Sweet & Bitter Magic Adrienne Tooley (best novels of all time .txt) 📖

bit of thrashing to move through the giant green stalks, but the lack of people made the effort worthwhile.

“Okay,” Wren muttered behind her, “this is ridiculous.”

Tamsin ignored her. Stumbling through cornfields would be the least of their worries as they followed the Queen’s Road to the north, beyond the spindly mountains that rose like spikes in the distance. Atop the tallest peak was the palace where Queen Mathilde held court. Below it lay the ruined capital of Farn. Beyond the city proper was the Wood.

The common folk told their non-magic children nighttime tales of the forest’s dangers—bandits, giants, and wolves alike, each deadlier than the last, depending on who did the telling—but in reality it was only a swath of charms and enchantments that made it impossible for ordinary folk to pass through the seemingly endless expanse of trees. The Wood kept them from traveling to the world Within. Within was for witches.

Witches who weren’t Tamsin.

In fact, she did not know if she would be allowed to pass through the trees at all. Perhaps the ancient spells would sense the mottled scar on her arm and refuse to part the serpentine branches. It was possible the High Councillor had placed a ward around the Wood to prevent Tamsin from ever returning. Every uncertain step she took might be in vain.

The not knowing was the worst part, clawing at her insides like the sharp nails of Councillor Mari’s cat, which had never liked her but had adored Marlena.

The weight of her sister’s memory bent Tamsin’s head over, sent a shooting pain down her back. It was a complicated weight, awkward and lopsided. For so long, Tamsin had mourned the sister she remembered—although, of course, her curse had blurred some of Marlena’s edges. But now, thanks to the diary, Tamsin was starting to fear that the sister she thought she had known had never truly existed at all. That the Marlena she missed was a figment of her imagination. Her warped memories. Her desperation.

Tamsin scratched at her left arm, nails digging into her scar. Already she was exhausted, and they had yet to leave Ladaugh.

At least the diary wasn’t with her. Its smooth leather cover could not dig into her side. Its words could not swim before her eyes. Tamsin was grateful for small mercies. Small mercies like silence.

Too much silence.

Tamsin whirled around, coming face-to-face with endless ears of corn. Wren was nowhere to be seen. Tamsin, having been wrapped up in her own fragmented memories, had no idea how long she had been missing.

“Wren?” She hadn’t wanted to phrase it as a question. Statements were controlled. Questions were dependent. And if there was one thing Tamsin did not want to be, it was dependent on Wren.

There was no reply. Against her better judgment, Tamsin shouted Wren’s name again, louder this time.

A rustling—several stalks bristled, swaying lightly in the afternoon breeze. Tamsin held her breath. The sound was chaotic, a tangle of feet that made it difficult to determine if the limbs belonged to a human or an animal. She tried to brush away the fear creeping up her spine. Giant spiders were just the beginning. Perhaps there were poisonous beetles, or the farmer’s scarecrow had come to life. Maybe it had taken Wren, tying her to the post to keep watch over the crops.

Tamsin fingered the ribbon around her neck, a glimmer of hope swirling in her chest. If Wren were dead, the ribbon would unfurl. Tamsin would be free to return home and forget this altogether-terrible idea. But the necklace stayed firmly tied at her throat. Tamsin sighed with annoyance. Wren wasn’t dead, then.

“Wren.” This time it wasn’t a question.

“What?” Wren came crashing through the field, bobbing and ducking between the stalks. Her eyes were as wide as a baby deer’s, the spring in her step more joyful than the season’s first warm day. “I caught sight of these blooming along the road.” She shoved a fistful of wildflowers at Tamsin. The flowers’ thin roots were perfectly intact. It appeared that Wren had not picked the flowers so much as gently coaxed the spindly roots to remove themselves from the ground.

Tamsin stared at the bouquet blankly. “What am I supposed to do with those?”

“Look at them?” Wren scrunched her brow with confusion. “Smell them?”

“That seems like an extraordinary waste of time.”

Wren’s jaw dropped as she examined Tamsin’s pinched expression. “You can’t even love a flower?”

Tamsin clenched her jaw in fury. “What of it?”

“That’s so sad.” Wren’s eyes were wide but not mocking. She frowned. “So, when you look at these flowers, what do you see?” She shoved the bundle into Tamsin’s unwilling hands.

“The petals are… white?” Tamsin held a stem up to her nose and inhaled. It smelled of nothing, of course. “This is ridiculous.” She threw the flowers on the ground, then stomped on them with her heel for good measure.

Wren flinched. “You hurt them.”

“They’re flowers.”

“They have magic,” Wren insisted. “They can feel.”

Tamsin rolled her eyes. “What did they say when I stomped on them?” Her voice was jangling, mocking. Wren looked pained.

“They didn’t say so much as scream.” She tugged on her braid. “Anyway, the petals aren’t white; they’re pink, like the sky just before the sun sets. Their scent is sweet, like the grass after a summer rain.” She crouched down and ran a finger over a petal. “And they’re soft, like a baby chick.”

Tamsin tsked in annoyance. “They are not.”

“They are,” Wren insisted. The earnestness of her expression only served to fuel Tamsin’s fury. Not only could this girl feel, but she described things just poorly enough for Tamsin to remember exactly how much of the world she was missing. Just well enough that she hungered for more.

“We don’t have to talk.”

“Oh.” Tamsin could hear the hurt in Wren’s voice, but the sudden quiet was so blissful she had trouble finding it within herself to care.

The sun was low in the sky when the cornfields opened up into a vast, grassy expanse. Tamsin and Wren