Tamsin, despite having been expelled from the academy and banished from the witches’ land, Within, was not exempt from that responsibility. If anything, her isolation and her curse were added reminders that magic had consequences. It was a blessing that Tamsin was allowed to practice village magic. It was a mercy that she was even alive.
Of course, it rarely felt like a mercy. But that was probably because the Coven had made it so she could not feel at all.
“If you want to take your chances with a sprite, by all means, let one give your baby gills,” Tamsin said with a shrug, offering the woman the bundle in her arms. “But you and I both know your child won’t make it through the night.”
The woman deflated. She shook her head, then grabbed for the girl, who had toddled forward toward Tamsin’s table of knickknacks. The girl squirmed in protest. Tamsin cooed emptily at the unmoving baby.
The mother held her daughter firmly by the shoulders, staring tenderly at the little girl’s pinched, reddening face. Then the woman’s head snapped up. “Take my love for my husband.” Her eyes were wild, focused on something far away. “Please.”
Tamsin sighed, long and loud. People always tried to exchange romantic love for unconditional love, as though the two were interchangeable. But there was a significant difference. Conditional love was fickle. Often it fizzled and stalled, burning out so quickly that Tamsin hardly got more than a handful of uses from it. A mother’s love for her child, however, could last her several months if she rationed it carefully.
A child for a child. Tamsin thought it fair. But the woman felt otherwise. Her eyes were as fiery as the flames roaring in Tamsin’s hearth.
“Take it,” she said, advancing toward the witch, who was still cradling the child. “I give it to you willingly. Please”—her eyes blazed—“I beg of you. Take it. You must.”
Tamsin took an inadvertent step backward, nearly tripping over an empty basket. She recovered quickly, both her balance and her impassive expression.
“How long have you been married?”
The woman furrowed her brow in confusion. “Three winters.”
Tamsin considered it. Longer relationships often bore more fruitful love, but there was always a chance that the love between the couple had begun to sour or turn stale. Shorter relationships were riskier: They carried less romantic weight but could provide a similar bounty if the couple in question radiated passion.
The woman had been married for three years. She had two children and, if Tamsin wasn’t mistaken, another on the way. Clearly, it wasn’t for lack of trying.
Sensing a lapse in her mother’s attention, the little girl squirmed out of her grip and wrapped a tiny, plump hand around the quartz sitting on the table’s edge. Her eyes were wide with wonder as she cradled it in her palm.
The woman lunged forward, flinging the quartz from her daughter’s hand without touching it herself. It clattered to the floor near the stone hearth. The little girl let out a loud wail and scampered toward the crystal. But the mother was quicker, scooping her daughter into her arms. The girl continued to struggle, pounding at her mother with her tiny fists.
Tamsin felt a rush of appreciation for the little girl’s resolve. She reminded Tamsin of Marlena. Headstrong. Curious. Impossible to wrangle. The memory made her blood run even colder. Carved a desperate, aching hole in her useless heart.
“Fine,” she snapped, cursing herself inwardly the moment the word slipped through her lips. It appeared that her most recent store of love—a crush on the smith’s apprentice given in exchange for a spool of unbreakable thread—hadn’t run out the way she’d thought. She’d had one small ounce of compassion left in her. And, thanks to her ever-present guilt, she’d wasted it on a squalling two-year-old.
Whatever Tamsin had felt, it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. She watched impassively as the woman fell to her knees, sobbing no longer with anguish but with relief.
“Get up,” Tamsin said, her voice sharp.
The woman did.
Tamsin gestured for the woman to come closer. The mother took several hesitant steps, eyes wide like a startled deer. Tamsin covered the remaining distance quickly and placed her hand over the woman’s heart. The mother squirmed beneath her touch.
“Think of him,” Tamsin commanded.
The woman closed her eyes. Tamsin kept her gaze steady on the woman’s face. The palm of her hand grew warm. The woman’s love ran up Tamsin’s arm and into her bloodstream. The room began to brighten—the greens of her freshly gathered herbs were bright and waxy; their sharp scents wafted through the afternoon air, tickling the inside of her nose. Tamsin’s spirits rose as she reveled in the warmth spreading through her body, into her bones.
She had already started to waste it.
Her hand still on the woman, Tamsin focused on the love running through her, sending it to her center. She ushered it carefully to her chest, where her heart sat empty, good for nothing but keeping a steady beat.
Tamsin tucked the love into the left-hand corner of her rib cage, trying to corral it as best she could—although, of course, love could never truly be controlled. It was like trying to trap flies in a birdcage. All Tamsin could do was try to keep her wits about her and stay as levelheaded as possible so that the love would only be used when she chose to access it. She could not afford another slip of compassion. Not when customers were already so few and far between.
When she was quite certain everything was properly secured, Tamsin removed her hand. The room darkened, the scent faded, and the chill returned, settling into her body familiarly, like a cat in a favorite chair. The woman had gone ashen and expressionless.
“Now, then.” Tamsin returned her
