Witches themselves were the vessels, intermediaries siphoning natural magic from the world around them and nudging it in the right direction. Tamsin needed none of those things, of course. The woman hesitated, eyes darting nervously over the objects assembled on Tamsin’s cluttered wooden table: hazy, sharp-edged crystals bundles of sage and lavender tied with white string thick, leather-bound books with creamy, black-inked pages. She turned, gesturing for the woman to hand over the bundle of blankets. The woman was so close-so close to uttering the three words Tamsin needed to hear. “Please save my son.”īut Tamsin did not turn. “Please.” The woman’s voice caught at the end of the word, her plea transformed into a cough, a desperate whimper. She pulled her shawl tighter, swept her long hair around her, but it made not a single bit of difference. The fire did nothing to shake the chill in Tamsin’s bones. Tamsin ignored it, turning toward the fireplace, which had been stoked to a blazing roar despite the midsummer heat.

She held out the unmoving bundle in her arms. Tamsin was twelve times more powerful than the witch in Wells, and everyone, including the simpering woman standing before her, knew it. Tamsin blinked, her face blank as a slate. “But my nursemaid said… this is the same price she paid the witch in Wells.” The woman’s eyes looked ready to spill more salt. “The salt from your tears is useless to me.” She forced the small brown pouch back into the trembling woman’s hand. The woman was staring at Tamsin expectantly. Now it tasted like everything else, in that it tasted like despair, like the whisper of a faraway fire.

The mild spice had meant something to her once, had made a difference when sprinkled with a deft hand on her boiled eggs or her smoked fish.

A sweet and bitter magic