Odell had the audacity to tut. “With such dramatics, you’d fit in well there, though it wouldn’t be my first choice.”
Briar refrained from telling Odell what he thought of Bellgrave. He’d heard a necromancer had accidentally raised up all the rats that had ever died there. Given Bellgrave had suffered a bout of plague in the fourteenth century, the place was overrun. Rumor had it they were still exorcising spectral vermin to this day.
At twenty-one, witches who wished to become certified tradesmen of their chosen discipline had to serve a four-year apprenticeship under a master. Cities like Wishbrooke were central to such apprenticeships, with many masters offering tutelage while unpaid apprentices got hands-on experience in their shops. Afterward, they were rewarded at the Witch’s Rede. A witch’s services were highly sought after, so cities offered newly Reded witches free lodging for a year while they started their business or joined an established one. City councils requested witches based on their talents or recommendations from their masters.
Four years of magical training, then they were thrown in the deep end with nary a class on filing taxes. Nevertheless, Briar had looked forward to it since his magical talents first appeared—an alarming moment for his mother, who’d had to peel Briar off the ceiling. He’d never replicated thetrick and needed a broom to fly now, but that moment set the stage for all his hopes and sky’s-the-limit dreams.
Those dreams centered on Pentawynn, the glittering metropolis of modern witchcraft.
Odell placed a box of potion vials on the counter. “That will be one hundred and fifty copper.”
Briar’s heart sank. “That’s ten more than last time.”
“The way with inflation, I’m afraid.”
Briar counted out coins from the velvet pouch at his waist. Vatii shuffled closer to nibble his blond plait. Briar brushed her away, though she only tried to comfort him. He came up short, his pouch empty. “I can bring more tomorrow.”
“Hmm. You could leave me that pendant.” Odell pointed at the blue teardrop hanging from Briar’s earring.
“Pillock,” said Vatii. To Odell, the magpie’s language was only a croaking caw, but other familiars could understand. Odell’s badger cut her a dark look.
“It’s my mother’s,” Briar argued.
“Then your broom.”
“It’s also hers.” Nearly all of Briar’s possessions once were. “And a broom is worth a lot more.”
“I’m not running a charity. What about your cloak, then?”
He hesitated. His fingers still ached from all the stitching. Though fashioned for the party, he’d wanted to wear it daily in place of a casual one. He’d worked too hard to only wear it on special occasions.
But he had nothing else of value on his person.
He untied the laces. Vatii hopped onto his head to avoid being pulled off with it. Odell took the cloak and coins, then handed Briar the box of potion vials. It weighed significantly less than the copper.
“I’ll come back for the cloak later, with the money.”
“Yes, good. Why don’t you wait until the rain stops before you—”
“I’m going to be late.”
With less than half an hour until the Witch’s Rede, they had just enough time to get back to his flat to dry off. Briar took off on his broom. The rain poured in sheets, now accompanied by blistering wind. Vatii sheltered under his bowed torso, clinging to the broom handle. The thought of dry clothes and a warm cup of tea pushed him on, and he urged his broom with a few kicks.
They were about halfway home when the broom kicked back. Briar nearly fell face first into the handle. As he scrambled to regain his balance, the broom gave another dangerous buck. Vatii took wing in alarm.
“What’d you do that for?”
“It’s not me!” Briar protested.
The broom juddered and banked while Briar fought to get it under control. With a coughing motion, it listed sideways and descended steeply, heading for the street below. Gravity reclaimed him. He fell, picking up speed, his insides twisting like taffy. Vatii clutched a clawful of his shirt and flapped in a frantic attempt to slow their descent.
Briar reached for a piece of charcoal, only to recall he’d left it in the pocket of his cloak. Panic seized him. All spells required a tithe, but he had nothing with him to sacrifice. He only realized he’d clamped his eyes shut when he felt talons against his neck. Vatii’s beak appeared in his periphery, clutching one ebony feather. With a burst of desperation, Briar took it and pressed magic through it.
He stopped abruptly in midair. Vatii clawed up his sleeve, flapping and swearing. The spell stopped him from falling, but not his broom. It sailed down and splintered against the cobblestones, scattering the people milling below. They all looked up. Briar looked down. A little girl pointed and laughed. A wave of dizziness broke over him, but he couldn’t tell if that was from the curse exacting a toll for the spell or from beholding his mother’s snapped broom tumbling along the street.
It felt as though his heart tumbled with it.
By the time a passing witch cast the spell to bring Briar down to earth, he was late.
