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 in the vivid colors didn’t mean Tamsin wanted to hear about something she couldn’t appreciate. Her descriptions had angered the witch, had given Tamsin further proof that Wren was flighty and foolish. She closed her eyes, waiting for the blow.
“What are you doing?” Tamsin asked.
Wren opened her eyes. The sky was now as black as ink. Moonlight pooled on the witch’s face, illuminating her wary expression. She hadn’t moved an inch.
“I thought you were going to hit me.” Wren’s voice came out in a startled gasp; she was laughing despite herself.
“Hit you?” Tamsin’s brow was wrinkled with genuine confusion.
Wren gestured awkwardly to Tamsin’s clenched hand. The witch gave her a curious look before unfurling her fist, revealing tiny half-moon indentations on her palm.
“Old habit,” she said, still staring at Wren strangely. “It’s being back here. Remembering.” She glanced over her shoulder nervously, as though she had revealed too much. “Come on. We have a witch to hunt.” Tamsin snapped her fingers, and their things appeared. The witch threw her rucksack over her shoulder and started walking.
“Where are we going?” Tamsin didn’t answer. Wren gathered her own bag and hurried to catch up. “You owe me about a hundred explanations, you know.”
“Not here,” Tamsin said firmly. Wren fell silent, not wanting to test her luck.
And so, while the sun rose and set with reckless abandon, they traveled across the Witchlands. They shuffled through blackened grass that nearly hit Wren’s knees, ash and charcoal coating her tongue with every step. They passed through a valley of toadstools taller than two grown men—giant, spotted fungi that smelled of pepper. They avoided the footsteps of cottages that walked of their own accord—their great taloned toes digging into the dirt—and darted away from wells that cried for coins.
They struggled through swamps and marshes, past giant boulders shouting unhelpful advice, and ducked through craggy passageways that made Wren’s skin crawl with the touch of a million insects.
Yet despite how far they traveled, despite the hills they climbed and the valleys they traversed, Wren could always see the gleaming black castle glowering intimidatingly behind her, its giant windows like eyes watching her every move. Waiting for her return.
Wren hoped the rest of the Witchlands was not as grand. Nothing so beautiful and cold could ever feel like home.
* * *
The inn was called the Wandering Woes, which Wren found to be a touch too fitting. She was certainly carrying more than her fair share of sadness. If the purplish bags beneath Tamsin’s eyes were any indication, the witch was too. She was also holding all the answers.
“Now will you finally…” As Wren pushed open the front door, her words were forgotten. From the outside, the inn had appeared to be nothing more than a cottage, a small stone structure with a carefully thatched roof. She had expected to find a cozy kitchen, perhaps one or two rooms to rent. But inside was as grand as a palace.
The main room was the same size as the academy’s marble hall, but it was much cozier. Tiny white lights floated near the ceiling, twinkling like stars. The back wall was covered in ivy, giving the room a fresh, just-after-rain smell. Long wooden tables sat in the center, fitted with colorful, mismatched chairs. There was a bar with hundreds of bottles of clear liquids infused with bright petals and dark spices. Flower-patterned china sat at every place setting, each cup filled with steaming tea that Wren could tell would never go cold. The inn was charming. It was welcoming. It absolutely sang with enchantments.
It was also filled with witches.
Witches whose heads turned toward them as soon as the bell above the front door jangled merrily. Wren tried to count them all, but their magic would not stay still. It darted
and wove about the room, shooting sparks of every color she had ever seen (and some she hadn’t), speaking in a hundred different tongues. The witches in that room were from all four corners of the world. They were of different ages, had different talents, different complexions, different memories, but they were all tied together by the same thing: magic.
“Well, this place used to be deserted,” Tamsin said, her tone grim. “Come on”—she grabbed Wren’s wrist—“let’s find a seat. People are already starting to talk.”
And they were. An energetic hum filled the room, the buzzing of gossip spreading like wildfire.
“… got some nerve, showing her face here,” a fair-haired witch whispered as they passed. There was a murmur of assent from the others at her table. “I’d rather die, if it were me. We all know what she did. How do we know she hasn’t done it again? We should be hunting her.”
There was a peal of laughter, hard and sharp as a stone corner. Tamsin set her shoulders; her jaw clenched. Wren scurried after her, several sets of eyes boring into the back of her neck. They made their way to the far end of the inn, where an old woman was wiping down a long table.
“Hazel.” Tamsin’s voice was soft. Tentative. The woman stopped wiping, but she did not turn around. Wren glanced at Tamsin, who looked nervous.
Finally the woman turned, revealing a waterfall of long silver hair and clouded eyes. “Do my ears deceive me?”
“They never have before, so I can’t imagine why they’d start now.” Tamsin glanced down at her shoes, chuckling humorlessly.
The woman’s face broke into a wide smile. She held out a wrinkled hand, waving for Tamsin to join her. She did, moving away from Wren, suddenly bashful as the old woman made a fuss over her.
“My eyes have given up on me, but I just know you’re lovelier than ever. My girl, I thought you were gone for good.”
Tamsin’s face fell slightly. “I should be.”
“Well, you’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Are you hungry? I think there’s some stew left from dinner. Come.”
The woman led Tamsin by the hand. Wren bit her lip to keep from laughing, settling herself in a chair of midnight-blue velvet. It was strange, watching Tamsin let down her guard. She looked younger, the sharp lines of her face relaxing slightly. Perhaps it was the warm orange flame flickering through the room or the way Tamsin’s entire body had lost some of its rigidness as soon as the old woman had taken her hand.
Wren rolled out the crick in her neck, closing her eyes as she did. She could likely fall asleep on the spot. When she opened her eyes, a willow-patterned teacup and matching saucer had appeared in front of her. Wren curled her hands around the cup, which had filled itself with steaming tea.
Tamsin returned after several minutes, carrying two bowls of stew. Hazel followed after her, plopping down a plate of flaky pastries. The woman smelled of freshly churned butter, her ribbons of magic an herbal green.
“Oh, now,” the old woman said, at last turning to Wren. “Who’s this?”
“You already gave me two bowls, Hazel. You can’t pretend to be ignorant now just so you’ll get an introduction.” Tamsin’s words were harsh, but her tone was soft. Hazel gripped Tamsin’s shoulder in a firm yet loving squeeze.
“I’m Wren.” She hesitated, uncertain if she should extend her hand.
“I know.” The old woman cackled, but it was a warm, inclusive laugh. “I’ll leave you girls to your food and make up a room for you.”
Tamsin settled herself into the plush pink armchair across from Wren. “Sorry about her. She means well, but she tends to meddle.”
“She’s nice.” Wren blew softly on a spoonful of stew.
“We stayed here sometimes when we needed a break from the dormitories. When we wanted to feel as though someone actually cared for us, since Vera never seemed to have the time.” Tamsin ran a pale finger around the rim of her teacup.
“We?” Was Wren sitting in the same seat Leya had once occupied?
Tamsin startled. “Sorry, I. I meant me.” She took a sip of tea. “Hazel is kind. Perhaps too kind.”
“No such thing,” Wren said pointedly, trying to tamp down the squirm of suspicion in her stomach. “You should try it sometime.”
“Ha. Ha.” Tamsin’s voice was flat.
Wren took a sip of tea just to have something to do with her hands. “So,” she finally said, trying to keep her voice light, “we’ll stay the night here?” She glanced out the window. The sun was already rising. “The day? The way the dark magic is pushing the sun through the sky, I’ve seen so many sunrises I no longer have any concept of time.”
Tamsin almost laughed. “Suppose it doesn’t matter now. The only thing that matters is finding her.”
Her?
Surely Tamsin meant the dark witch, although her certainty that the dark witch was a woman was a new development.
“Tamsin.” Wren glanced around, trying to keep her expression light. The buzz of gossip was still floating through the room, but the witches now seemed more focused on their conversations than on Wren and Tamsin themselves. “Will you please tell me what’s going on?”
Tamsin ran a hand through her tangled hair. “I really need a bath.”
Wren sighed deeply. “Will you stop avoiding my questions? If we’re going to do this, I need to know what we’re up against.” She tapped her fingernails against her teacup, a soft tinkling filling the empty air between them as she stared the witch down. Tamsin looked away first.
Wren’s mouth soured with the witch’s silence. “I know how to keep a secret, you know. Not as well as you, obviously,” she said pointedly. “Banished? I mean, you really didn’t think to mention that before making me seal a contract?”
“Didn’t your father ever teach you not to enter into contracts with witches?” Tamsin raised her eyebrows. “We’re notoriously good at incredibly precise wording.”
“He did, actually.” Wren tried to suppress the pang she felt at the mention of her father. Tried to forget about the new reality of her life. “Anyway, I thought you were going to give me answers.” She looked at the witch expectantly. “My patience is running thin.”
Tamsin snorted. “No, it’s not. You’re never anything other than good and patient and kind.” Her eyes flickered over Wren. “Which, frankly, is very annoying.”
Wren rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Says you. So?”
Before Tamsin could answer, Wren’s stomach gave a ferocious growl. She smiled apologetically and lunged for the closest pastry. She couldn’t recall the last time they’d stopped for food. She couldn’t remember the last time they had properly slept, either.
“Don’t choke,” Tamsin said, watching Wren stuff half the pie in her mouth at once.
Wren let out a soft groan. The food was hot, the spices sharp, the pastry crisp. It was maybe the most wonderful thing she’d ever eaten.
Tamsin was watching her with horror. “You look like an animal.”
“You look like an animal,” Wren shot back giddily, her mouth full. A flake of pastry fell onto her shirt.
Tamsin wrinkled her nose. “Well done. That was devastating. Truly.” She reached for her own pie. For the first time in days, she almost looked relaxed. But Wren was still on edge. We. Her. There was something the witch was still keeping secret.
Someone.
“Tamsin, who’s Marlena?”
Tamsin nearly choked on her pastry. She coughed wildly, her face turning red. Wren fought the urge to get up and help her. She merely stared, waiting, until Tamsin had settled down and taken a giant gulp from the teacup in front of her. The witch’s lips pressed into a firm line. Then, after another moment’s hesitation, when Wren was sure the witch wouldn’t answer, Tamsin said, “My sister.”
Wren had thought she could no longer be surprised by Tamsin’s reveals, but this one punched her in the gut. “You have a sister?”
Something complicated flashed across Tamsin’s face. “A twin.”
“So, earli
er, when you said the only thing that matters is finding her, did you mean the dark witch, or did you mean your sister?”
The witch looked nervously over her shoulder. “I’ll explain everything tomorrow.”
Wren dropped the remaining bite of her pastry, eyes blazing. “No, you won’t. You’ll explain it now.” She hoped she didn’t sound as rattled as she felt. Tamsin’s deflection was making her nervous.
“Tomorrow,” Tamsin whispered roughly. “When there aren’t so many people around.” Her eyes fluttered across the many colored cloaks of the witches in the room. “I promise.”
She held Wren’s gaze.
“My father taught me never to enter into contracts with witches,” Wren said wryly.
Still, she didn’t want to cause a scene amid so much magic. So, against her better judgment, Wren said nothing as the witch got to her feet, her stew untouched.
Wren watched as the tail of Tamsin’s green cloak disappeared up the spiral staircase to the rooms above. An enchanted fiddle played a slow song, soft and familiar. It hit something in her heart, poked a place already bruised.
A twin sister. She’d have almost thought it a joke. And yet there was nothing funny about the hurt that had pooled in Tamsin’s eyes.
Wren stuffed the final bite of pastry into her mouth. There were so many questions to ask when the morning finally came. Yet the one Wren found the most pressing was: Why, when Tamsin spoke of her sister, had she touched the book-shaped lump in the pocket of her cloak?
SEVENTEEN TAMSIN
The world was dark.
Tamsin peered through the curtains, waiting for the light, but the sun had stopped its cycling. The sky was empty. Silent.
Tamsin exhaled, lighting a tiny flame, which she cradled in her palm. Wren was still asleep, her body splayed across the small bed opposite Tamsin’s. The source had made quite a bit of noise when she’d finally come to bed, sighing and coughing falsely, flinging her boots across the room one heavy thump at a time. Yet Tamsin had not moved until she’d heard Wren’s breathing slow.
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