A Spell for Heartsickness (The Rune Tithe #1)

CHAPTER 6

B riar awoke in a room he didn’t recognize.

Judging by the chaotic collage of toys that made up the floor and the rabbit painted on the wall, it was a child’s room. He sat up in a bed with fairies on the covers and groaned as pain lanced through his ankle, which was bandaged. Vatii landed in his lap, clucking about him like a mother hen.

“Whoa, there,” said a woman’s voice. “Take it easy, like. Or I’ll get it in the neck from my husband for letting you ruin his handiwork.”

Briar’s gaze settled on a woman sitting in an rocking chair next to him. She was a couple years older than him, her auburn hair in a plait, her square features oddly familiar.

His experience in the woods washed over him in a wave of nausea. The forest. Its grisly confession about the curse. And—he grasped his wrist. Scratches from the ivy remained, but the wardstone bracelet was gone.

“What happened? How’d I get here?” he asked.

“My brother brought you in looking sick as a small hospital, all scraped up. Said he found you in the forest, your familiar hollering over you, and the ward bracelet broken.” She crossed her arms, looking formidable and stormy. “He didn’t tell me why he was in the woods, so I’ve a mind to give him a bollocking. It’s lucky he found you. Connor—my husband, he’s a physician—said there was nothing wrong with you besides a sprained ankle, but to keep an eye, so we brought you here.”

Briar’s head spun. “How am I even alive? The wards—”

“Should have torn you to pieces.”

“Why didn’t they?” Rubbing his wrist absently, he allowed Vatii to climb onto his shoulder and preen the twigs out of his hair.

“I’m no witch, but if I had to guess, whatever happened to you in that forest made you immune to the wards.” She frowned like this explanation dissatisfied her. “I’m Sorcha, by the way.”

“Briar.”

“Well, Briar, I said I’d give my brother a bollocking, but he isn’t here, so you’ll have to do. What the feck were you doing in those woods?”

The answer made Briar shock fully upright and startle Vatii off his shoulder. “The lichen!”

“The what?”

“I had a branch of lichen. Mossy fungus-y plant stuff? It was for a potion.”

“Ah, that. You were cradling it like a baby. It’s downstairs with your clothes.”

Briar blew a relieved sigh up into his fringe. At least the trip hadn’t been wasted. The horror of his escape from the wood and what it had said haunted him—if he closed his eyes, he could still feel the forest trying to consume him. Vines around his chest, soil slurping at his wounds. Vatii landed on his knee, and he stroked her feathers with a finger.

“Thank you for helping me.”

“Not a bother. Stay as long as you need.”

“I won’t impose anymore, really. I should get back to my flat.”

He stood, relieved to feel floorboards underfoot, not moss. Favoring his sprained ankle, he followed Sorcha downstairs through a modest kitchen. It smelled of pumpkin and had open shelves crowded with mason jars of spices and foraged herbs. Pages of crayon art were stuck to the fridge with heart-shaped magnets. A television blared in an adjoining room, some sort of children’s program singing a song. Sorcha led Briar through a locked door into—

A shop. Like Briar’s, the flat Sorcha lived in was attached to a small shop. He recognized the glint of jewels, the shape of many bolts of cloth leaning against walls. This was the shop that had so enamored him during Gretchen’s tour.

Sorcha turned the lights on. “Normally, I’d let you out the side door, but the lamp’s broken, and I don’t want you tripping through our alley. I’ll let you out the front.”

“This is your store?” Briar asked.

“Yeah. Not much, but—” She cut herself short, eyeing Briar as he turned, taking in the store’s materials with hungry eyes. She went to the counter and pulled Briar’s cloak and lichen branch from behind it. She held them out to him.

“It’s a nice cloak.”

“Thanks.” Briar pulled it on. “I made it for my Rede party. Seemed a shame not to wear it more often.”

“You know—” Sorcha started to say.

Keys jingled in the door. Bells chimed as it opened to reveal the familiar source of Sorcha’s facial features. Rowan squeezed inside, shaking rain from his hair. When he saw Briar, he froze.

“Rowan?” Sorcha said. “What are you doing back?”

“You’re siblings,” Briar blurted. “So you saved me from the evil forest and carried me all the way to the clinic?” His grin faltered. “Shame I don’t remember it.”

His flirting left both of them stunned.

Eventually, Rowan said, “Good to see you’re all right.”

“Right as rain.” Briar didn’t want to recall his time in the forest, so he pointed at the container in Rowan’s hands. “What’s that?”

“Oh.” Rowan avoided Sorcha’s eye as he set the container on the counter next to Briar. “Just soup. To help you feel better.”

Briar picked up the container. It warmed his hands, a hearty mix of vegetables and pasta sloshing inside. He just caught the thunderstruck look Sorcha cast Rowan before she recovered herself to say, “None for me, though!”

“You hate soup,” said Rowan defensively. He was saved from further explanation when a creaking door announced the presence of an eavesdropper.

A ginger-haired girl in footie pajamas stood in the door to the kitchen, staring at Briar wide-eyed.

“Ciara,” Sorcha said. “Go see your da.”

“Mammy, is he a witch?” said the little girl.

Sorcha made an impatient noise, but Briar didn’t mind the question. “Yes, I’m a witch.”

The little girl’s eyes lit up. She ran into the shop, clutching at the front of her pajamas with tiny fists. Giving up, Sorcha introduced her. “This is my daughter, Ciara. Who should be watching television with her da, but here we are.”

Ciara said, “Are you a prince witch?”

“Yes,” Briar said. “Very famous.”

“I like your bird. And your cape.”

“Cloak,” Sorcha corrected.

“Cloak. Can I have it?”

Sorcha flushed with embarrassment. “All right, that’s enough, you beast.”

“I could make you one like it,” Briar offered. Sorcha opened her mouth to protest, but he interrupted. “It would be no trouble. If you have any off-cuts of blue fabric, I could do it.”

“Yay!” Ciara bellowed at a decibel only children could achieve. “Princess witch Ciara! Fly me, Uncle Rowan!”

This made no sense to Briar until Rowan bent to pick Ciara up and flew her around the shop like an airplane. A feat most impressive due to his size, the lack of space, and the general impression from the townsfolk that Rowan was terrifying, not the type children took well to. His niece, apparently, was an exception.

Sorcha slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t wind her up; it’s her bedtime.”

“Bye, prince witch!” Ciara called. They both disappeared into the kitchen.

Sorcha turned to Briar, hands on her hips. “What I wanted to say before that creature interrupted me is that it seems we have compatible trades.”

Briar gaped at her. If he understood her meaning…

“Have you ever considered making clothes, maybe enchanting them?” Sorcha said. “Or enchanting jewelry?”

“You want to go into business together?”

“Sure. We could trial it. I could sell you fabrics at a discount. Let you enchant my jewelry, give you a cut of the profits. Seems a mutually beneficial relationship to me.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, imagining all the dream garments he could create. The beautiful displays he could put in his shop window. He could hardly believe his luck.

Rowan returned before Briar could answer. Sorcha pounced. “Rowan. You think it’d be a fantastic idea if Briar and I went into business together, don’t you?”

Rowan froze, confusion written across his face.

“I don’t need convincing.” Briar grinned, fit to burst. “You have a deal.”

He left brimming with ideas. Though he wanted nothing more than to go home and start planning, he had one thing left to do.

The path wending between houses toward the forest was more foreboding at night. The darkness swallowed all the surrounding fields, narrowing visibility to the fencing and the dirt path before him. He could just make out the signpost where he’d buried Gretchen’s curtain. He jogged up to check on it but froze as he got closer.

Something twisted, like a bolt of lightning, rose out of the earth next to the signpost. He hadn’t noticed at first because its shape blended in with the dark. Only when he moved could he see it silhouetted against a patch of navy sky.

On the spot where he’d buried a square of curtain, vines had grown. They coiled around one another, lethally tipped corkscrews rising as tall as Briar. Taller.

Ensnared within the cage, speared through in places, were the bleeding remains of a hare.

At the very top, impaled on a single point, was the scorched scrap of floral curtain.