A Spell for Heartsickness (The Rune Tithe #1)

CHAPTER 11

V atii launched her interrogation the moment they got through his flat’s front door.

“What was that?”

“Are you trying to sabotage your future?”

“Do you ever use the other head when you make decisions?”

On and on.

Briar collapsed face down into his bed and moaned. Vatii landed on his head. He had no defense. She was right. But Rowan… there was something about him Briar struggled to resist. For the brief duration of that kiss, he’d felt cozy, supported—safe?

Somehow, he wanted that and feared it in equal measure.

Vatii hopped across the duvet, regarding him with less scorn. “You like him.”

“Of course I like him, Vatii. Look at him. He’s dreamy.”

“Have you considered that perhaps the prophecy is about him and not Linden?”

Briar sat up, his hair a fluffy mess from where he’d been tugging on it. “I’d considered it.”

“And?”

“And it seems like wishful thinking. ‘Known by all but known to none.’ The town avoids Rowan even though he’s their alderman, Linden’s a celebrity, but no one really knows him beyond his public face. Could be either of them. But Rowan isn’t masked or stone-hearted at all, and how is a relationship with him meant to make me famous? I’m not having a dig, he’s bloody—”

Vatii gave him an arch look.

“He’s a bloody good kisser,” Briar finished. “But Linden’s the fashion designer, the one whose aura I can’t even read. Don’t you think it fits him better?”

Vatii sighed. “What does your intuition tell you?”

“I don’t have a single, solitary intuition, Vatii. Just a raging hardon for probably the wrong man.” He paused. “But… I don’t know, it sounds like Linden to me. And that’s a good thing, really. He’s attractive, he’s been kind to me, we’ve got things in common. I could learn so much from him.”

“Then maybe,” she said, “you should spend more time with him.”

A half dozen sketches were spread out on the desk in front of Briar. Smears of pencil and charcoal expressed his vision in sweeping lines. He’d spent the week on them, and finally he was satisfied.

Following his trip to Rowan’s farm, inspiration flowed more easily. Or perhaps he was only trying to distract himself from the ghost of Rowan’s kiss, which lingered on his lips every time he closed his eyes to sleep.

He shuffled the sketches together and left to go next door.

Linden’s emporium buzzed with activity. The interior’s color palette had swapped to blue and silver for winter, an enchantment of songbirds trilling overhead. Briar’s pulse ratcheted. Everything here filled him with whimsical longing and anxiety both. He’d never lacked confidence, stead-fast in his pursuit of dreams so many people had disparaged him for. He summoned his courage, but he wore it like an ill-fitting suit when surrounded by such powerful magic.

A clerk manned the counter. He was familiar—the same man who’d bought an engagement ring from Briar and proposed to Aisling on Saor ó Eagla. He looked tired, but he recognized Briar and smiled.

“Congrats on your engagement,” Briar said.

“Oh, thanks, mate! She loves the ring.”

“I’m Briar, by the way.”

“Kenneth.”

They shook hands, and Briar noticed something odd. Kenneth’s wrist was bare, the wardstone bracelet gone.

Kenneth followed his stare. “Perks of true love and marriage round here,” he explained. “It makes you one of the locals. Who’s the lucky lad, lady, or gentlethem for you, then?” He pointed at Briar’s equally bare wrist.

“I’ve had some wild nights, but last I checked I wasn’t married.”

“Ha, all right, keeping it out of the rumor mill. Fine, fine. What can I help you with?”

Briar’s nervousness returned in full. “Just wondering, is Linden in?”

Kenneth looked dubious. “You, uh, got an appointment, mate?”

Briar offered his drawings as explanation, and Kenneth disappeared upstairs to check. He returned with an apologetic expression. “Sorry about that, mate. Just have to hold the line against fans, know what I mean?”

Given permission, Briar went upstairs, emerging in a flat so unlike his own he felt transported to another dimension.

An expansion charm made the low beams of the ceiling rise in a tall vault, spelled to look like a snow-flecked sky. Glittering trinkets suspended in the air cast prismatic lights in fractals over the walls. Every surface was draped in gauzy fabrics or home to curios that whirred and trilled soft notes. In the kitchen, a kettle billowed steam and whistled. It was dazzling yet overwhelming. Not a single place for Briar’s attention to rest.

Linden sat behind a grand desk. “Ah, Briar. You’re just in time.” He snapped his fingers, and the dried petals in a jar beside him moved as though a few had vanished. The kettle rose to pour tea for them. “Would you like a cup?”

Most witches had to touch the tithe in order to use it. Linden’s ability to use something without physical contact was extraordinary.

Briar tried not to appear too dazzled. “Yes, please.”

While the kitchen contents floated and made them tea, Linden shuffled aside his notes and spun in his chair to face Briar. “Come! Sit.”

Briar sat on the wing-backed sofa nearest, spreading his designs over his knees and smoothing the pages. He caught sight of the sheaves Linden had shoved aside on his desk. Many bore long alchemical formulas and scribbled-out potion recipes. Vatii hopped onto the coffee table, pecking at the swirling contents of a vase.

“Vatii, stop that! Come here.”

Linden waved a hand. “She’s all right.”

“How are you enjoying Coill Darragh?” Briar tried not to feel self-conscious of his rollicking accent next to Linden’s smooth, clipped one, or of Vatii, who’d begun bobbing for the berries floating in the vase. He would kill her later.

“It’s lovely,” said Linden. “A bit of an adjustment. I’ve never been away from Pentawynn so long. It’s all very new.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Pentawynn,” Briar said. At the mention of his home, Linden perked up. “I was dead set on it for my placement, actually. I thought my life was over when I got Coill Darragh, but…” He paused, wondering if his flirtatious nature would get him in trouble for overfamiliarity, but Briar struggled to be anyone other than himself. “The company’s not so bad.”

It was the right thing to say. Linden looked as smug as Atticus lounging over the back of his chair.

Vatii said, “Oh boy…”

“Yes, that is a surprise benefit. But please, you didn’t come here just to stroke my ego.”

Briar failed to hold his tongue. “I might have come to stroke something .”

Linden’s expression slackened with surprise. Vatii shot Briar a look of withering disappointment. Briar visibly cringed with self-reproof.

Then Linden burst out laughing. Not the prim, demure noise of before, but a true laugh. Briar eased. “You’re even bolder than I first thought,” Linden said. He held out a hand for Briar’s drawings. “I’m more intrigued than ever to see what you’ve come up with.”

Briar handed the pages over, and Linden spread them on his desk, a thoughtful finger tapping his lip.

“Just some ideas.” Briar watched Linden closely. His blue eyes sparkled just as they did in pictures. His sleek black hair, tied in an elegant knot with wisps escaping, looked soft to the touch. Yet, his aura remained untouchable. It was frustrating. The Linden presented to Alakagram and the whole world felt more real than the private man sitting in front of him.

At last, Linden’s lips bent in a smile. “I love them. Though, I have an idea. May I?” He hovered a quill over the page.

Briar nodded. Linden began scratching over the drawing of the waist-coat and pants set. As he leaned forward, something shiny slipped out of his shirt collar. A necklace. On the end of it dangled a talisman engraved with countless runes.

Briar’s breath caught. He’d heard of such talismans. Famous witches often employed them as protection from unwanted photography, scrying spells, or—worst of all—curses from overzealous fans. They helped maintain some semblance of privacy.

Such a talisman could also block Briar’s aura-reading abilities.

Linden hadn’t noticed his attention. “I love the high collar on the other design, so I thought, perhaps… Yes! This would be perfect, don’t you think?”

He turned the page to show Briar. He’d transformed the waistcoat into a vest with a collar reminiscent of the jacket. It would require stiffer fabric and gave the ensemble a different persona—hard-edged and tall.

“Very sharp. Powerful,” Briar said, though part of him felt a sting of loss that the character of his design hadn’t survived this edit.

“Oh, and what do you think of lacing in the back, like this.”

Encouraged, Linden spent the next hour sketching as they discussed what details could be added to make the ensemble pop. With the grommets, lacing, and piping additions, Briar’s heart rate soared along with the rising cost of materials, but he managed his blood pressure with a reminder: this would draw millions of eyes to his work. Linden had made no offer of compensation so far, and Briar understood that meant the exposure was the compensation. To Linden’s credit, his attention had resulted in many of Briar’s sales thus far. Hopefully those scales would tip in his favor. He’d just have to scrape together the upfront cost.

Once finished, Briar’s lunch hour was through, and he’d only had the cup of tea, but he also had a pile of drawings in Linden’s elegant lines. He stood to bid him farewell. To Briar’s surprise, Linden clasped Briar’s fingers in his own to say, “Thank you, Briar. I daresay, this is the most fun I’ve had since arriving in Coill Darragh.”

If not for Vatii’s claws on his arm, Briar might have needed pinching.

When Briar turned at the door to say goodbye, he saw Linden’s expression shutter as he turned back to his formulas. Linden seemed every bit a showman. Polite, a little coy, but Briar couldn’t help but wonder who the real Linden was.

For the rest of the day, it poured rain, so the shop was quiet, leaving Briar time to work on Linden’s garment. He called Sorcha to get a quote for the additional materials and nearly choked. It would, he hoped, be worth it, but the fabric alone was costly. He would have to work hard to free up money for these extras.

A woman came in, shaking off an umbrella, to commission knitted scarves for her family—seven matching ones to be Christmas gifts. She’d seen Rowan wearing his and asked Maebh where he’d gotten it.

It made Briar’s insides glow like embers.

No one else braved the rain. Sitting on the floor with paper to draw patterns on, he found himself looking at the spools of yarn stuffed in the cubbies behind the counter. The woman had given him creative freedom. “I trust your judgment,” she’d said.

While he worked, Gretchen materialized to prod him about what he’d uncovered at Rowan’s. Briar summarized, telling her about the mysterious invaders and Rowan’s assertion that éibhear wouldn’t have cast the wards without warning her. The news failed to reassure her, as she scowled and picked at the holes in her tights.

The hope it would all jog her memory was for naught.

That left them with two options. Briar could speak to Maebh and Sorcha, but it was unlikely they knew more than Rowan. Alternatively, he could try to contact Seer Niamh.

This presented its own problem—Niamh didn’t use a phone. The only way to contact her was by SoothSight or in person. A trip back to Wishbrooke would take an entire day by broom; with winter settling in, he’d be lucky not to freeze halfway there. That left SoothSight or a ferry ticket. Neither came cheap, but SoothSight had the benefit of time-efficiency. Briar wouldn’t have to abandon his work for an impromptu trip.

He could see the sense in it, but he didn’t have the means. SoothSight required a tithe of ghost orchid pollen, which was rare and expensive. He could make Linden’s garment to his exact specifications or he could contact Niamh.

He couldn’t afford both.

“Sod Linden,” said Gretchen. “He’s not even paying you! I help with your potions, and did you know? I managed to wash a mug for you. Once.”

Briar rubbed his temples. Looking at his bank balance always triggered headaches. Years ago, whenever he’d been strapped for cash, his mother had helped scrounge something together. She’d usually include a bar of chocolate too, something to cheer him up. He’d been on his own for years now, with no one to ask for such help. The very notion turned his insides acidic. He never again wanted to find himself in the position he’d been in when his mother first passed, taking out loans for her funeral, selling off family valuables while mourning the person who’d given them to him in the first place. Tracking down and writing to a father he didn’t know. Never hearing back. It was safer to depend upon himself alone, no one else.

“You’re right. It’s just, this project for Linden will probably bring in a lot of money—”

“Probably.”

“—in the long term. And Christmas is coming. If I time it right, the promo from Linden will boost holiday sales too.”

Puffing up, Gretchen said, “Fine! Postpone talking to Niamh. Not like I’m going anywhere. Because I can’t !”

She stormed off through the wall into the stairwell.