A Spell for Heartsickness (The Rune Tithe #1)

CHAPTER 23

L inden came at Briar’s call, blanching as he took in the rubble. He climbed over it to take Briar by the shoulders and demand to know what had happened, if he was all right. Briar held in his breakdown, explaining best he could, asking if Linden knew any means to call back an exorcised spirit.

He didn’t.

Briar said, “Nobody else was here. She didn’t want to go. Fuck.” He didn’t swear often, but the moment called for it. “If you only heard her.”

Linden sat awkwardly next to Briar on the floor. “I’m sorry, Briar.”

“I managed to break her tether to the house. Do you think it weakened her connection here? But she didn’t want to go!”

Linden rubbed his shoulders. “The laws of magic don’t always obey our wants. Perhaps it has to do with what we found in the woods today. If the forest helped to keep her here, perhaps it released her.”

Though it sounded realistic, Briar was haunted by her final words, by all her regrets, which he felt he would share when his time came.

It was ridiculous to work after everything.

Gretchen’s departure left Briar lonely as he hemmed skirts and cut patterns. Kenneth’s death was not appeasement enough to release Briar from his curse, and Linden seemed no nearer an answer, but the press release party would be upon them soon, so Briar worked. It didn’t occur to him what he would wear to the party until Linden asked. He’d been too busy trying to perfect each garment, but he saw an opportunity to design something flamboyantly his own.

The idea came together on an evening when the first green buds of March showed on the trees. Briar sketched and scribbled out countless ideas. In each, he encountered the same problem, one that made him want to scream. Then he remembered Rowan’s hand trailing over his arm.

The idea felt transgressional, forbidden. It was anathema to the very problem he’d been attempting to solve with his previous designs. But once he set pencil to paper, the allure became impossible to deny.

Briar hid it whenever Linden came over to check on progress. He wanted it to be a surprise.

He finished with only a few days to spare before the press release. Standing in front of his mirror, turning this way and that to check for flaws, Briar had to admit he was proud. It was an expression of his time in Coill Darragh. A love letter to this strange place and the man he might have become if given more time.

The bell jingled downstairs to announce Linden. Briar turned to face the doorway, where Linden came to a stop, eyebrows raised, eyes skipping up and down Briar’s frame.

“Briar, that’s…”

It was a dress. A white train, dip-dyed in fading peridot, fell from his hips in an asymmetric line from a slit at mid-thigh. Flowers and sequins curled up around his hip and tapered off on their way up his waist. He wore the antler earring Rowan had given him for Christmas. White lace like frost fronds formed a sleeve down one arm and over his torso.

But his other, heavily tithed arm remained bare.

It was winter turned spring, it was entirely in defiance of fashion for men, and it was his.

And Linden said, “Is it finished?”

Briar might have felt less stung if he’d been slapped. “Yes?”

Linden strode forward. With one hand, he fiddled with the neckline, which scooped down one shoulder and under the opposite arm. He touched the first mark that started halfway across Briar’s collarbone.

“There’s magic that could heal these scars.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Briar crossed his arms and rubbed a hand over the tithes. After hearing Linden speak out against his parents, he’d thought the rebellion of wearing proudly that which others found shameful would appeal to Linden.

“I don’t want to get rid of them.”

“Wh—Then perhaps a matching sleeve? It is a bit showy, with the slit leg as well.”

Briar looked down at his clothes and felt naked. Perhaps it was the exhaustion or the mess of events that had led him here, or perhaps it was simply that his time was running out and these last moments of it were not the memories he wished to leave behind. A knot of shame that was wholly new tightened his throat.

Contrition replaced Linden’s judgmental stare. “Oh, Briar, you must know I think it’s beautiful on you. I hadn’t meant to—Please, come sit.”

Briar sat on the bed at Linden’s urging, staring at his hands in his lap.

Linden took both in his. “Briar, look at me.”

He did.

“I speak from a place of concern for your well-being. The press are jackals. The first whiff of controversy is a thing they’ll feast upon for years. I only wish to protect you from that.”

“I want to wear something that’s me . The real me.”

“That is precisely the vulnerability they hunger to exploit.”

“Let them,” Briar said heatedly. “What do I care? I’ll be dead soon.”

“That isn’t true.” Linden tilted his chin to look in his eyes. “Don’t you believe me when I say I won’t allow it?”

Briar wanted to believe it. By all rights, he should. Niamh’s tarot reading left little ambiguity about his fate in Linden’s capable hands. If she was correct, Linden would have a cure, and Briar would be healthy. Yet he still struggled with everyday tasks, with spells that used to snip as easily as new scissors through string, and frequently it was difficult to see a future through the fog of his own exhaustion. Through the ache of missing someone else’s arms around him.

He still thought of Rowan far too often.

Briar swiped at the dampness in his eyes. “Then help me out of this. I need to rush if I’m going to alter it—”

“Briar.” Linden cupped his cheek and said, “I only wished to warn you. Please, wear it. I can see how it matters so much to you.”

But the knot of shame didn’t go away.

Linden held nothing back in decorating Coill Darragh’s central square for the press release. A temporary pavilion of bunting and silk banners fronted the fountain, blocking the view of éibhear’s statue. Throngs of people gathered, many wielding cameras.

Briar peeked through the tent flap at them.

The noise of the crowd muffled the moment the flap closed. Linden hadn’t arrived yet, busy with preparations. Briar had hardly slept and risen early. He’d taken a larger dose of elixir to prevent any mishaps on this day, where he couldn’t afford a mistake. Absently, he touched his arm. Though he’d never shied from the spotlight before, this was different. He couldn’t help but think of Gretchen, whose complaints and company he missed. She would hate these crowds, if she’d been here.

The flutter of the tent flap and noise from outside drew his attention. He thought Linden said he’d arrive by portal to avoid being seen—

The outside din muted as the tent closed behind Rowan. He froze there, gazing at Briar, drinking in the sight of him with unguarded admiration. That look made something inside Briar twist. It was precisely the awestruck, reverent expression with which he’d hoped Linden might look at him.

After a stunned moment, Rowan cleared his throat, recovered himself, and took a few steps into the tent. “Thought I’d come wish you luck,” he said.

Briar took a step toward him too. “Thanks, I’ll need it.”

“No, you’ll be grand.” The quiet of the tent got quieter. “There’s a lot of people out there.”

“Yeah. No pressure or anything. Just the whole world behind the cameras.”

“They’ll love you.”

Briar’s heart punched his chest. “I’ve never been this nervous. I’ve never shown so many people.”

Without their noticing, the space between them vanished step by step. Rowan stood a breath away and raised a hand to hover awkwardly over Briar’s bare shoulder. Briar tipped toward it, like a magnet subtly drawn to steel, but didn’t make contact. Rowan’s hand dropped.

He said of the dress, “You made it?”

“Yeah. I wanted something that was… me.”

Rowan’s eyes roved hotter than any touch. “I’ve always lo—admired that about you.”

“You do?”

“Isn’t anybody who tells you who you are. You just—are.” His voice sounded hoarse as if from disuse. “Passionate, that is. Creative. That’s what I admire, ehm…”

Briar couldn’t speak. If he did, the words might not be the kind he should utter out loud.

“I should get back to work.” Rowan didn’t move.

“You should,” Briar forced himself to say. “Linden will be here soon.”

Rowan did take a step back then, frowning. He asked, “Is he good to you?”

“I think so.”

A significant pause. Rowan brushed his hands on his legs as if they were dirty. “I really should get back, yeah. Good luck today.” A hazy moment of hovering near the tent flap followed, then Rowan left.

Briar swore under his breath. “I thought this would get easier.”

Vatii, perched on one of the tent poles above, watched with her head tilted. “You’ve never had an audience like this.”

“I didn’t mean the stage fright.”

“I know. It would get easier if you didn’t see him so often,” she said gently.

That was no comfort at all. He wished the affection he felt was platonic and not this huge thing that took up too much space in his chest, bleeding out of him whenever Rowan was near.

A portal opened. Linden stepped through, and he was not alone. Behind him, two people, tall and elegant, came into the tent.

Linden wore the stark, iridescent clothes Briar had crafted for him. He’d made his own addition—a spray of white feathers, twinned to Briar’s antler, crested over an ear. Atticus trotted in and immediately climbed a beam to sit a yard away from Vatii, who glared at Linden’s feathered fashion like it had come into her house and murdered her family.

The man and woman with Linden were straight-backed and regal in robes of deep navy that faded to a nebulous storm of cloudy blues. They entered the tent as if it were a dodgy alley with campfires in bins and scurrying rats rather than opulent silk. They were clearly Linden’s parents—they’d gifted their son with their delicate bone structure and exquisite bearing, although not with their smiles, which showed a lot of teeth and a decent portion of gum. A blankness in place of auras revealed they were wearing talismans. Their eyes stuck to Briar’s tithed arm.

Linden hadn’t warned him they were coming, but then, Linden looked annoyed that they were there at all, so he probably hadn’t known either.

“Ah! You must be Mr. Wyngrave,” Linden’s mother said, extending a hand. “Adelaide Fairchild, and this is my husband, Gresham. So pleased to finally meet you.”

Gresham shook Briar’s hand, his grip like an alligator’s jaw. A wardstone bracelet peeked out from under the cuff of one sleeve. “Yes, it’s good to finally meet the man Linden speaks so fondly of. Apologies for not announcing ourselves, but an introduction seemed long overdue.”

“We would have appreciated an invitation,” Adelaide agreed.

Linden said, “I didn’t want you to embarrass me.”

“We’d never dream of it, darling!” said Adelaide.

“Well, it isn’t the Whitestone Gala.” Gresham eyed the tent. “But you’ve done well with what you have.”

“Never mind the tent, Gresham. Briar, please tell us how you met. I’ve been dying to know, but our son is quite private, keeping you all to himself.”

Linden rolled his eyes.

“We’re neighbors,” said Briar. “Linden came into my shop to look around and film, and then I made an outfit for him, and… I guess it all sort of started there?”

Linden put on his brightest smile and kissed Briar’s hand. “Indeed.”

“And this ‘outfit’ you made for him, was it enchanted at all?” Gresham asked.

“Yes,” Briar started to say. “A basic charisma charm for—”

“Why don’t you speak plainly about what you’re insinuating,” Linden interrupted.

Briar went cold with realization.

“You must understand our caution,” Adelaide demurred. “No one has ever drawn so much of Linden’s attention. You’ll forgive us for wondering what it is about you that has our son so charmed.” She said “charmed” with particular emphasis. Again, she looked at his tithes.

Briar tamped down on a tide of anger. He didn’t know how to argue against the assumption, until Linden cut in. “I’ve worn this”—Linden pulled the talisman from inside his shirt—“for the duration of our courtship.”

“The entire duration?” she pushed.

“I’m not bewitched by some fanciful love spell, much as you’d prefer it.”

“We only worry because we care, darling.”

Gresham strolled the tent, hands laced in front of him. “Well, there’s no point arguing. We came to pose an invitation, didn’t we?”

Adelaide said, “Yes. Mr. Wyngrave, we’d love to invite you to our manor for supper, so we can make better your acquaintance. I’m sure you’d never bewitch our son, but please understand that if you had, you wouldn’t be the first to attempt it. I hope, once we’re certain all’s well, you can forgive us our accusations.”

Linden scoffed. “You insult him, then demand he forgive you.”

Briar put a hand on Linden’s shoulder. He wanted to make a good impression—he had to. “No, I understand. Dinner would be lovely, Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild. I look forward to it.”

If either were impressed, they only showed it with a faint raising of their brows. “Perfect!” Adelaide said. “We’ll be on our way, but good luck with the press release, darling. We’ll see you again shortly.”

“Keep in touch,” Gresham added.

They both left through the portal they’d come in by. The tent fell quiet.

Linden said, “That could have gone worse.”

“I didn’t know they were coming. I would have—” Briar cut himself short. Would he have covered his arm?

“They came unannounced. It was deliberate, so you wouldn’t have time to prepare.” He sighed. “You did well.”

“I barely said anything.”

“With my parents, you’ll find that’s for the best.” He turned to kiss Briar’s forehead. “We shouldn’t let it ruin this day.”

Preparations flew by. Three models and a team of hair and makeup artists arrived to style the outfits. The tent became a flurry of movement and hairspray. Briar experienced it through a haze of unease, replaying the interaction with Linden’s parents.

You’ll forgive us for wondering what it is about you that has our son so charmed.

Briar didn’t know the answer. He remembered Rowan wishing him luck, and a sore part of him appreciated Linden’s parents’ caution. He would be far from the first to try and wriggle into Linden’s bed and, by extension, his family’s wealth and good graces. And why was Briar there? For a cure, for a destiny that still made no sense to him.

He glanced across at Linden, who was reviewing makeup palettes. He gleamed, every inch a star, and yet the feelings Briar wanted so badly for him were not there. Something small and hopeful was, but it lacked the depth needed to prove Adelaide and Gresham wrong.

Briar fitted a dress with a pin to the waist of his model. She jumped a bit as he stuck another pin in. “Sorry! Did I catch you?” he asked.

“No, it’s—your aura. It’s a bit loud.”

Briar’s mouth fell open. He so rarely spoke of his own ability and had never met someone who shared it. “Loud?”

“And bright,” she added. “Not in a bad way!”

“Loud how?” he pressed.

“It’s hard to explain. Like a musical number when it hits a key change? That’s not quite—”

“Yours is like peach fuzz. It’s very summery,” Briar told her. “I’m an aura reader, too.”

She beamed. “Oh, I’ve only met two others! That’s much better than what the last one said. She said I was like sunburn.”

Her name was Abigail. She chatted animatedly about the other two aura readers she’d met, asking Briar about his experiences. What sensations seemed to come up most often? What were the worst auras he’d ever encountered? It took his mind off his apprehension.

Before long, the time had come. Linden appeared at Briar’s shoulder, fussing over his hair and picking a stray thread off his dress.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“I’m going to puke,” Briar said.

“ Well , I was going to ask for a good luck kiss, but now—”

Briar kissed him anyway. Partly for luck, partly to assuage his guilt.

The tent flap drew back by magic, and they strolled out hand in hand to raucous applause. Night had fallen, enchanted lanterns flitting through the air. Swaths of people thronged the stage and cameras flashed so bright that Briar had to concentrate hard on not blinking.

The noise and burst of applause faded, a hush of shock was followed by whispers as the crowd beheld Briar.

Not all the whispers and exchanged looks were kind, but Briar hadn’t expected them to be. Something like exultant rebellion rose in him, and he lifted his chin.

They’d prepared the speech together, with Linden introducing Briar as a new partner in an exciting project. Briar told the crowd about himself. Where he’d grown up. The challenges of his apprenticeship in Wishbrooke. The beginnings of his placement in Coill Darragh, where his path crossed Linden’s. The tithes were a mark of how far he’d come, how hard he’d worked. His humble origin story. The crowd listened, rapt and devouring.

Linden spoke of the inspiration for their line, then summoned the models.

Enchantments of spring flowers sprouted where the models walked, glowing sparklers unfurling in the air behind them as they swept out in trails of gauze. Briar’s exultant feeling stymied just a little. The outfits were beautiful, but they weren’t his. Crafted by his hands, maybe, but he was not their architect.

Still, it was a bright beginning to a career. He looked at the crowd and ached. His mother would have loved to be here.

When the show concluded, Linden linked arms with Briar, drawing him into the crowd to answer journalists’ questions. They congregated at the foot of the stage, microphones in hand.

“How did this partnership between you evolve?”

“Would you say this line is an equal blend of your styles?”

Every question had hidden layers. It felt identical to speaking with Linden’s parents, parsing the subtext and responding as positively as he could.

“Linden, you’ve never worked with a partner before. Why Mr. Wyngrave?”

Linden chuckled as if the journalist had made a joke. “You saw the show we put together. Just look at him. He’s a vision.”

Briar smiled, but a question followed like a knife point in the ribs.

“We can all agree that you look lovely, Mr. Wyngrave, but care to comment on your flesh tithes? That magic is taboo for a reason. Many consider it a dark sort. What are you trying to say by displaying them on the stage today?”

Briar spoke through the tension in his chest, as honest as he dared. “This magic is no different from tithing a blade of grass—”

“You value a blade of grass the same as your own skin?”

Bristling. “It’s more powerful, but maybe the disdain for those who use flesh tithes has more to do with the divide between who can and cannot afford to buy tithes at a store.”

A herald of murmurs. Linden squeezed his shoulder in reassurance—or warning.

“And would you say displaying them inspired your garment?”

Briar thought about his time in Coill Darragh, the bright moments and the darker ones. “It’s inspired by my life. It’s a reflection of who I am.”

“And who is that?”

“See for yourself.”

Linden smirked with pride.

Once the journalists dispersed, they were free to mingle. Briar stuck to Linden’s elbow as he was introduced to one recognizable name after another. That they’d all come to Coill Darragh—a place not easily visited with its wards—was a testament to Linden’s influence.

A designer who’d clothed half the actors Briar grew up idolizing told him, “I admire a man who dresses himself better than his models.” The risk of wearing the dress felt utterly worth it for that comment alone.

While Linden asked how the designer’s family was doing, Briar’s gaze strayed through the crowd. He told himself he was not searching for Rowan, only Rowan was so large that he was difficult to miss.

He stood leaning against the wall of the church, and he was not alone. Speaking to him with exuberance was Abigail, her red hair pinned in tumbling curls down her nape. Like Briar, she was unafraid of him. Rowan looked like a deer in the headlights, nodding at whatever she said. Briar felt keenly aware that the neckline of her dress was very low, and she was very pretty.

Briar returned his attention to the conversation at hand. He told himself, forcefully, that he should be happy at Rowan finding someone who could truly see him, too. He instructed himself not to look over again. He smiled at a joke Linden told, nodding along as if he had a clue what they were talking about. As if his attention wasn’t straining toward a point seven meters away.

His restraint broke. He looked over. Abigail tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and, with exquisite gentleness, laid a hand on Rowan’s arm.

Jealousy burned like acid in Briar’s throat.

Linden concluded schmoozing and pulled Briar away to ingratiate themselves to someone else. It was a blessing when they moved out of sight of Rowan, yet Briar’s jealousy simmered still. He endured it. He had no right to these feelings, but he felt them anyway.

During a pause in the mingling, Linden pointed someone out to Briar.

“See that woman with the coattails?”

Briar didn’t recognize her. “Yes.”

“Her name is Finola Cadwallader. She’s director of the Pentawynn Witches Gala Runway. If we want our line to walk it, she’s the person we need to speak to.”

“Then let’s go speak to her.”

Linden caught him by the arm and said in a hushed voice, “Shortly. First, I should tell you, she went to university with my parents, and they’ve never been on the best of terms. I’ve done my best to get to know her beyond my association as a Fairchild. Alas, she’s a bit prejudiced where I’m concerned.”

Having just met the senior Fairchilds, Briar could understand, but it wasn’t fair to tar Linden with the same brush.

“I think you will do a better job of it than I,” Linden said.

“You want me to speak to her alone?”

“You just spoke to millions on camera. One woman should be no trouble.”

Briar’s nerves returned. “What do I even say?”

“Did you ask yourself the same when speaking with me?”

“Yes!” Briar exclaimed.

At the small of his back, Linden’s hand guided him forward. “Be your charming self. It comes most naturally to you, and if she’s not endeared, then she’s got an iron heart. Go. I’ll find you later.”

Briar gathered his train. People had dispersed enough into the adjoining pubs to make navigating the crowd easier, but the few yards between he and Finola Cadwallader weren’t enough for him to prepare.

At six foot, she was of a height with Briar. She cut a sharp profile, with a sloping nose and hair swept back in tight, even braids. She didn’t wear a wardstone bracelet. Her dark eyes snagged on his approach and watched, almost wary. Within a meter, he got a sense of her aura—fresh tobacco and beach sand between bare toes. It relaxed him a little.

“Did you enjoy the show?” he asked, approaching.

“It was the usual for Mr. Fairchild.”

That wasn’t the answer he’d have liked, but he pressed on. “Nothing about this is ‘usual’ for me. I like your coattails. The pattern on the lining—who’s the designer?”

She told him a name he didn’t recognize. For a moment, he scrambled as if forgetting his research at an interview.

Finola said, “She’s a student.

You won’t have heard of her yet, but you will.”

“You commission work from students?”

“Yes. What they lack in experience, they make up for in fresh vision. Guts, you know?” At this, she cast a quick look over his dress. “Not that I need to tell you why guts matter.”

Briar preened with the flattery. He still gripped his train in his hand and flung it out to spin with all the flair of an exuberant bird courting a mate. “I’m told I can be a bit much.”

“There’s no such thing,” Finola said. “What do you drink?”

“Uhhh.” Lately, potions by the pint. “Anything.”

“But what do you prefer?”

“Honestly? Used to be sweet cocktails and ciders, but now they give me a rip-roaring hangover, so I’m looking for a new vice. What’s your poison?”

She flashed a grin. “Whiskey. Come, I’m sure the pub will have something.”

Finola walked into the Swan and Cygnet as if it were her home. As Briar found out over drinks, it sort of was. Her mother was Coill Darraghn, and her father had been born not far from Port Haven, where Briar grew up. From there, the conversation flowed with the same ease as the drinks, reminiscing over the pasty shop on the beach and bemoaning the seagulls stealing those pasties straight from your hands.

As they talked, Briar’s phone buzzed. He’d turned off notifications for most things because his affiliation with Linden led to more attention than even he—a self-proclaimed attention whore—could deal with.

He glanced at the message in case it was important.

It was from Celyn.

I see you’re getting on great, even without Pentawynn. Congratulations on your fashion line. If you’re ever in the city, let me know. We should grab coffee.

“Hate mail from one of Linden’s fans?” Finola guessed.

“A text from my ex.” He twirled the phone on the table to show her. “Two years together, and he pretends we don’t know each other because he didn’t want my peasantry rubbing off. Now he’s pretending we still know each other.”

Vatii pecked the phone screen. “He was a rotting tip anyway.”

Finola smiled wolfishly. “It’s good that you’re angry. Fame does strange things to relationships. Makes it harder to tell who’s around for you , and who’s gone green-eyed.”

He took a sip of whiskey to hide the source of his frown and burn away the surge of guilt. Was Briar any better when it came to Linden?

“If it weren’t for that weasel you’re in partnership with,” Finola said, “I’d invite you to my gala, you know.”

“Linden isn’t a weasel.”

“Oh, he is. He’s the head of his mummy and daddy. Just like them, but a lot better at pretending otherwise.”

“He’s been very generous,” Briar said. “I couldn’t have done this without him.”

“That is the trouble, when no one can do anything without the help of someone more powerful. How much of the line is really yours?”

“It was a collaborative effort.” Briar turned the conversation back on her. “What do you have against him?”

“I’ll tell you, but only because I’m petty.” She reclined so far back against the wall of the booth that she was nearly horizontal. “I went to Pentawynn University with his parents.”

“He said you didn’t get along.”

She looked affronted. “No, we were the best of friends. Is that what he told you? Oh, that’s rich.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? I don’t know, but around the time of their Miracle Tour, his parents cut all contact. Refused to speak to me. This was before I had much to my name, you understand. Suddenly, they were too good to answer my calls. Over a decade we’d known each other. I kept their secrets. I changed Linden’s nappies, a fact we’re both keen to forget.”

Briar said, “They dropped you because you weren’t… famous enough?”

Finola ran her tongue along her teeth. Her iron gaze turned inward, contemplative. “I like you, Briar. Consider yourself invited to my gala, but on the condition that I see at least half the garments on that runway look as fresh as the thing you’re wearing right now. Don’t let the Fairchilds use you as their doormat.”

Briar adopted her posture and, with a flourish, kicked up a heeled foot onto the table. It was his leg bared by the slit in his skirt so he had to be delicate about the arrangement of fabric, but it proved his point. “Do I look like a doormat?”

Finola laughed. She sucked back the last of her whiskey, slammed the glass down on the table like a judge’s gavel, then rose, smoothing her hands down her coat. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Her headstrong posture reminded Briar fiercely of Gretchen, whose absence burned like an ember in his heart.

Finola left him sitting at the table with the last sip of whiskey in his glass and success fizzling dully in his veins. He’d done it. Reluctant as she’d been, he’d won her over. Linden’s fears that Briar would blunder into a public controversy could be laid to rest.

He took the last sip of his whiskey. A spasm in his hand made him nearly drop the glass, but he caught it, setting it down with a heavy thunk. Like a thorn in his foot, his curse reminded him with every stabbing step of progress that he’d have to survive long enough to see Finola’s gala.

Fatigue setting in, he slid out of the booth but found his way blocked by Rowan.

The alderman held two drinks. A stout and a cider, like they’d had on Saor ó Eagla.

“Room to celebrate with a friend?”