They were stuck here, in the verdant world of the Wychwood,in the company of witches who seemed entirely unfazed by their appearance or by the fact that they claimed to be from another world. It was as though they’d been expecting them. Just as the witch in Clover’s story knew to expect the scholar.
And here Emory and Romie were. Not one scholar, but two. Far from the shores they’d known.
The Wychwood may not be the worst place to be stranded in, but they were still determined to find a way out—and make sense of how and why they were here in the first place.
“You’re being too obvious,” Romie whispered as they flitted through the grand, echoing halls.
“Me? You’re the one whose book isupside down.”
With a swear, Romie righted the book in her hand. “Well, yours is in another language entirely.”
“It has illustrations.”
Romie rolled her eyes, but it was an affectionate sort of gesture. The normalcy of it made Emory smile.
They were trying to look inconspicuous as they poked around various rooms, pretending to read their books. Voices drifted toward them from the kitchens. Romie waggled her brows at Emory and strode off toward them, all but abandoning her cover.
“Wait—”
They peeked into the sunlit kitchens, where such divine food was made that a suspicious part of Emory wondered if the witches were trying to fatten them up for some grotesque reason, or poison them with some untraceable ingredient. She really had no reason to believe any of this, though—they’d been eating the witches’ food for eight days now without any ill effect.
Witches were clanging about as they cooked up a storm, laughing and speaking excitedly in a dialect that was similar enough to their own that Emory could more or less understand. Theircommon tongue made her wonder at how their two worlds came to share it.
Emory and Romie listened forsomethingthat might help them make sense of their situation. Unfortunately for them, the only thing the witches seemed interested in was petty gossip.
Romie groaned, whispering, “Can’t they just talk about the ascension? Surely that’s what all this food is for.”
At this rate, they would never find out what this oh-so-secret ascension entailed. Mrs. Amberyl had told them they could join the celebrations that would take place in the gardensafterthe ascension, but not the ascension itself.
Her meaning had been clear: Emory and Romie were strangers—outsiders to their witchy practices, foreigners from distant lands—and though they’d been invited into the witches’ home, they would not be invited into their world proper.
Everyone in these parts was referred to as a witch, though Emory couldn’t tell what exactlydefinedthem as witches. They all had an inner eye, Mrs. Amberyl had explained, a sixth sense that manifested differently in every witch in varying degrees of power—much in the same way lunar magic flowed differently in the blood of Emory’s people. But Emory had yet to see a witch using their inner eye. They led what appeared to be mundane lives, those who worked within these walls tending to the needs of Amberyl House and its residents, doing the cleaning and cooking and groundskeeping.
Whatever magic they did, they did in secret. Away from Emory’s and Romie’s prying eyes.
And tonight would be no different.
“What are you doing down here?”
Emory and Romie drew back from where they’d been peering into the kitchens. Behind them, Aspen Amberyl, the daughter of the witch who’d taken them in, stared at them with her arms crossed.
“We were just—”
“I need more tincture,” Romie lied smoothly, holding up her still-healing hands.
In fact, it wasn’t a lie at all—Romiewasrunning low on the tincture the witches had prepared for her. Emory’s own healing magic did little to nothing when it came to the horrid burns Romie had gotten in the sleepscape while clutching a white-hot burning star in her hands to fend off the umbrae. But whatever herbs the witches had crushed up together to make this tincture seemed to be helping, even if slowly.
Aspen studied them with narrowed eyes, her expression so like her mother’s it was almost laughable. Where Mrs. Amberyl was the epitome of severity, Aspen was a poor model of it, a student trying to imitate a master when she was so clearly made for something else. A daughter used to following rules but yearning to break them. “Tinctures are made in the herbarium,” Aspen said, “not the kitchens. What are you really here for?”
Emory’s gaze slid to Romie.
“All right, you caught us,” Romie admitted with a crooked smile. She jerked her chin toward the busy kitchens. “We were curious about the preparations for tonight. Trying to see if we can piece together what exactly a witch ascension entails, since none of you want to tell us.”
Aspen pursed her lips. “That’s because our ritual is—”
“Sacred, we know.” Romie rolled her eyes. “But if we couldseeit…”
“It isn’t allowed.”
