Sweet & Bitter Magic, Adrienne Tooley [books suggested by elon musk .TXT] 📗

Evangeline, the Coven made a promise to hold witches to the highest standard. To never waver. But your mother did. And I can never forgive her for that.” Arwyn exhaled, long and loud. “Do you think this is what I wanted? To monitor the activity of witches, making sure they don’t take advantage of ordinary folk? Do you think I enjoy scouring the world for nonconsensual love spells?” She raised her eyebrows at Tamsin. “I could have become more. We all could have. But we made a promise, for the good of the world. For the good of all witches. And you broke that.”

“I’m sorry,” Tamsin said finally, her hand resting on the pocket that held her sister’s diary. “I know it doesn’t matter, that it doesn’t change anything, but I am. I wish I hadn’t done it, but I did. That’s the reason I came back: to help make things right.”

The tracker rolled her eyes. “You have your mother’s sentimentality. I told Vera that letting you live was a mistake, but she never listens to me when it really matters, does she?” Arwyn sniffed. “She must be rather desperate to have let you back Within. And this is how you repay her kindness.” Her eyes flitted from Tamsin to Wren and back again. “Fooling around on the forest floor while the world falls to pieces. She always expected more of you than she should have. One daughter a disappointment, the other a disgrace.” Arwyn pursed her lips thoughtfully as another breeze blew through the empty trees. “I’ll let you two get back to it, then. Don’t trip over my scouts again unless you’ve got something useful to share.”

Arwyn pulled a small ivory flute from her belt and began an eerie song that made Tamsin’s teeth ache. The skeleton herd jumped to attention, following as she turned away, bone clacking against bone. Her herd still gave Tamsin the heebie-jeebies. They had been with Arwyn for years, but Tamsin had never been able to figure out how the witch commanded bone with such ease. Despite all her prowess, Tamsin could not move so much as a mouse’s skull.

“Well,” Wren said finally, once the footsteps had grown silent, “now I know why you looked so frightened.”

“And that was Arwyn in a good mood.” Tamsin knew she was being flippant, but it was easier than letting the tracker’s words hurt.

“She’s terrifying, I can’t imagine how you…” Wren trailed off and cocked her head. Listening. “What’s wrong with the trees?”

Tamsin couldn’t hear a thing. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Look”—Wren rolled up her sleeves—“I have goose bumps.”

Tamsin took in Wren’s freckled skin, the tiny pinpricks of cold or fear or both that rose on its surface. For some indescribable reason, she started to wonder about all the skin she couldn’t see.

“Tamsin.” Wren’s voice had gone sharp and high-pitched, the way it did when she was afraid. “Please. The trees are silent. It’s worse than when they scream. It’s like I’m trying to breathe underwater. Everything’s muffled. I want to get out of here.”

She grabbed Tamsin’s arm right where the Coven’s sigil had been stripped from her. It was the reason Tamsin kept her skin covered, a visible reminder of what her impulsivity had wrought. But beneath Wren’s touch, Tamsin did not feel the scar’s weight. Instead she felt a spark of possibility. Of redemption.

And so Tamsin nodded, wrapped an arm around Wren’s waist, and guided her out of the wood.

She heard the sea before she saw it. The roaring in her ears drowned out her doubt, overpowered the churning nerves causing her hands to shake and her palms to sweat.

“I feel terrible.” Wren’s voice nearly floated away with the wind.

“Why?” Tamsin turned to her, surprised. “What did you do?”

Wren frowned. “I didn’t do anything. I mean, my stomach hurts. I think I’m going to vomit.”

Tamsin wrinkled her nose. “Please don’t.”

Wren shot her a sharp look. “Well, obviously I’m not going to if I can help it. There’s just this… clanging.” She waved her hand around wildly. “This… roaring I can’t seem to place, and the air is thick, and, oh!” She had turned toward the ocean, the little light from her lantern hardly bright enough to illuminate a single wave. “What is all that water?”

It took Tamsin a moment to realize that Wren had never seen the ocean before. “The… sea?”

Wren’s eyes grew wide, her nausea apparently forgotten. She scampered forward like a child, bent to cup ocean water in her hand. “It’s singing.” Wren turned, beaming beatifically. “It’s the nicest song. I’m sorry you can’t hear it.”

The airiness of her voice and the emptiness of her eyes were concerning. Tamsin yanked her away from the water. Wren had already wandered in ankle-deep.

“Your shoes are all wet now,” Tamsin said to stifle Wren’s protests. “If I hadn’t come to save you, you would have walked straight into the sea.”

“But the song. It was such a lovely song. The water only wanted me to add my voice to it.” Wren sounded dreamy, soft as a whisper. Then her face went slack. She stopped walking and vomited loudly onto the sand. Tamsin recoiled, pinching her nose.

Wren wiped her mouth, her face pale and slick with sweat. “Something is really wrong here.” Her eyes warily searched the coast, dotted with sloping sand dunes, littered with giant piles of gnarled driftwood stacked high as a wall. And, beyond that, something bigger. A light in the distance. “Do you think that’s her?”

A mixture of panic and excitement welled up in Tamsin’s chest as she moved toward the light. She scrambled and sank into the sand of the dune. Her legs screamed in frustration, her hands gripping the cold, silty grains in an attempt to steady herself. It was like trying to grab hold of a waterfall.

When Tamsin made it to the top, her excitement waned. There was a house… but perhaps calling it a house was too kind. It had the structure of a house—walls, doors, windows, roof—but