The young seer slides into her chair, and I’m so befuddled by the whole situation and the casual use of magic that I take the other, brushing my hands down my dress and smoothing it out.
What else am I supposed to do?
“Tea?” Evelyn asks, lifting a brow.
“Um... sure?” The table is empty, but something tells me that won’t be a problem.
My hostess waves her hand. A porcelain teapot and two dainty cups appear. Evelyn picks up the pot, and out comes astream of steaming citrus-scented liquid from the spout. She fills my cup, then hers before nodding towards my tea.
“Go ahead, it’s not going to harm you.” Evelyn picks up her tea, taking a sip.
I hadn’t even considered that it might not be safe, and that probably says something about me. Seeing as how my life over the past few months has been a series of unfortunate events, I should probably be more careful about the items I consume.
Something to consider at a later time.
When Evelyn appears unharmed, I lift the cup to my lips and sip. The tea is warm but not too hot, the perfect temperature, and a pleasant citrus flavor coats my tongue. It’s surprisingly sweet, but not overpowering, and I hum, swallowing. The tea hits my stomach, infusing me with heat from the inside out.
We drink in silence for several minutes, listening to the symphony of the forest before Evelyn puts down her cup. She tilts her head, putting her hand in the middle of the table, palm facing up.
“Give me your hand please, Wren.”
Nothing seems amiss, so I put down my teacup and place my right hand in hers.
And the world shifts.
Instantly, everything changes. The clearing falls silent. The birdsong disappears. The hushed whisper of wind vanishes. Even though my heart thuds, it seems quieter than it should be.
I look around nervously. Nothing seems out of place, but I can’t help but feel like agreeing to this might not have been the best idea. I can’t back out now, though. How would I leave the Haven? I don’t even know how I got here.
Evelyn seems utterly unbothered by the lack of noise as she peers at my palm, examining it as though it holds the secrets of the universe. She runs her fingers along the lines, muttering to herself.
One summer, when Amelia and I were fourteen, a troupe of traveling entertainers came to Grenbloom and stayed for a week. One of the performers had been a fortune teller. Blessed with sight by the gods, Madame Irene was a Given who had been released from working at the temple—or so the sign outside her tent had claimed.
Lies.
So many fucking lies.
Madame Irene had been old, her dark brown skin boasting of more wrinkles than I could count, and she’d worn a long turquoise robe that dragged on the ground as she walked. Her jet-black hair had been pulled back in a loose bun, and her lips had been painted a vivid cherry red. She’d had long manicured nails that rapped the table while she studied us. Then the fortune teller had directed Amelia and me to look into a crystal ball before she stared into it.
After what felt like an hour, Madame Irene had pulled back and grinned. We would serve the gods, she had assured us, and our lives would be fruitful and well spent.
And that had been a load of crap.
But this . . .
This feels real in a way that that never did.
Amelia would’ve loved this. She’d be sitting across from the seer, cataloging everything about the Haven to analyze later. She would’ve talked about it for weeks, dissecting everything she saw, every word that was said. She’d adored Madame Irene.
But my best friend is dead, and everything about my old life is gone.
After a few minutes, the young seer curls her fingers around mine. Her grip is tight as she inhales, murmuring a prayer in a language I don’t recognize. Her Mark shines, a star on the brink of exploding. It pulses, and then I am bathed in violet. Her eyesgrow cloudy, a milky white overtaking them, rendering them useless.
This time, her magic does not feel safe or warm or comforting.
A tingling starts in the center of my hand, a feeling of somethingotherblooming to life. The longer she speaks in this language I do not recognize, the further the feeling spreads. Up my hand, my arm, and through my chest.
Exploring. Wandering.Learning. It touches more of me, and Evelyn’s prayer gets louder. More insistent. Her crown of vines shifts as she leans forward, grasping my wrist more firmly.
