CHAPTER 1
It was the eve of the Witch’s Rede, and Briar Wyngrave had run out of time to break up with his boyfriend.
“Boyfriend” was a generous term. Hardly anyone knew about Briar and Celyn’s relationship, as it was a strictly casual arrangement. If the secret theater of sneaking off at parties and trysts in potion pantries hadn’t been so appealing, it might not have lasted. Yet it had—for their last two years in Wishbrooke, no less—so a bittersweet goodbye was in order. Tomorrow, their paths would split.
The difficulty was Celyn had been avoiding him.
Music and the chorus of voices floated in from the street below Briar’s flat, barely muted by the single-glazed windows. Every pub in Wishbrooke heaved with witches celebrating their final day as apprentices. Glass shattered and beer splashed to a chorus of “Eyyyy!”
Eager to join the party, Briar tied the last stitches on his outfit. The fabric shimmered midnight blue, gold embroidery forming swirls of shooting stars. He’d fashioned it from scraps of velvet found in the bin behind a textiles shop. It had taken a lot of magic to heal the seams so the cloak didn’t look like a scarred patchwork of misbegotten trash.
His familiar, Vatii, clacked along the windowsill, peering sideways at Briar’s clothes.
The magpie croaked, “You look like a harlot.”
“An expensive one, though.” The sheer top wasn’t the most conservative of choices, but no one ever described Briar as shy. With the new cloak he’d made, his ensemble would look tasteful enough.
Briar’s television crackled as the news switched segments. It was an ancient, boxy thing—static scored the screen unless Briar touched a very precise spot on the top. Outfit procrastination aside, he’d waited to join the festivities so he wouldn’t miss the unveiling of Linden Fairchild’s autumn fashion line. With his hand on the warm spot, the television’s picture came into sharp relief, and he watched a journalist interview Linden. The designer’s raven-black hair had been plaited into a patterned scarf over his shoulder. He smiled, blushingly nervous despite how often he’d made public appearances.
“This line marks the end of a very successful apprenticeship,” said the journalist. “Fans and viewers are all dying to know: What’s next for Linden Fairchild?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know the answer yet,” Linden said. “I have ideas, but nothing set in stone. For now, I’m just enjoying this moment.”
Linden had clear blue eyes, fringed with lashes pretty as a girl’s. The journalist sounded dazzled as she asked about the fashion line. The camera cut to models strutting the runway in thick, woolen fabric. Neutral colors with splashes of terra-cotta, mustard yellow, hunter green. The garments looked austere and expensive while recalling the coziness of drinking hot chocolate in an indie café. Linden recounted his time spent in the countryside, the haunted beauty of the wild. His voice was mellow as red wine.
Briar sighed. “He is so dreamy.”
“Sounds like a posh wanker,” Vatii argued. “For autumn, those models have a lot of skin on show.”
“He’s a savant, Vatii. You’re just a prude.”
“And you’re late for the party. We’ll miss the food.”
“You’llmiss the food. Go now, if you’re so eager.”
Briar slid the window open for her. Music and the pop of firecrackers drifted on the spring breeze, along with the honeyed smell of lilacs and cinnamon buns, roasted pork and Bramley apples. Briar’s flat, with its groaning taps and cracked plaster, smelled perpetually of raw meat due to its dubious convenience of being located above a butcher’s. The party smells were a welcome substitute.
Cuffing Briar with her wing as she flapped into the night, Vatii screeched, “Hurry up, and don’t forget your potion!”
Briar groaned, but he rooted through his bedside drawer for a full vial of the viscous scarlet liquid. His last dose. He’d have to refill his prescription tomorrow.
He downed the acrid brew and got dressed, donning his cloak and swooping about in front of the mirror. The way it billowed satisfied his affinity for the dramatic. Even by Briar’s picky standards, he looked quite good.
In the streets, the party spilled out of pubs with reckless enthusiasm. Charmed fairy lights winked from ivy-covered eaves and pots of blooming larkspur. Non-magical folk joined the witches. Any excuse to party was a good one, but they’d also befriended many of the potion masters, tarot readers, and witches apprenticing with their local apothecaries over the past four years. Some witches would stay on as permanent staff. Others would find job placements elsewhere.
Briar prayed for the latter—had been praying for four years—but he wouldn’t know until the Witch’s Rede.
He headed for the city square. One of the main benefits of apprenticing in Wishbrooke was proximity to everything that mattered. Built upon a slim finger of a peninsula on the southern sea, the city could not sprawl outward, so it stretched upward, everything built upon the old foundations in a game of architectural Jenga.
He set out to find Celyn but found Vatii stealing finger sandwiches from an outdoor buffet instead. “You should try the cucumber ones,” she said from a lamppost. “Crunchy.”
“Have you seen Celyn?”
“Why would I be looking for him?”
“You’re my familiar. You’re meant to help me.”
“That stuck-up friend was knocking around drinking home-brewed philter. Purple dress. Philter has something extra, so be quick. She’ll be away with the fairies soon.”
