamsin had been a witness.

It wasn’t that Wren cared what Tamsin thought of her. It was that she knew Tamsin was judging her for not knowing anything about magic. For agreeing to a journey she was nowhere near capable of completing. For caring about her father so much that she was willing to sacrifice everything for him, even when he hadn’t asked her to.

It was that she knew Tamsin could see everything Wren hated about herself. That Tamsin wasn’t wrong for thinking Wren was unworthy of her power. That, maybe, Wren truly was.

Wren woke with a start to the blinding white of the morning sky. She was shivering, as though her being had been drenched in icy water. Her tongue, thick with sleep, held the faint taste of cherries. She inhaled shakily. Honey hung in the air.

Magic.

As she scrambled to sit upright, her foot nudged something solid. She wiped the sleep from her eyes as she reached for the small leather-bound book.

Wren frowned. It was a nice book, the black leather smooth and worn in a well-loved way. But she hadn’t noticed it among Tamsin’s things before and didn’t think the witch would simply leave something lying around for prying eyes.

Her mood darkened as she remembered that the witch had seen her nearly press her lips to a toad’s. It couldn’t hurt for Wren to gain a little leverage. Yet when she tried to pry open the book’s cover, it would not budge. She grunted and pulled and pushed and, yes, even kicked, but still the book would not open.

Its lack of cooperation only served to make her more curious. What sort of secrets did Tamsin possess that she’d lock into such a well-protected book? Perhaps it held special spells for being a grump, or maybe a list of people she wanted to hex. Wren giggled, forgetting herself.

Tamsin’s eyes snapped open. At first she looked vulnerable, caught between sleep and wakefulness. But then her eyes caught on the book in Wren’s hands, and she sat up, her face as white as a sheet. Wren could have sworn she saw fear flash behind the witch’s eyes.

“Where did you get that?” Tamsin demanded, face flushing from a furious red to a sickly green.

“I didn’t—” Wren gaped at the witch’s outsize reaction. It was only a book. “I just found it. There.” She pointed to the patch of dirt where it had been. Tamsin’s eyes barely left the book. Wren offered it to her gently.

The second the book was in her hand, the witch relaxed. But her relief did not last long. “Get up.” Tamsin snapped her fingers, and her pack was in her hand. “We have to go.”

“Why?” Wren clumsily gathered her things, her limbs still heavy with exhaustion. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Tamsin tucked the book carefully into the waistband of her long skirt and stomped out from beneath the bridge.

The morning air was crisp and bright as they climbed up the bank of the river and emerged onto the road. The sky was streaked with pink. Birds rustled their wings, waking up their voices with tinny shrieks.

“What is that?” Wren rushed to catch up with the witch, nodding pointedly at the book, which was resting at Tamsin’s left hip.

Tamsin pressed a hand idly to the soft leather cover. “Nothing.”

“It’s clearly not nothing,” Wren said. “You practically fainted when you saw me holding it.”

Tamsin shot her a withering look.

“It wouldn’t open for me, if that makes you feel any better,” Wren added darkly, almost as an afterthought. The witch did look a bit relieved. “Which makes me wonder,” she continued, reaching for the witch, her fingers grazing Tamsin’s wrist, “what it is that you don’t want me to see. Do you write poetry? Are you the first romantic poet without a heart?”

Wren was positively tickled by the thought.

“Stop,” Tamsin snapped, her voice harsh and broken.

Wren stopped, hand outstretched. They stared at each other in silence.

“It’s private,” Tamsin finally said, her tone soft but pained.

“All right,” Wren said, just as quietly. “I’m sorry. It’s private.”

She did not appreciate being chastised. She had only been curious, wanting a bit of insight into the girl Tamsin was. Wren had shared so much already: her father, her love, her naivety. But Tamsin was a closed book. Literally.

She trudged after the witch, her feet kicking up more dust than perhaps was necessary as they walked past a wide field littered with hay bales the size of horses. The moment she began to wish she had someone kind to talk to, a bird flitted past her. Almost without thinking, Wren offered up her finger. The little creature landed on it, and she nearly squealed with surprise. Its tiny body was squat and round, its feathers dappled brown and white. It was a wren, the little bird from which she’d gotten her name. It felt like a sign.

“Hello, friend,” she cooed softly to the creature, and its orange beak trembled furiously as it let out a string of high-pitched whistles in response.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” Tamsin had stopped, her eyes lingering on the hand that held the baby bird. Wren stared back defiantly, but her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Don’t try to kiss it,” Tamsin warned, rolling her eyes as she turned back to the road.

Wren stuck her tongue out at the witch’s back.

“She’s just angry,” she told the bird. “She doesn’t like it when I talk, but you don’t mind, do you?” She used a finger to carefully pet the wren’s soft feathers. It let out an appreciative whistle. “That’s right,” Wren said quietly. “You like me just fine. The problem isn’t me, after all. It’s her.” The tiny bird gave her finger a soft nip before flittering away to the trees,