1
“Idare you.”
Three words more delicious than fresh honey drizzled over crisp hoecakes on Sundays.
But I promised Papa I would be good this week.
Unlike last week.
And the week before.
And, possibly, the week before that too.
“I dare you,” Megara sing-songed again. “Come on, Vonny.” She tugged my arm. “No one will ever know.”
Meg was a terrible influence, an utter delight, an all-around terror, and my best friend in the world.
“Except every customer who makes a purchase,” I said dryly. “No, Meg. I’m going to be good this week.”
The family business, selling dried herbs and medicinal tinctures, tread close to a dangerous line. Witches made easy targets. Trading in what came naturally to us was akin to practicing our craft in the open. We got away with it because Papa was a talented physician operating in a town unlikely to attract another medical professional of his skill.
And so, it became acceptable for the town doctor to grow a few herbs to supplement his supply. The townsfolk, ones too poor to pay for his services, were quite happy to buy his tinctures at market and avoid the consultation bill. They bought our medicines over the counter and thanked us for it.
Hiding in plain sight, our coven was safe. But to draw attention to our unorthodox lifestyle was a risk that endangered us all. I had little doubt that was the reason Papa wanted me married by my next birthday. My nineteenth. He likely dreamed of the day I was another man’s headache.
“I didn’t want to do this,” Meg lied with a wolfish smile. “I dare you.”
A groan ripped through me, but it couldn’t mask the thrill zinging up my spine.
The witch blood in me ensured I couldn’t ignore a thrice-asked question without sharp prickles breaking across my skin. A dare was and wasn’t a question. Interpretation was up to me. Which meant…
“Fine.” I reached for my bodice. “Help me out of my corset, and I’ll wear John’s new suit to market.”
My brother would tar and feather me if he caught me, but I wasn’t afraid, one of my worst faults.
Of which there were many.
But that one, oh how it kept my parents up at night.
The wildness in my blood explained the kinship with my best friend, a warg, and the fear Momma voiced daily about having a spinster on her hands if she didn’t match me while I was young and malleable. As if I were a lump of clay wanting for a man’s hands to mold me into his ideal shape.
White witches could blend into society better, but there were rules.
I hated rules.
To marry a mortal was to risk heartbreak when they died within a century. To marry a witch was to condemn us to a nomadic lifestyle to better conceal our true natures. Which was the lesser evil?
Both my parents were witches, but Papa had thin blood. Hence his decision to provide a respectable cover for his wife and children, who couldn’t pretend to be anything other than what we were—magic.
“You’re so devious,” Meg praised me. “How did God cram your feral soul into a witch’s body?”
“I was meant to be a warg,” I agreed. “I ought to have fangs and claws and fur. Not blasted petticoats.”
Meg, the lucky devil, wore her hair cut short and dressed as a boy every day. A wealthy boy. An entitled boy. The freedom it gave her to move around without a chaperone, without attracting the male gaze, without fear of revealing her family’s true natures, must have been about the best thing I could imagine.
Aside from her enrollment in law school, which promised her the ability to generate income. Her own income. Money that would sit in her bank account and enable her to live her life how she saw fit.
“Pity the old wives’ tales aren’t true.” Meg stripped me out of my gown with disconcerting ease, leaving me to wonder what other freedoms she partook of as a boy. “I would bite you in a heartbeat.”