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

having so much, for being glad that she had left her father behind for an adventure that had taken her far from home and given her a new one.

The witch put a hand under Wren’s chin and forced her eyes back up. “It is. That’s why we’re doing this. So you don’t have to wonder.”

“I think I’m so nervous because I want to leave him. I wasn’t supposed to, I always promised, but…” She trailed off, shaking her head. It was too impossible a thing to put into words. How much she wanted to study Within and embrace her power. How wrong she felt for that wanting.

“You’re allowed to have your own life.” Tamsin’s expression was conflicted. “You’re allowed to want things. To leave people behind. To grow.” She glanced behind at the road, although Marlena was long gone. “I see you. I’ve always seen what you could do. Who you could be if you’d only let yourself.” Wren tried to pull away, but Tamsin’s eyes were so fierce she found she couldn’t move. “So what do you want, Wren?”

“You,” she whispered, stepping closer and wrapping her arms around the witch’s waist.

“That’s cheating,” Tamsin whispered, inches from Wren’s lips.

“It’s not,” Wren insisted. For so long, she had tried to be exactly what other people wanted. She had given without a second thought. Ignored her own desires. Her own needs. But no longer. Being with Tamsin made her bold. “I want you. Can I have you?”

She brushed her lips against Tamsin’s. The witch let out a tiny, contented sigh, and then she whispered: “Yes.”

Ladaugh’s town square was deserted. Abandoned stalls were littered with blackened, rotting vegetables and torn banners. The water pump dripped endlessly, tiny drops plummeting to the ground. Some of the cobblestones had cracked. Giant black birds, their feathers shining blue in the sunlight, soared over the wreckage. Wren shuddered, thinking of Farn, but Tamsin ushered her onward.

Most of the cottages had boarded-up windows. Some still had shadows of dark magic clinging to the rooftops. But all the stone huts remained standing. That eased Wren’s fear some. But only a little.

“What if he’s dead?”

“He isn’t.” Tamsin eyed the empty path warily, her tone uncertain.

“What if he doesn’t remember me, then?”

Tamsin’s hand tightened around Wren’s own. “You’re pretty hard to forget.”

Wren smiled despite herself. Still, her stomach churned like the ocean during a storm.

She paused again at the front gate. The boots she’d left behind were gone. She swallowed the panic clawing its way up her throat. “I don’t think I can do this.” Her heart was hammering, her breathing quick and unsteady. She had the sensation of something crawling on her feet. She looked down. It wasn’t her imagination. It was a cat—her stray. He was rather lean, his black fur matted and smeared with dirt, but otherwise he looked no worse for the wear. He rubbed against her ankles again, his large yellow eyes peering hopefully at her. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, relief washing over her like a wave. He knew her. The cat knew her, which meant her father might remember her too. Wren gathered the cat up in her arms, smoothing his grimy fur and scratching him behind his ears.

Tamsin wrinkled her nose down at the creature, her hands remaining firmly at her sides.

“He’s nice, I swear.” Wren held him out like a baby toward the witch.

Tamsin offered one begrudging finger and tapped the cat three times on the top of his head. The creature hissed at her. Tamsin jumped away, scowling. “I don’t care for it.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Wren gave the cat another squeeze. He struggled in her embrace, trying to gain his freedom. She eventually let him go. He licked his front paw, looking rather affronted.

“Well, the cat remembers me. That’s a good sign, don’t you think?” She stared, unmoving, at the front door of the cottage. She could waste all the time she liked before the gate, but it wouldn’t change what was waiting for her inside. Better, then, to get it over with.

She stepped through the gate and was reaching for the door, the wood stripped and rough beneath her fingertips, when it swung open to reveal a man. Wren stumbled backward.

It wasn’t her father.

“Tor?” Wren struggled to make sense of the scene. “What are you doing here?”

The tailor was staring at her with equal incredulity. “Just checking up on your da, like you asked.”

Wren struggled to formulate a response. Instead she threw herself onto the tailor, sobbing into his shirt. “He’s alive?”

The tailor patted her head awkwardly. “It was strange. There was a darkness, black as ink, that draped across the land. And then, six days ago, that darkness dispelled. It was like the storm broke. And everyone—all the afflicted—their memories came flooding back.”

“Can I see him?” She hurriedly wiped her tears away with the backs of her hands.

“It’s your house.” Tor stepped past her into the afternoon light. His eyes fell on Tamsin, lingering awkwardly behind Wren. He frowned and turned away.

“Go on, then,” she said, turning toward Wren, who had hesitated with her fingers on the front door. “I’ll be right here if you need me.” The witch offered up a soft smile. “Go.”

Wren stepped inside. The cottage was stifling, a fire roaring despite the temperature outside. The stink of singed herbs—blackened rosemary, roasted thyme—lingered in the thick air. Wren coughed, holding a hand over her nose.

She stood in the middle of the room on the ragged carpet woven by her mother’s hand. The bedroom door was open just a crack. Blankets rustled within. A man gave a throaty cough. “Papa?”

An intake of breath. Then her father’s voice—timid, unbelieving: “Wren?”

“Papa.” Wren flung the door open, tears starting up again as her stomach struggled to unknot itself, as the tightness in her chest loosened. Her father sat up, dressed and smiling. Not only was her father alive, but he remembered her.

“Little bird.” His eyes shone as he took her in. “Are those my boots?”

Wren glanced