“Did you say eggs?” The voice behind her was lush as velvet, dark as midnight.
Wren wheeled around, her eyes widening as she took in the face of the girl who had spoken.
Tamsin, the witch of Ladaugh, stood before her, buried beneath a sweeping cloak of forest green. Wren took a step back. She’d been so desperate to trade that she’d forgotten to look for the source of the magic that had sent the apple tumbling to the cobblestones. She had failed to watch for the streaks of earthy red magic, ruddy like wet clay, that radiated from Tamsin. Had forgotten to turn and run, unsold eggs be damned. Had broken the one and only rule upon which her life depended: Never come face-to-face with a witch.
“Well, do you have eggs or not?” Tamsin snapped. She brushed back her hair, dark as a raven’s wing, a thick eyebrow arching up with scorn.
Wren was having difficulty finding her voice. She rummaged quickly through her basket, nearly shattering the shells as she scooped the eggs into her hand and held them out to the witch.
Tamsin took them, eyes narrowed. “How much?”
Wren shrugged, waving her other hand in the air in an uncertain gesture, all the while fighting the urge to bolt. She was acting a fool, but she had never been so close to a witch in her life, and certainly not one as powerful as Tamsin. She squirmed beneath the witch’s stare. The green flecks in Tamsin’s brown eyes were the same color as her cloak.
Tamsin clucked her tongue impatiently and dropped a handful of coins into Wren’s basket before turning on her heel, her cloak flaring out behind her like a cape. Wren gaped after her, catching a hint of fresh sage on the morning breeze.
She scrambled to collect the coins, nearly ten times what the eggs were worth, the heat of them sparking excitement in her chest. Perhaps she had been wrong to steer clear of witches. Wren had always assumed they were just as awful as her father said. But it was clear to her now that Tamsin’s sour expression did not accurately reflect the fullness of her heart.
Wren breezed through the market, handing over a copper coin for a loaf of coarse, dark bread five times finer than the one she had parted with. She purchased fresh herbs and a cut of venison, little luxuries she normally wouldn’t dare dream of. And still, despite the weight of her replenished baskets, one solid silver coin remained.
Wren made quick time of the walk back home. She sauntered through the front gate, a smile playing about her lips. It slipped as she heard a noise from the back room. Wren settled her baskets on the table and scooped a ladleful of water, which she carried carefully to her father.
She inched the door open slowly, drops of water falling on her boots. “Papa?”
He made a soft sound, his lips curling into a weak smile. Wren helped him sit up, tipped the ladle gently toward his parched lips. Several drops dribbled down his chin.
“There’s my little bird,” he said, his voice a thick whisper. His skin was slick with sweat, his hair grayer even than it had been that morning, fading into shocks of white near his temples. He looked a fright. But he recognized her. His mind was still his own. Wren exhaled a soft sigh of relief.
Her father put a hand on her cheek, his skin flaky and paper-thin. “You know I’d be lost without you. Dead, even.” He tried to grin, but it was more like a grimace.
“Don’t say that,” she whispered, her tongue stale. “You always say that. You’re going to be fine.” She removed his hand and settled it back at his side under the heavy pile of rough wool blankets. “I’ll make you a broth.”
“Damn the broth,” he said, his grimace widening. Wren faked a laugh, though they both knew he could stomach little else.
“Sleep,” she commanded, and it was testament to her father’s frailty that he didn’t even try to fight her.
She slipped back into the main room and put water, turkey bones, and herbs in a pot to boil. She hung the empty baskets on their hooks near the door, then folded the tea towels and tucked them safely back into their cupboard.
Once everything was in its place, Wren pulled a chair in front of the fireplace, using it to reach the brown jug on the top of the mantel. The jug was innocuous and plain, like Wren herself. The most unlikely place to hide something valuable.
Wren glanced warily at the door to her father’s room. He knew nothing about the meager savings she had scraped together, the meals she’d skipped in order to hear the satisfying clink of coins. The hens were old. They couldn’t lay eggs forever. Wren needed a backup plan.
She uncorked the jug and let the coins spill out onto the worn wooden table. She sorted them into piles—several copper, two brass, and one precious gold, already reserved for the tax collectors come autumn.
Still, there was so much she could do with this money. She could pocket it and run off to a new life. There was enough to serve her until she got on her feet, found a job and a room with a proper bed. Perhaps she could even go to the Witchlands and finally learn everything about magic. About who she was.
Wren turned Tamsin’s coin over in her hand, soothed by the warmth of it. She had sacrificed everything for her father—her heart, her future, her magic. Surely she was owed something too.
There was a splutter and a hiss from the hearth. Guiltily, she swept the coins and her daydreams back into their respective hiding places. Her father was all she had left. She couldn’t turn away from him now. Wren sighed as she replaced the jug on the mantel and peeked into the pot. She was back to the bleak reality of her life.
