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

than the fire Wren had spotted within High Councillor Vera. Something was wrong, but even as Wren understood that an event of great magnitude had occurred, she watched Tamsin hide behind her steely expression, watched her build back up the walls that kept her safe.

“Hi,” she said simply.

“Hi?” Wren blinked at her uncomprehendingly. “That’s all you have to say to me? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, considering what else you couldn’t be bothered to tell me. Not only were you banished, but your mother is the head of the Coven?” She threw up her hands helplessly. “Was this all just a joke to you? Am I a joke?”

“You’re not a joke.” Tamsin scrubbed a hand across her face.

“Well, you’re making me feel like one.” Wren was tempted to shout, thought that hearing her anger bounce off the vaulted ceiling might give her some release, but instead she crumpled, her left leg giving out and sending her back to the floor.

Tamsin stared down at her with trepidation. “Are you all right?”

Wren’s laugh was a wicked, snarling thing that ripped through her throat and brought tears to her eyes.

“No.” She fought to keep her voice level, but instead it came out as a growl.

Tamsin merely blinked. She didn’t push, didn’t ask her to explain. Wren wished she would. But when Tamsin offered up a frigid hand to help her back to her feet, Wren took it.

“You’re always so cold,” she said as Tamsin pulled her up. Nose to nose with the witch, Wren was suddenly quite aware of the stale taste in her mouth. She held her breath.

The witch stared at her with amusement. “Maybe you’re just warm.”

A blush crept across Wren’s cheeks, the nearness of Tamsin disconcerting. She pulled her hand away and busied herself with her hair, unraveling it from its plait and brushing it out with her fingers.

“Your hair’s red,” Tamsin said, eyes narrowed, as though she’d only just noticed. Wren frowned, plucking at a strand, which was the same coppery bronze it had always been. She hadn’t expected Tamsin to spend their journey waxing poetic about her appearance, but such a base observation made it clearer than ever how little she actually mattered to the witch. She made quick work of retying her braid. Leya was right. She was nothing more than a pawn in the witch’s game. Easy to sacrifice.

“Are you ready to hunt, then?” Wren scowled at Tamsin. “In case you’ve forgotten, we have no choice.” She tugged hopelessly on the ribbon around her neck. “At least the Six agreed with me there.”

Tamsin blinked at her in surprise.

“Yes, they granted us a license,” Wren said darkly, reaching for the slip of paper in her pocket and offering it to the witch. As she leaned forward, her sleeve slipped, revealing the circles of dark ink and the swollen pink skin beneath it.

Tamsin let out a low, full breath. The witch’s gaze lingered on her like a hand hovering above a candle’s flame.

“They marked you?” She did not reach for the parchment.

“Good job keeping yours hidden,” Wren said, more tersely than she’d expected. “Caught me completely off guard. Hurt, too.” She cradled her swollen arm carefully.

“I don’t have one.” Tamsin began to roll up her sleeve. “Well,” she said dryly, “not anymore.” Wren gasped as she took in the burned, mottled skin, twisted and stretched.

“What happened?”

“I was banished.” The sleeve slipped back over her arm. Tamsin tried to smile. Failed. “So…”

“ ‘So’?” Wren raised her eyebrows. “You can’t possibly think that’s the end of this conversation.”

“Isn’t it?” Tamsin turned on her heel and strode toward the door, her green cloak billowing behind her. Her footsteps clacked across the marble floor, the candles casting endless shadows across her determined expression. Wren sighed heavily as she hurried after her. She didn’t know why she bothered. Leya was right: Tamsin was even more selfish and self-important than Wren had given her credit for.

She followed the witch through a dizzying maze of stone hallways and finally out into the morning light. Only it wasn’t morning, not for more than a handful of moments at a time. The sun was having trouble staying put, streaks of dark magic pushing it across the sky so quickly that by the time Tamsin and Wren had made it down the front steps, the soft pinks of sunrise had faded into the sharp golds of mid-afternoon.

“Oh.” Even though she knew it was a side effect of the plague, Wren couldn’t help but stop to watch as the sun sailed behind a mountain range and the sky erupted into a dazzling sunset. The magic in the Witchlands was so strong it was as though Wren had been given a new set of senses. Colors were more vivid. The sunset smelled like the moment before falling asleep. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Beside her, Tamsin tensed. Wren tugged on her braid guiltily. She kept forgetting that the witch could find no enjoyment in even the simplest things. It was no wonder all her edges were so sharp. She had nothing soft to land on.

“The sky looks like it’s on fire.” Wren spoke carefully, keeping her eyes fixed on the rapidly changing colors. “Right above the mountains, the light is as bright as a daffodil, or freshly churned butter. Then there”—she gestured to the streaks of bright orange—“is the same color as a new flame. Or my hair.” She bit down on her cheek to keep from laughing. “The orange is reflecting onto the clouds, turning them red like apples in autumn. Then it’s blue, just the dregs of a new morning, but over there”—Wren pointed to the darkening sky—“that part’s gone purple like the skin of an overripe plum. You know, the kind that dribbles juice down your chin when you bite into it?”

Wren glanced tentatively over at Tamsin, whose eyes were wide and glassy. “Are you all right?”

Tamsin flinched, her hand clenching into a fist. Wren realized too late that she had overstepped their tentative boundaries. Just because she found beauty