Ladaugh’s bustling town square assailed Wren’s senses with the shrill scrape of knives being sharpened and the savory scent of meat roasting over an open flame. Vendors called across the market, chiding their competitors; children played tag in front of the bookseller’s cart. Wren, distracted by their game, tripped, her toe catching on a loose cobblestone.
“Whoa there, girlie.” A strong hand gripped her elbow as she struggled to steady herself.
“Tor.” Wren smiled easily. The tailor was a kind man and, perhaps more important, a consistent customer. She squinted at his vest. The fabric was shimmering with magic, as though it existed behind a curtain of smoke. The pattern was beginning to make her a bit dizzy.
“Wren?” The old man waved a hand before her eyes to reclaim her attention. She tried to look apologetic. Tor smiled stiffly. “How’s your da?”
Wren’s own smile slipped several notches. “Not well.”
Tor’s grip on her arm grew tighter. “The plague?” The bags beneath his eyes were nearly black. It appeared that Wren was not the only one who had gone without sleep.
She shook her head. “The symptoms aren’t the same.”
Tor loosened his grip. “Be careful, will you? My cousin in Farn sent a raven last night, said the sickness has ravaged the capital like I wouldn’t believe. The afflicted are empty-eyed, and even the earth is affected. He said the ground shook until it opened up and swallowed a hundred people whole.”
A chill ran up the back of Wren’s arm. She shifted her baskets nervously.
Tor’s eyes were dark and hard. “You weren’t alive for the Year of Darkness, but this is how the sickness started then, too. There’s a new dark witch. I know it.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “The Coven claimed they would protect us, but why would witches care about ordinary folk?” He laughed darkly. “Anyway, even Queen Mathilde has denounced the Coven. If our queen is willing to turn her back on witches, well…” He trailed off, pursing his lips. “It must be bad. Watch yourself, will you? And that da of yours.” His eyes lingered on Wren, his pity nearly tangible. “I’ll take five eggs, if you have them.”
He offered her three needles, six mismatched buttons, and a spool of black thread. Wren accepted his barter gratefully, passing over her eggs one by one as Tor nestled them carefully into his sack. She bid him farewell and continued on, grateful for the silent, solid ground beneath her feet.
Wren continued to circle the market, trading her speckled eggs for a purple-leafed head of cabbage, the bones of a turkey, and a loaf of dense brown bread. She exchanged pleasantries with the other vendors, but despite the usual niceties of market day, the air in the square was stilted and strange.
Wren stopped to browse a small cart of polished pink apples, her fingers lingering longingly on their waxy skin. It had been close to a year since she’d tasted the crisp, sweet fruit. A woman in the South had tasked a wood nymph with poisoning a single golden apple to kill her stepdaughter. But the spell had gone rogue. The southern orchards had withered away, and an entire year’s harvest had burned. The ghastly green flames had been seen all the way in the West.
That woman had been a fool. Even Wren, who was the first to find any excuse to avoid an encounter with a witch, who nursed her father back to health with herbs and broths made from the jelly marrow of bones rather than seek out spells and enchantments, knew better than to trust a nymph with poison.
“She didn’t even come to the meeting,” a woman whispered, pulling Wren’s attention from the apple’s smooth skin. “I bet she already knew.”
“I bet she caused the entire thing,” a second woman replied, her face pinched.
Wren shifted her baskets and made a show of polishing the apple on her skirt, listening closely.
“I wouldn’t put it past her. I always thought there was something wrong there. I mean, her prices,” the first woman said. “It’s not natural.”
“Nothing about that witch is natural,” said the other. “She’s so young. Too young, if you ask me.”
A shiver of magic crept down Wren’s neck. It felt like the insistent eyes of a stranger, but stronger. Magic danced around her body, wrapping her in an embrace. She tried to shake it, but in her haste, the apple tumbled from her hand and rolled all the way across the market, landing at the feet of a tinker displaying a lush purple cloak with seemingly endless pockets. The apple’s once-bright skin was left broken and bruised.
The women stopped talking and stared at Wren, scandalized. The merchant started yelling, his voice low and gruff, his long brown beard trembling as he glowered down at her.
Wren tried to slow her hammering heart. The price of apples was twice what it had been before the poisoning. The fruit was a delicacy she could not afford.
Wren tried to stammer out an apology, but the words caught in her throat. The slithering feeling of eyes on the back of her neck returned, but this time it wasn’t magic. People had started to stare. Wren’s face was on fire, the merchant’s loud voice ringing in her ears. She offered him the buttons and thread from Tor as well as her loaf of bread. The man scowled but accepted her payment. Wren tried not to cry as she picked up the bruised, brown apple, repositioned her much lighter baskets, and turned away.
Only two eggs remained, their speckled brown shells delicate and smooth. Two was hardly enough to barter for dry crusts of bread. Still, she had to try. Wren swallowed the lump in her throat and called
