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

in the vivid colors didn’t mean Tamsin wanted to hear about something she couldn’t appreciate. Her descriptions had angered the witch, had given Tamsin further proof that Wren was flighty and foolish. She closed her eyes, waiting for the blow.

“What are you doing?” Tamsin asked.

Wren opened her eyes. The sky was now as black as ink. Moonlight pooled on the witch’s face, illuminating her wary expression. She hadn’t moved an inch.

“I thought you were going to hit me.” Wren’s voice came out in a startled gasp; she was laughing despite herself.

“Hit you?” Tamsin’s brow was wrinkled with genuine confusion.

Wren gestured awkwardly to Tamsin’s clenched hand. The witch gave her a curious look before unfurling her fist, revealing tiny half-moon indentations on her palm.

“Old habit,” she said, still staring at Wren strangely. “It’s being back here. Remembering.” She glanced over her shoulder nervously, as though she had revealed too much. “Come on. We have a witch to hunt.” Tamsin snapped her fingers, and their things appeared. The witch threw her rucksack over her shoulder and started walking.

“Where are we going?” Tamsin didn’t answer. Wren gathered her own bag and hurried to catch up. “You owe me about a hundred explanations, you know.”

“Not here,” Tamsin said firmly. Wren fell silent, not wanting to test her luck.

And so, while the sun rose and set with reckless abandon, they traveled across the Witchlands. They shuffled through blackened grass that nearly hit Wren’s knees, ash and charcoal coating her tongue with every step. They passed through a valley of toadstools taller than two grown men—giant, spotted fungi that smelled of pepper. They avoided the footsteps of cottages that walked of their own accord—their great taloned toes digging into the dirt—and darted away from wells that cried for coins.

They struggled through swamps and marshes, past giant boulders shouting unhelpful advice, and ducked through craggy passageways that made Wren’s skin crawl with the touch of a million insects.

Yet despite how far they traveled, despite the hills they climbed and the valleys they traversed, Wren could always see the gleaming black castle glowering intimidatingly behind her, its giant windows like eyes watching her every move. Waiting for her return.

Wren hoped the rest of the Witchlands was not as grand. Nothing so beautiful and cold could ever feel like home.

The inn was called the Wandering Woes, which Wren found to be a touch too fitting. She was certainly carrying more than her fair share of sadness. If the purplish bags beneath Tamsin’s eyes were any indication, the witch was too. She was also holding all the answers.

“Now will you finally…” As Wren pushed open the front door, her words were forgotten. From the outside, the inn had appeared to be nothing more than a cottage, a small stone structure with a carefully thatched roof. She had expected to find a cozy kitchen, perhaps one or two rooms to rent. But inside was as grand as a palace.

The main room was the same size as the academy’s marble hall, but it was much cozier. Tiny white lights floated near the ceiling, twinkling like stars. The back wall was covered in ivy, giving the room a fresh, just-after-rain smell. Long wooden tables sat in the center, fitted with colorful, mismatched chairs. There was a bar with hundreds of bottles of clear liquids infused with bright petals and dark spices. Flower-patterned china sat at every place setting, each cup filled with steaming tea that Wren could tell would never go cold. The inn was charming. It was welcoming. It absolutely sang with enchantments.

It was also filled with witches.

Witches whose heads turned toward them as soon as the bell above the front door jangled merrily. Wren tried to count them all, but their magic would not stay still. It darted and wove about the room, shooting sparks of every color she had ever seen (and some she hadn’t), speaking in a hundred different tongues. The witches in that room were from all four corners of the world. They were of different ages, had different talents, different complexions, different memories, but they were all tied together by the same thing: magic.

“Well, this place used to be deserted,” Tamsin said, her tone grim. “Come on”—she grabbed Wren’s wrist—“let’s find a seat. People are already starting to talk.”

And they were. An energetic hum filled the room, the buzzing of gossip spreading like wildfire.

“… got some nerve, showing her face here,” a fair-haired witch whispered as they passed. There was a murmur of assent from the others at her table. “I’d rather die, if it were me. We all know what she did. How do we know she hasn’t done it again? We should be hunting her.”

There was a peal of laughter, hard and sharp as a stone corner. Tamsin set her shoulders; her jaw clenched. Wren scurried after her, several sets of eyes boring into the back of her neck. They made their way to the far end of the inn, where an old woman was wiping down a long table.

“Hazel.” Tamsin’s voice was soft. Tentative. The woman stopped wiping, but she did not turn around. Wren glanced at Tamsin, who looked nervous.

Finally the woman turned, revealing a waterfall of long silver hair and clouded eyes. “Do my ears deceive me?”

“They never have before, so I can’t imagine why they’d start now.” Tamsin glanced down at her shoes, chuckling humorlessly.

The woman’s face broke into a wide smile. She held out a wrinkled hand, waving for Tamsin to join her. She did, moving away from Wren, suddenly bashful as the old woman made a fuss over her.

“My eyes have given up on me, but I just know you’re lovelier than ever. My girl, I thought you were gone for good.”

Tamsin’s face fell slightly. “I should be.”

“Well, you’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Are you hungry? I think there’s some stew left from dinner. Come.”

The woman led Tamsin by the hand. Wren bit her lip to keep from laughing, settling herself in a chair of