“That’s okay,” Tamsin said, settling in across from her. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
“We don’t.” Wren drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Vera is expecting us back soon.”
Tamsin pursed her lips. “I didn’t mean literally,” she said, rather darkly. “I was trying to be sweet.”
“Oh.” Wren’s eyes widened. “Oh no, I’m sorry. I ruined it. You said…” She paused, biting her thumb as she thought. “You said, ‘We’ve got all the time in the world,’ and the correct response should have been…” Wren narrowed her eyes, looking at Tamsin in that way she did, where she saw through her skin, deep down into the heart of her. Wren’s lips quirked up into a soft smile, and she batted her eyelashes. “Do we?”
“Oh, hush.” Tamsin rolled her eyes, but still she reached across the table and wrapped Wren’s fingers in her own.
She was always reaching for Wren. Always entwining fingers, pressing palms, meeting lips. But it was all so new, so unbelievable, that if Tamsin went even a moment without contact, she started to fear that the next time they touched, she would no longer feel a spark. That one day she would wake to find it had all been a dream. Moments were so fleeting. So fragile. All Tamsin could do was hold on to the things that mattered and hope that was enough.
Tamsin reached for Wren, and, inexplicably, impossibly, wonderfully, Wren reached back.
They sat, tangled up together in the cottage that had housed her on so many of her worst days. Tamsin considered making tea just so she would have something to do. But it wasn’t about doing; it was about lingering for one final moment in the place that had been home. About knowing she would never return.
Was it silly to mourn a place that had ultimately been temporary? Did that lack of permanence make it somehow less of a home? But then again, on that bed she had grieved for her sister, her life, the distance between before and after. At that table she had screamed her fury, explored her anger because it was an emotion she could revel in. On that rug she had paced, trying to tire herself out, trying to call sleep when being awake became unbearable.
Wren squeezed her hand. “Are you afraid?”
Across the table Tamsin startled. “Of what?”
Wren gestured vaguely with her free hand, glancing helplessly around the room. When she finally found the word, it came out breathless. “Everything.”
Tamsin laughed, a helpless hiccup of mirth. “Yes.” That one small word was hardly enough. There was still so much they did not know. So much that could still go wrong.
Wren exhaled slightly. “Me too.”
Tamsin squeezed the source’s fingers tighter before letting them go. She stared across the table, her brown eyes on Wren’s green ones, hands already itching for Wren’s red hair, her ears longing for the steady beat of Wren’s heart. But she wanted a moment of wanting. A moment of appreciating what a person desired when she could, once again, desire.
Tamsin could want, and so she did.
Wren’s face was painted with gold. The sun had begun to set, casting colors through the tiny room. Tamsin got to her feet, skirt sweeping behind her. It would never grow old, the colors saturating her eyes, filling the expanse in her chest—the heart she had never expected to come back to life. Tamsin clutched the windowsill, her knuckles white as the sun painted the sky.
The scrape of a chair, body heat behind her, a hand on her own.
There was a long road ahead. So many hurdles they had not yet encountered. Perhaps this love would last only a season. Maybe it would last forever. But of the many things Tamsin was afraid of, Wren was not one of them.
Love was not one of them.
And so she stood, her body pressed against another’s, their hearts beating in time, and she hoped. Tamsin turned toward Wren, closed her eyes, and tasted joy.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, my unending gratitude to Sarah McCabe, without whom this book would not exist, and without whom I would be a lesser writer. Thank you for taking a chance on me.
To Jim McCarthy, my agent, whose work to prioritize and place queer stories in the world is one of the many reasons why I’m so grateful to have him on my team. Thank you for your guidance and encouragement, always.
To the entire team at S&S/Pulse/McElderry, Karen Sherman, Erica Stahler, to Virginia Allyn for turning my chicken-scratch map into something truly fantastical. To Tara Phillips for bringing Tamsin and Wren to life exactly as I pictured them, and to Laura Eckes, who turned Tara’s art into the cover of my dreams—thank you both for making me cry next to that mailbox on Twenty-Third Street.
Kelly Quindlen, I promised you a paragraph, and you’ve done everything to deserve it. You started as an author I admired and are now a friend I admire even more. Thank you for your honesty, your wit, and your enthusiasm. To Jen Cox-Shah, for your eyes on my words, your heart, and your sincerity. I don’t know what I’d do without the two of you. Thank you both for being ports in the storm of life.
To Kiana Nguyen, who makes me laugh harder than anyone, and who keeps me honest. Your input is invaluable, and your guidance is a gift. To Carey Blankenship, who pushes me forward and always keeps me in coffee. To Rey Noble, who fields late-night panicked texts and forces me to dream bigger. To Ashley Shuttleworth, who has been with me every step of the way on this journey—having a friend for the road has made all the difference. To Rachel Kellis for always letting me scream. This paragraph is proof that you can make friends on the internet.
To Katarina Havana, whose friendship cannot be reduced into words. Thank you for wine and laughter and late-night tears on the sofa, for cheering me on when this was still just a glimmer of a dream. To the og_ob’s (Kat, Whitney, Claire, Tara, Rachel, Sophia, Dylon, Cedric, and Becky) for always letting me change the subject in meetings. To PK Weston, who told me I should have been an English major. To the “aunties” for… well, everything. To the Buchanans—especially Pat—for the unending enthusiasm and cheer. I’m so, so grateful to have you on my side.
To my family: my grandmother Charmaine, who believed in me before I did, and who has been a champion every step of the way. Thanks for always answering the phone when I call with good news. To Dylan and Rosa for always sharing in my excitement.
My parents instilled my love of words and books early on. Thanks to my dad, for telling bedtime stories that have survived all these years, for letting me practice my accents when reading aloud, and for always making me feel that writing a book was a matter of “when,” rather than “if.” Thanks to my mom, for taking me to coffee shops for reading time, for writing me stories for Christmas. Thank you for always being my first reader (and for reading this book upwards of ten times). Your input is invaluable, and I don’t know who I’d be or what my writing would look like without you.
To my wife, Katie, without whom none of this would be possible. You know that, of course, but I still wanted you to see it in print. I once promised you all of my words, so take heart knowing that every single one is for and because of you.
And finally, thank you to my lonely, insecure fifteen-year-old self, for spending more time scribbling in journals than paying attention in class. If it takes ten thousand hours to become an expert, you’re the reason I found my voice as a writer.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author photograph by SYLVIE ROSOKOFF
ADRIENNE TOOLEY grew up in Southern California, majored in musical theater in Pittsburgh, and now lives in Brooklyn with her wife, six guitars, and a banjo. In addition to writing novels, she is a singer/songwriter who has currently released three indie-folk EPs. Sweet & Bitter Magic is her debut novel.
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/teen
www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Adrienne-Tooley
Margaret K. McElderry
Simon & Schuster, New York
AdrienneTooley.com
MARGARET K. McELDERRY BOOKS
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text © 2021 by Adrienne Tooley
Jacket illustration © 2021 by Tara Phillips
Front case image by the8monkey/Essentials Collection/iStock
Jacket design by Laura Eckes © 2021 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Map illustration © 2021 by Virginia Allyn
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Tooley, Adrienne, author.
Title: Sweet & bitter magic / by Adrienne Tooley.
Other titles: Sweet and bitter magic
Description: New York : Margaret K. McElderry Books, [2021] | Summary: When seventeen-year-old Tamsin, a cursed witch who must steal love from others, meets Wren, a girl hiding her own dangerous magic, they strike a love bargain with life-or-death consequences.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020008924 (print) | LCCN 2020008925 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781534453852 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781534453876 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Witches—Fiction. | Magic—Fiction. | Fantasy.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.T6264 Swe 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.T6264 (ebook) |
DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020008924
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020008925
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