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

the room, competing with one another to see whose spell could reach the item first.

None of them were shying away from their magic.

It’s like you’re fighting too hard against what you are, Leya had said. Give in.

Wren opened to a blank page at random. She slowly rubbed the paper between her thumb and pointer finger, freeing the traces of magic so that she could read them. She brought the parchment to her nose.

First came the overwhelming stink of sulfur. Wren gagged but forced herself to breathe through it. It was the same smell that had flooded her nostrils as they walked through the bog, the same smell that surrounded the victims of the plague. It was the stink of dark magic. She was on the right track.

After the scent of rotting eggs had dissipated, Wren caught a hint of salt. Her hair ruffled, as though catching a soft breeze. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the traces of magic in the room and listen to what the paper revealed.

A crunching, like the snapping of twigs. The crashing of thunder, a bright flash behind her closed eyelids like lightning. Her mouth tasted bitter, like charred wood. And through it all, Wren was lulled by a rhythmic roaring, though she knew not where it came from. Perhaps it was the earth itself.

“What are you doing?”

The magic died as quickly as it had come, the images fleeing so quickly that Wren began to wonder if they had ever been there at all. She opened her eyes to find Tamsin looking between Wren and the diary with apprehension.

“It wouldn’t let me read it,” Wren explained sheepishly, showing Tamsin the blank pages. “Not that I would have, even if I could,” she added quickly. The witch’s face relaxed. “But I can smell magic.” She tried to hold on to the salt, the lightning, and the bitter ash. “I just thought—”

“That’s right.” Tamsin settled herself in the seat across from Wren and leaned forward on her elbows. “What does mine smell like, then?” She was staring right into Wren’s eyes, her lips twisted in a mischievous grin.

Wren froze. It was oddly intimate, describing a scent to the person it emanated from. “Fresh herbs,” she finally managed. “Rosemary and sage, mostly. Sometimes basil. Dill.” Her face flushed. Wren resented her body for so mercilessly betraying her feelings.

“Huh.” Tamsin was still staring at her intently. “Well, then, what did you find?”

Wren told the witch what she’d tasted, heard, and felt. Tamsin’s expression softened with each detail, her eyes far away.

When Wren mentioned the rhythmic roaring and the smell of salt, Tamsin’s focus snapped back to the present. “I know where Marlena is.”

“You do?” It was Wren’s turn to lean across the table. She had expected her clues to help, not to solve. “Wait, I actually did something right?”

Tamsin frowned again. “What do you mean?”

Wren squirmed, suddenly self-conscious. “I just… tend to not be very useful. I can sell an egg and make a broth, but other than that, my skills are rather limited.” She shrugged, fiddling with the corner of Tamsin’s cloak.

“Stop that,” Tamsin scolded. Wren’s hands stopped moving, but Tamsin shook her head. “Not the cloak. Your lack of self-appreciation. It’s very irritating. You have power most people can’t dream of. Start acting like it. You matter.” Tamsin locked eyes with Wren, sending a jolt of energy through her blood. “Now come on.” Tamsin pushed back from the table, gesturing for Wren to hand over her cloak. “We’ve got quite the walk ahead of us.”

Wren had never been one to fear the dark, but the never-ending night had changed that. She clutched tightly to her lantern, the little blue flame dancing like the dread in her stomach with each step she took. The strange sounds of the endless night—shrieks and howls and scrapes—kept her close to Tamsin. So close that she kept stepping on the heels of the witch’s boots, earning herself dark looks and weary sighs.

They followed a narrow path that took them far from the Fickle Fare, into a dense patch of woods. The air was thick with magic, making it difficult to breathe. A fine mist clung to the trees, dressing them with droplets as big and round as pearls in the lamplight. Between the tight-knit trees were endless patches of briars, the thorns so sharp that Wren and Tamsin had to pause and pick their way around for fear they would be caught forever.

It was quiet, save for the snapping of branches and the rustling of their clothing as they worked to extract themselves from the forest’s clutches. Wren nearly cried with joy when the trees opened up to a glen, all rolling hills and rings of thick grass. The moss beneath her feet hummed softly, one solid, solitary note, which reverberated in her chest, taking the place of her heartbeat. She became the sound.

The glen was filled with rock formations: giant spirals, wild zigzags, tall towers, and careful clusters. Wren made to pass beneath a slab of rock balanced on two tall stones, but Tamsin pulled her back.

“Better not,” she said, “unless you’d like to fall straight into the sky.”

“At least then I’d have some idea where we’re going,” Wren muttered, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner. I should have known.” Tamsin’s mournful expression told Wren that she was talking not simply about their destination but about Marlena herself.

“How could you have?” Wren reached out a hand to touch Tamsin’s shoulder, but Tamsin tensed. Wren pulled her hand away.

“She’s my twin sister.” Tamsin wrapped her cloak tightly around her. “I was supposed to know.”

Wren tugged at her braid. She knew nothing about being a sister, but she knew something about what it felt like to fail family. “It’s not your fault.” Wren kicked at the grass. “I know you don’t care what I have to say, but I hope you know it’s true.”

“I do, you know.” Tamsin’s voice was hesitant.