She hadn’t meant to slip, had meant to keep the truth about Marlena as close to her heart as possible in the hopes she might be able to feel it. But hearing her sister’s name on Wren’s tongue had been more than she could bear.
That tiny truth, that relief of confession, had cost her the upper hand.
She stepped into her boots and pulled on her cloak; then, careful not to disturb the flame, she slipped out the creaky door of the tiny attic room.
It was more than any other innkeeper would have given her. Not only did their beds have mattresses, but the room even had a proper washroom. It was no bigger than a shadowy closet, but still, Tamsin finally had the time to wash and detangle her hair, to change out of the clothes she’d been wearing for days. They had started to smell quite rank. Tamsin knew she could never thank Hazel enough for her kindness and her steadfast loyalty, even though Tamsin did not deserve it.
She extinguished her tiny fire as she entered the well-lit main room. Despite the darkness outside, quite a few witches were awake, scattered about, practicing their craft, trying to find a way to track the dark witch. To track Marlena.
Her sister was alive and out there, somewhere. She had been this entire time. Tamsin kept shifting from feeling foolish to feeling angry, from basking in relief to cowering with trepidation. Marlena wasn’t dead. Her sister wasn’t dead. Which meant Tamsin’s spell hadn’t killed her.
She didn’t know what that meant for her guilt. She still had Amma’s death on her conscience. Her dark magic had nearly destroyed the world Within. She was certainly not blameless. Tamsin still had plenty to atone for.
A gaggle of teenaged witches giggled from the corner where they were poring over an ancient grimoire. They took turns conjuring jars from the back wall, taking ginseng root and dried lavender, bay leaves and the bark of an ash tree, and pounding them all to a fine dust, which they scooped carefully into small leather pouches to be tucked in their pockets.
An older witch was bent over her table, a chunk of quartz in one hand, obsidian in the other. Her eyes were closed; her lips moved silently. She frowned and dropped the obsidian on the table, her hand searching for the next nearest stone. She grabbed a smooth black onyx. Opened her eyes. Frowned. Started searching through her stones again.
At the far end of the table, Rhys, a witch who had been a few years ahead of Tamsin in school, was shuffling their tarot deck, surrounded by several younger witches. They dealt a hand, their black-painted lips frowning as they took in the overeager faces. “Be quiet,” they snapped, adjusting their cloak. “If you don’t respect the deck, it won’t respect you.” Rhys’s eyes flitted across the room to Tamsin, who quickly sat in the nearest chair, busying herself with the teacup before her.
Rhys had given Tamsin the same lecture years ago. Their reading had been right then—she had been acting brashly, and her impulsivity had come to haunt her in the end.
Tamsin drained her tea, squinted down at the dregs. The leaves were clumped at the bottom, but she could make no sense of them. Tamsin had no knack for divination. She was all about action. Which was, as she now knew, entirely the problem.
She cast the cup aside and pulled Marlena’s diary from the folds of her cloak. Now that her sister was alive, the words inside took on a new importance. A new burden. The door to the inn opened, and the pages of the diary went flying. Tamsin didn’t know why the book bothered. She was already Within. She knew that her sister lived. Reading her words would only serve to remind her of the loss she’d thought she’d suffered and the pain she felt now. But Tamsin had never been one to protect herself from pain, and so she leaned forward to read.
I was right. Usually those are my three favorite words in existence, but writing them today brings me no joy. Arwyn came to the Grand Hall with that awful flute of hers and her horrible herd, crowing that she’d found the dark witch. You should have seen her face: Her eerily sharp teeth were practically falling out of her mouth, she was smiling so wide. And then who does she throw down onto the floor but Tamsin.
I was right. But in another sense, I was so terribly wrong.
Of course, Vera flew into a rage, hauling her up and out of the hall as fast as her heels could carry her. The rest of the room fell to whispers. What could Tamsin be doing with power like that? She was going to join the Coven someday, everyone was sure of it. She was an ideal candidate: talented, devoted, eager, selfless to a fault. She would have given her life to be charged with protecting the world Within. Instead it looks like she gave her life to protect me.
That’s right. The dark magic she did? It’s the reason why I’m alive. Without asking me, she pulled magic from the earth and bound my life to her power. So not only is Tamsin responsible for the rains, for the fires, for Amma, but I am too. Tamsin did this to save me, which means that I’m complicit. I’m a part of this whether I want to be or not.
And I hate her for it.
Vera brought me up to her office once she’d finished with Tamsin, and for a while she just stared. It was strange, like she was trying to memorize my face, which is absurd since it’s the same as Tamsin’s. But then she told me that she had to break the bond. It was her “duty” or something official-sounding. I wish I could say I was surprised. I know that Vera loves me—loves Tamsin, too, of course—but she loves Within more.
I don’t even resent her for it. I truly don’t. I wish I knew what it was like to love something so much you’d let your own daughter die. She didn’t say so, of course, but I could see it in her eyes. When they remove Tamsin’s power from me, I’m going to die.
Mortality is strange, in a way. Before, I was always faced with long stretches in a white infirmary, and since I knew there was always the possibility of dying, I was always afraid. But now that my life has an end date, I can’t seem to make myself feel… anything at all.
Tamsin stared down at the wrinkled page. She had taken the biggest risk of her young life, had pushed away her best friend, lost the respect of her mother and her teachers, all so she could save her sister. And now it was clearer than it had ever been that she’d made a mistake. Marlena wasn’t grateful for what Tamsin had done. She hated her for it.
Tamsin rested her head in her hands. In no scenario could she have hung back and simply watched her sister slip away. The two of them were bound by a bond stronger than dark magic. If the roles had been reversed, wouldn’t Marlena have done the same thing to save her?
The horrible truth came to her in the form of a chill, racking her whole body with a shiver so outsize that her elbow knocked her teacup onto the floor, where it promptly shattered into a hundred pieces. She swore and fell to her knees, carefully collecting the pieces in her palm.
“I thought you were a witch.” Tamsin tensed at the sound of Wren’s voice, but she did not look up. She continued to collect the shards of rose-patterned china.
“Tamsin.” Wren nudged her softly with the toe of her boot. “Come on. It’s time for you to tell me the truth.”
Tamsin sighed and got to her feet, dumping the shards of porcelain unceremoniously onto the tabletop. “I don’t see what else there is to tell,” she lied.
“You have a sister.”
Tamsin fought the urge to correct Wren’s tense. She was so used to thinking had.
“I was going to tell you,” she said quickly. “But things are complicated.”
Wren frowned. “Either you have a sister or you don’t.”
Tamsin very nearly laughed. “Exactly. That’s why it’s complicated.” She exhaled, the mere fact of her breathing seeming to earn her several annoyed looks. She’d known that other witches resented her, some for the fact that she’d used dark magic, others for the fact that she was still living. Still, thus far the reaction to her return had been frigid at best.
She summoned their things, their bags appearing by their feet. “I’ll say good-bye to Hazel, and then we’re going to go.”
“Go?” Wren’s eyes darted around the room. “Why?”
“We’v
e overstayed our welcome here.” Tamsin heaved her pack over her shoulder, nodding toward the huddle of school-age witches, who were whispering hurriedly behind their hands, eyes fixed on the pair of them.
“Where are we going, then?” Wren fussed with her bag, her face pinched.
Tamsin ran a hand through her hair, dread souring her tongue. “Somewhere I can tell you the truth.”
* * *
“Let me get this straight.” Wren’s voice was muffled from behind her sleeve, her expression impossible to decipher as they moved carefully through the darkness. “The dark witch is your twin sister, who you thought was dead but isn’t thanks to the dark-magic bond between the two of you?”
The ground was soft and wet beneath their feet. The scent of sulfur permeated everything, had flooded their nostrils the moment they’d opened the door to leave the Wandering Woes. Wren had covered her nose, but Tamsin hadn’t bothered. There was no escaping it. She wouldn’t be surprised if the stink of rotting eggs clung to her skin for the rest of her days.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, that’s right.” But telling Wren the truth hadn’t made Tamsin feel better. In fact, it had made her feel worse. In the end, it all pointed back to Tamsin.
“All right,” Wren said, squinting at the witch, lips pursed. “But I don’t understand what this has to do with that little black book in your pocket.”
“What?” Tamsin was so surprised her foot squelched dangerously close to a murky puddle. She had expected Wren to cry, to scream, to turn away from her once she had learned the truth. But she had underestimated the girl. Instead of fleeing, Wren stood her ground.
“Your sister is the dark witch,” she repeated. “Which means you know who we’re up against. I don’t. That’s why I need you to tell me everything.” She looked as though she might crumble beneath the weight of all of Tamsin’s evasions and lies. “So,” she said pointedly. “The book.”
“It’s hers,” Tamsin finally admitted, rummaging in the pocket of her cloak and pulling out the diary. “It’s Marlena’s.”
Wren let out a little hiccup of a giggle.
“What is it?” Tamsin snapped, feeling rather put out. “Why are you laughing at me?”
“I’m sorry,” Wren said, one hand on her chest. “I just—I feel so silly. When Leya first mentioned Marlena, I thought—” She took a step forward, then shrieked as her foot sank into a muddy patch of grass. She scrambled to regain her balance, the ground slurping her leg into the squelching deep.
Tamsin lunged to grab Wren’s elbow, but when her toes began to slip into the muck as well, she scurried back, letting Wren’s arm go.
Wren’s eyes widened with betrayal. “What are you doing?”
“Stop flailing,” Tamsin commanded, charming her lantern to float next to her shoulder and fumbling with the tie on her cloak. “I can’t save you if I’m stuck too.”
Wren’s face was twisted into a pinched, fretful expression as she struggled and writhed, sinking deeper into the muck with each motion. Tamsin shook out her cloak, clutched the hem tightly in her hands, and threw the hood to Wren.
“Grab hold. And quit moving. You’ll sink yourself deeper if you keep squirming.”
“It’s cold,” Wren moaned as she scrambled to grab hold of the cloak. “And it stinks.”
Tamsin pulled at the cloak, the emerald-green fabric slippery beneath her sweating palms. Wren was submerged up to her waist. If she wasn’t careful, she would slip under completely. “Right leg first. Slowly. Slowly.” Tamsin’s voice tensed.
“It’s stuck,” Wren said through gritted teeth as she sank a few more inches.
“Maybe it’s a bog. Bogs are mostly water, after all. Can you swim?”
“No.” Still Wren leaned back, her face plastered with a pained grimace. “It feels like I’m sinking further.” She was, but Tamsin didn’t want to tell her so.
“Move your right leg up. No, up.” Tamsin’s heart was pounding in her ears.
With a great grunt of effort, Wren freed a leg. Tamsin spotted the hint of a giant leather boot. Wren struggled, pulling hard on the cloak, but despite her shaking arms, Tamsin managed to hold her ground. After an immense amount of effort, and several more guttural sounds, Wren freed her second leg. Tamsin hurriedly pulled her upright.
Wren panted wildly, hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. Tamsin reached up to brush it away. She caught the faintest whiff of lavender before the smell was swallowed by the stink of the endless night. Tamsin mumbled a few quick words, and Wren’s trousers dried instantly.
Wren, still struggling to catch her breath, stared at Tamsin with soft eyes. “Thanks.”
Tamsin shrugged and busied herself with refastening her cloak. “You can’t go dying on me now. We finally have a lead.” But her attempt at humor fell flat, her shaking hands giving her away.
“I meant for the trousers.” Wren offered up a soft smile. “But I guess thanks also for saving my life. Here.” She stepped forward and tied Tamsin’s cloak with a quick hand. “There you go.”
As they stared awkwardly at each other, Tamsin caught another whiff of lavender. Something about Wren was different.
“Oh!” Tamsin finally managed. “Your eyes are green.”
Strangely, Wren didn’t seem as shocked. “And?”
“They were gray before.”
“No.” Wren frowned. “I’m fairly certain my eyes have always been green.”
Tamsin shook her head wildly. She remembered Wren’s eyes: the color of slate, the gray of rain-soaked stone. This new color was vivid and shocking. It made her want to stare. It made her want to look away.
“Why are you looking at my eyes, anyway?” Wren’s tone was playful, but her smile was guarded.
“I’m not,” Tamsin snapped, despite the fact that she obviously had been. She pulled away, leaving the lantern behind for Wren. Even as she walked away, she listened for Wren’s footsteps to follow her.
It was the darkness, Tamsin told herself, that was throwing everything off. She had been awake for only a short time, but already she was exhausted, ready to throw herself back into sleep. The darkness meant that everything felt closer, more intimate, when all she had done was save Wren from a patch of mud. The darkness was even playing tricks on her eyes, changing colors, giving Tamsin glimpses of another life, one where she noticed the smell of a person’s hair or the color of her eyes simply from staring into them.
But that wasn’t who she was. That wasn’t her lot in life. And so Tamsin swore she would not let the darkness play with her mind. She would not let the darkness win and break her already useless heart.
* * *
The innkeeper of the Fickle Fare recognized Tamsin too. But theirs was not a happy reunion. “All I have is a shack,” the hawk-eyed woman said, her eyes beady and judgmental. “It used to hold my goats. But we fixed it up. Some.”
Tamsin opened her mouth to protest, but the woman looked down her nose at Tamsin’s left arm, as though she could see the mottled skin through the layers of clothing. It was enough to shut Tamsin up. This innkeeper knew exactly what she was responsible for. She knew she had been stripped of the Coven’s sigil. Without it, Tamsin had no more status than a child stumbling Within for the very first time, their magic tumultuous and wild. She was not respected. She did not matter. Still, her mother was the High Councillor, and she had a hunting license issued by the Coven. The woman did not dare to turn her away completely.
“Fine.” Tamsin turned on her heel and made her way around the small cottage to the shack behind. The door smacked the small bed as it opened. The room was practically a closet.
“Where’s the other bed?” Tamsin detected a hint of panic in Wren’s voice.
“Don’t worry,” Tamsin said, taking a tentative step into the small space. Her shins collided with the bed frame. “I’ll just conjure another one. We could put it… here.” She pointed to a space, barely large enough to fit the two of them standing up.
Tamsin closed her eyes and tried to focus.
“This is ridiculous—you’re going to kill us.” Wren put a hand on Tamsin’s arm to stop her, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Tiny sparks floated from her hand. She hurried to extinguish them before the bedspread caught fire. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Tamsin snapped, embarrassed. She always had control of her magic. She really was behaving like a child. “We can just…”
They both stared at the small bed. Wren tugged on the end of her braid.
“What side of the bed do you sleep on?”
Tamsin stared at her uncomprehendingly. “I sleep on a bed. There are no sides.”
Wren exhaled loudly. “Fine. I’ll take the side by the wall; you can squeeze in here.”
Tamsin blinked several times in quick succession. “We’re going to share this bed?”
“Unless you want to sleep on the floor.” Wren pointed at the stone surface covered in dirt and dust and mold.
“Why do I have to sleep on the floor?”
“Because you’re full of secrets. If you bring them all onto this bed, there won’t be any room left for me.” Wren started to laugh—strange, hiccupping giggles that nearly caused Tamsin to laugh too. Instead she was sobered by logistics. How they would both fit. How she was supposed to lie so that she wouldn’t disturb Wren, wouldn’t touch her unnecessarily, wouldn’t impose on her space, wouldn’t make her uncomfortable.
When Wren finally stopped laughing, she scooted herself toward the wall, leaving Tamsin a sliver of space on the bed. The witch settled herself carefully onto the worn mattress and slid beneath a fraying quilt.
“Don’t I get a pillow at least?” A chill had crept into her bones despite the fact that she was wrapped in the thin blanket. She was facing Wren’s back, her whole body tense, trying not to touch her.
“Secrets,” Wren reminded her, causing Tamsin to sigh in frustration.
“I’m sorry,” Tamsin whispered into the darkness. “I just didn’t want you to stop looking at me the way you do.”
Sweet & Bitter Magic Page 19