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

intruder. A small boy, no older than seven or eight, shifted his weight nervously from one bare foot to the other. Probably a pawn in another of the farmer’s son’s pranks. The farmer’s son was a stupid boy, always trying to one-up the witch for bragging rights. He never succeeded.

She swung the door open, glowering expectantly at the child. “What?”

The poor boy looked as though he wished the earth would swallow him whole. While Tamsin could have arranged that, instead she waited for him to speak.

“Pardon, ma’am,” the boy squeaked.

“Miss,” Tamsin snapped, putting a hand to her still-pounding head. The boy looked at her questioningly. “I am not your mother. You will address me as miss.”

The boy’s eyes widened, and he bobbed his head quickly. “Miss?”

Tamsin drew herself up to her full height and nodded her assent.

“Two of Her Majesty’s riders are in the town square.” The boy spoke quickly, his words crashing into one another. “They’ve called a meeting. Everyone is to come immediately.” He finished with a hiccup, stumbling to catch his breath. He bounced on his toes, clearly anxious to move on.

“And they told you to summon the witch?” Tamsin raised a dark eyebrow.

The boy’s eyes were so wide they nearly fell out of his head. “No, ma’am.” He gasped at his error. “Miss. They just said get everyone, and quick.”

Tamsin laughed humorlessly. “Very well. Message received.” She waved her hand. “Go on, then.” The boy’s face slumped in relief. He was out of the garden before Tamsin had shut the door.

A town meeting. How quaint. There was nothing the queen had to say that interested her. Whatever the news, it would work its way through town four times over before the moon had settled in the sky. She would surely hear of it tomorrow from no less than six separate individuals when she went to the market for her eggs.

Perhaps there was yet another royal ball—the southern duke’s son was close to marrying age by now and had rejected every lord and lady the Queendom of Carrow had to offer. That, or the ogres had finally found their way around the strongholds erected between the Wastelands and the East.

Whatever the news, it was of no consequence to Tamsin. Despite the fact that Queen Mathilde’s relationship with the Coven’s current High Councillor had held strong for nearly twenty years, Tamsin could not find it in her to care about the politics of the world Beyond.

She scratched her left forearm, where the Coven’s sigil was supposed to be. The skin, mottled and burned where the mark had been stripped from her, was a reminder of what she had done.

A reminder of whom she had lost.

Tamsin gave a strangled cry, sweeping her arm across her cluttered tabletop, relishing the chaos and clatter of her belongings tumbling to the stone floor. A crystal splintered. Her mug shattered, scattering chunks of hardened clay across the room. Loose papers floated into the fire, the flames devouring the dark ink until the words no longer existed.

She hated her cottage. It was a small, suffocating disaster. It wasn’t home. Nothing about Ladaugh was home.

Tamsin’s hand moved instinctively to her heart.

It was her birthday, after all. It couldn’t hurt to use a little bit of love. Just for a moment of peace. Tamsin’s curse left her with nothing but guilt and regret. Her existence was lifeless—a banished witch relegated to lowering fevers in babies and aiding this year’s corn crop. She’d had so much potential. Could have been so much more if she hadn’t been so impulsive. So careless. So desperate.

Now Tamsin was nothing but bitter and dark and cold—always so impossibly cold.

Pressing her hand harder against her chest, Tamsin closed her eyes and unraveled the knot inside her. She siphoned out the smallest pinch of the woman’s love for her husband. Immediately she was flooded with warmth. She shrugged off her shawl and moved lazily through the house, her long homespun skirt tickling her toes, her fingers trailing across the cloudlike quilt, her palms pressing against the smooth edges of her crystals. She rummaged through several unmarked jars for a cinnamon stick, then brought it to her nose and inhaled the sharp spice’s subtle nuttiness.

She rushed to the window and pried away the shutters again, her heart catching in her throat as she glimpsed the tail end of the sunset—the sharp reds fading into golds streaked with pinks that turned blue black. She was using too much, was wasting her supply on little frivolities, but she needed to do one last thing before she cut herself off. Before she squirreled the love away for when she needed it most.

Tamsin shuttered the window and turned to the table. She took a pinch of seasoning from a small leather sack and sprinkled several tiny grains on the tip of her tongue.

The salt tasted tangy and bright.

TWO

WREN

The candle’s tiny flame flickered, then failed. Wren swore, her voice barely a whisper, more of a suggestion than a sound. If her father woke, he would beg her not to go, and it would be another hour before she could lull him back to sleep. By the time she made it to market, everyone would have gotten their eggs from Lensla, the miserable woman who lived near the bog, and Wren would be without coins. Again.

She’d heard a rumor that girls in the North had offered a stiltzkin their names for the ability to turn straw into gold. What she would have given to make such a trade. Wren didn’t need a name. Not if it meant she’d have gold to spare, a full belly, and proper medicine for her father. She had been named for a bird, after all. It wouldn’t be a terrible loss.

Tiptoeing carefully across the small room, Wren cringed as she stumbled over her father’s boots at the foot of the bed. She paused, keeping her breath trapped in her lungs. There was no sound from her father. Exhaling