Sweet & Bitter Magic by Adrienne Tooley (best ereader for textbooks .txt) 📕

“That’s okay.” Wren’s eyes were wide, filled with a wonder Tamsin could not fathom. Perhaps it was the source’s certainty of her own power, a concept unimaginable to Tamsin, who could think only of her own failings. But then Wren smiled, and the longing within her was so earnest it made Tamsin want to pinch her. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to find out.”

“Lucky you,” Tamsin said, her sarcasm erased by the warble of fear in her voice.

“Lucky us,” Wren said, squeezing Tamsin’s hand.

The witch took a deep breath, Wren set her shoulders, and together they stepped into the shadow of the Wood.

TWELVE

WREN

It was dark beneath the canopy of trees, the moon peeking through the thick leaves in slivers just wide enough to give the illusion of light. The silence of the grove had given way to whispers in a language Wren couldn’t understand—unrelenting whispers that grew more urgent with every step she took.

She was all alone now. Just a girl in a grove—her hand empty, her skin cold with the ghost of Tamsin’s grip. The moment she had set foot inside the trees, they had been yanked apart. And though Wren had called for her, there was no sign of the witch’s brown eyes, no cascade of soft, dark hair. There was only Wren.

Wren and slippery, silky magic.

She had disturbed something when she stepped into the Wood. It moved around her as though she were a stone casting ripples in a pond. The magic within her was drawn to the magic of this place. The power inside her was begging to belong to the trees.

She thought she ought to panic. She thought she ought to be afraid. Instead something within her swelled. She was in the Witchwood. It was a moment she had spent her life dreaming of—the sort of dream that existed only in the darkest part of the night. It had never occurred to her that such a dream could come true. Yet here she was, between the trees. Each step forward took her closer to the world Within. To the Witchlands.

To the place where she belonged.

For the longer Wren had spent on the road with Tamsin, and the more she learned about the world that she had always denied herself, the more certain she was that she needed to see it. She had to know. No more running. It was time to start embracing her true self.

And her true self was brought out by Tamsin. There was a tentative kindness forming there. Taking down the men together had been exhilarating, had made Wren feel invincible. It had made her feel like the connection between them wasn’t a coincidence—that they had been meant to find each other.

And then, before they’d stepped into the Wood, all her hard work had paid off. Tamsin had shared a secret of her own accord. She had finally stopped fighting Wren, stopped hiding, and had offered a momentary view of true vulnerability. They were making progress. Progress toward what, Wren didn’t know. But it felt like something vast and wild and important.

Almost as important as the way the hair stood up straight on her arms, the way a chill trickled down her spine. The way the sharp, warm spice of the solstice settled on her tongue. Her body was at odds with her mind. The magic draped lazily across her. Yet she could not quite give in. In the back of her mind, her father’s voice lingered.

Warning her of the way magic crept in to corrupt a soul.

Wren paused before a ring of trees, their trunks covered in symbols—crude, unintelligible carvings that looked as impossible as the whispers sounded. Between the trunks hung a gossamer layer of magic, thin and delicate as a spider’s web. Wren brushed her fingers against it, testing for a hint of pain or sharp heat. Instead the magic whispered against her hand like a feather across soft skin.

She moved through as though she were moving through water, the steady trickle of magic washing over her. Past the shimmering waterfall of power, colors became so sharp Wren could taste them. Lush lilac-purple lavenders, blushing powdered-sugar pinks, and creamy sky blues all settled themselves on her tongue.

The trees around her creaked and moaned, their branches lifting up toward the sky. The wildflowers at her feet opened their mouths to take great, gasping breaths. Wren’s presence had stirred something. Had caused the Witchwood to wake.

Each time she lifted a foot, tiny toadstools burst up in her track, their reds bright against the damp, mossy brown of the forest floor. She was altering the Witchwood, leaving a mark. It was exactly where she was supposed to be. The forest needed her.

For the first time, Wren felt powerful.

And then the whispers changed. Their words became decipherable, the accents familiar. The consonants slapped against the back of teeth. The same way her father rounded his Os. Her heart caught in her throat. The strength she had felt only moments ago dissipated.

“No!” her father’s voice shouted, and Wren knew exactly whom he was facing. The memory swirled around her, vivid yet unstable.

She was a child again, barely eight, crouching in the chicken coop, surrounded by the squawking of the hens. Their feathers ruffled as she invaded their space, but she ignored them, pressing her eye against a hole in the warped wooden slats.

A witch was at the gate, sighing wearily, already tired of the ornery, ordinary man waving his finger in her face. It had startled Wren then how old her father was. She had always known her parents were closer to the ages of the grandparents of her playmates, that losing their first baby was a loss they’d never gotten over. That she had come along so many years later, when they had finally given up all hope. But it was stark to see the shock of his white hair next to the enchanted, glossy mane of the witch.

“My son was killed during