“Of course it is.”
But the witch had turned away from Wren. Tamsin grabbed a broom and began to sweep the white-petaled flowers from the floor into the hearth.
“If I don’t love him, no one will.” Wren’s voice was weak with the truth of it.
“If we fail, I hardly think that will matter much.” The broom bristled against the stone hearth. “The dead can’t love you back.”
Wren recoiled as though she’d been slapped. Tamsin spoke of death so casually. Wren had been taught to fear it, but it sounded as though Tamsin and death were old friends. It sent a shiver down Wren’s spine.
“You’re a monster,” she breathed. The witch’s shoulders tensed. But when she turned, she did not speak, just stared at Wren with her endless dark eyes.
Wren needed a moment away from the cottage, its consequences, and its dizzying array of magic. She wanted to exhale without her breath disrupting the swirling earth-red ribbons that hung about Tamsin. There were puddles of power all around the cottage that felt like sinking into quicksand. Her head was heavy with the impossibility of the witch’s asking price. It was all too much.
Tamsin clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth but said nothing.
Wren moved to the door, desperate for a lungful of air that didn’t taste like Tamsin’s particular brand of magic—the bright, bitter bite of fresh herbs. She needed to go back to the safety of her home, to the comfort of knowing that her feelings were her own. Wren had been wrong to come to the witch. To try anything other than what she had always known.
“Good-bye, then,” she said, manners winning out despite herself.
Wren thought she saw something like relief flash across Tamsin’s face as she closed the door behind her.
The cat was back, mewling for milk. “Sorry, friend.” Wren moved to pet his silky head. “I’ve nothing to give.” The cat hissed, and the fur on his back stood up straight. His yellow eyes stared at her suspiciously.
“It’s okay,” Wren said softly, holding her hand in front of her. “It’s only me. It’s all right.” She reached slowly for the stray, but his paw met her hand in midair, slicing sharp red scratches on her palm. He hissed again before backing slowly, guardedly, away. Wren watched in horror as dark magic clung to his retreating figure like a shadow.
Another victim of the plague. Another of her sacrifices forgotten.
Wren glanced up at the cloud of magic that clung to the cottage’s roof, the color as dark as tar, the scent nearly as terrible. It was worse than it had been earlier, which meant her father must be worse too. Wren opened the front door, her heart braced for a terrible sight.
Her father stood at the table, slicing an onion with his pocketknife. He was engrossed in his work, his brow furrowed familiarly with concentration. Wren hadn’t seen him focused in quite some time. She hadn’t seen him standing in even longer.
The door swung shut with a slam. Her father looked up, a mildly perplexed expression sweeping across his face.
“Oh, hello.” He offered his daughter a hesitant smile.
Wren nearly collapsed with relief. Her father looked better than he had in years. He had color in his cheeks. His movements were steady and sure.
And to think there had been a moment when she had almost said yes to Tamsin. Wren bit back a laugh. She had been overreacting. Again. She didn’t need the witch. Didn’t need her sour expression or her impossible demands. Wren had a handle on the situation. Her father was going to be fine.
She slumped against the door frame and began to unlace her boots. She had walked the distance of two towns and back. Her feet were killing her.
“Can I help you?”
Wren stopped, hand still tangled in her laces. Her father’s smile had slipped into a wary grimace. “It’s me.” She spoke softly, fighting the muscles in her face, forcing a smile that made her cheeks burn with effort.
Her father’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are.”
Wren’s heart skipped a beat. Her whole body silenced for one moment of searing white-hot pain. She had been prepared for her father to call her by her mother’s name. She hadn’t been ready for him to forget them both.
“I…” But it didn’t matter what she said, so Wren closed her mouth. She stood on the threshold of their small cottage, looking at the little life they had maintained. At the father who had convinced her that family was the ultimate end.
Without you, I do not think I would survive.
But now that he no longer carried the memory of his dead wife and his lost son, suddenly he was not bedridden by his grief. Without the memory of Wren, the daughter who attended to his every need, he was finally able to stand on his own two feet.
Still, Wren knew, he would not be well for long. Dark magic swirled about the small room. It had claimed his memory. It was only a matter of time before her father fell victim to the plague’s physical consequences as well.
Wren bit back a scream. She tugged sharply at the end of her braid, pulling until her head ached. She needed to think. She had to find a way around this.
Her eyes landed on her patchwork bedroll in the corner. She could tell her father she was the cleaning girl. She could secure herself a place in her home, could tend to the daily tasks of cleaning and cooking and caretaking without raising his suspicion.
Wren could continue to carry the weight of the household, of her father’s emotional well-being. She could continue to sacrifice, all while playing the role of a serving girl. Perhaps as time went on, her father would warm to her. Maybe one day even come to think of her like a daughter.
The thought caught in Wren’s throat. Her father did not know her, which meant he could not love her. He
