Chapter 7 Mav
MAV
Thistle’s cottage was right where I remembered.
It leaned into the hill as though it had grown there instead of being built, all mismatched shingles and ivy-choked stone.
The roof sagged to the left. The chimney puffed lazy ribbons of smoke.
The window boxes spilled lavender, rosemary, and those damned pink blossoms that always made me sneeze and deny it.
Flagstones peeked out between moss, a cart rut wearing the middle of the path.
I slowed the bay and swung down. Quinn followed, her movements measured—graceful despite the stiffness that caught her halfway to the ground. She masked the wince well, though not well enough to escape my notice. She took in the cottage in one long look, as if measuring every angle.
“Can we expect friendliness?” she asked, eyes bouncing between the door and me.
“Depends on the day,” I said. “And whether you insult her tea.”
Quinn’s brow tilted by a fraction. “Understood.”
A bee nosed the mint. Water tapped a copper gutter. I mounted the steps and gave the door three quick knocks. It opened as the third was landing.
“Well, well, well,” said a low, crackling voice. “If it isn’t the world’s grumpiest ex-knight.”
Thistle filled her doorway, hands on her curved hips.
She barely reached my chest, layered in patched linen and wool that smelled of rosehips and pipe smoke.
Laugh-lines creased her deep brown skin, further emphasized by the inked Hedge symbols across her face.
The telltale bloom between her brows, the line across the bridge of her nose, a dot beneath each eye, and a thick line of ink centered on her lower lip and extended to her chin.
Her black curls danced when she looked up at me with a smirk, more silver strands weaving through her hair since the last time I’d seen her.
She opened her arms, and I didn’t hesitate.
I hauled her toward me, the way we always did.
“You still smell of pine, steel, and poor decisions,” she muttered against my chest.
“You still hug like you’re trying to break my ribs.”
We broke apart. Her dark gaze slid past me and caught Quinn. Interest. Calculation.
“What have we here?” Thistle smiled. “You’ve brought a beautiful woman to my door. My guess is either you’ve been uncharacteristically lucky or she’s been recently very unlucky.”
Behind me, Quinn made a sound suspiciously like a bitten-off laugh. I didn’t give Thistle the satisfaction. I glared instead. “Hilarious.”
“I am,” she said, unblinking, her full lips curved in a smirk.
I leaned closer to Thistle. “I’m worried she’s insane.”
Thistle’s brow arched like that wasn’t even mildly surprising. “To be seen with you, she’d have to be.”
My eyes rolled. “She thinks we’re magically bound for the next two weeks,” I went on. “Tether and Time magic. Very dramatic. Definitely delusional.”
Quinn’s hand landed on my shoulder in a slap polite enough to be harmless, but the movement felt overtly violent coming from her.
Thistle’s smirk vanished. Stillness settled over her. “Tether and Time?” she asked softly. “You’re sure?”
“I wasn’t at first,” I admitted, my voice dropping. “I’m more convinced now.”
Thistle traced her dark eyes over Quinn. “Now what in the realms would make someone curse a woman like you with multiple higher-order magics?”
The color left Quinn’s cheeks as fear danced in her eyes.
“Uh…we can’t tell you.” The words tumbled awkwardly from my tongue.
Thistle stared at me for several quiet moments. “A mystery?” She braced her hands on her wide hips. “Now I like this even more.” She swung the door wide. “In both of you. Shoes off if they’re muddy. Vesper sheds more than he’d like to admit. Don’t add to my sweeping.”
We crossed into warmth and green light. Inside smelled of too many plants arguing their purpose—sage, resin, parsley, mint.
Bundles dangled from rafters, shelves bowed under glass and clay, a kettle sighed on the hob.
The floor groaned in the places it always had, plus a few new ones.
A black cat lounged on a crate of dried ginger, fur like spilled ink, green eyes lantern-bright, unimpressed with life itself.
“New girl, huh?” the cat said, smooth as oiled leather.
“Hello, Vesper,” I sighed.
“You’re looking older,” he observed.
“You’re looking smug as ever.”
Quinn inclined her head with perfect courtesy, as if talking cats were no stranger than tapestries. “A pleasure.”
“Is it?” Vesper said dryly. His nostrils flared for a moment, pupils widening at Quinn. Then he slipped soundless to the floor, vanished under a cabinet, and produced a noise that suggested he’d found the warmest plank and claimed it by divine right.
“Sit,” Thistle said. “Mock my tea and I’ll return you to the road.”
“I like your tea,” I lied. Thistle shot me a look that communicated we both knew it wasn’t true.
“Perjury within the first five minutes? That’s bold even for you, Bassiano,” Vesper snarked from under the cabinet.
Thistle snorted, pulling chipped mugs off a crowded shelf and setting them on the scarred table with a clank. “I’m Thistle, Thistle Celtris,” she introduced. “Miss…”
Quinn looked suddenly appalled. “Lady Quinnève Liogenoriggia,” she said with a curtsy. “Please forgive the oversight of a proper introduction. I fear I am out of practice.”
I stifled a chuckle. “Quinn for short, or at least that’s what I call her.”
“You’re lucky to call her anything.” Thistle rolled her dark eyes in my direction before turning to Quinn. “Lady Quinn, Mav said you're under a spell involving Tether and Time magic…what are the qualities of it?”
Quinn slid her teeth over her bottom lip. “I sleep for one hundred years, then awaken for a fortnight, during which time I must aid someone with a quest. When one agrees to my aid, a tether forms between us for the length of my stay.”
Thistle drummed her long nails on the table. “Curious. How very curious.” The rhythm paused. “And the remedy?”
Light blue eyes fell to the floor as Quinn’s posture shrank inward. Thistle’s gaze darted between us.
“Oh, I see,” Thistle mumbled.
I was not sure what it was she was seeing. I pulled in a deep breath. “We came here because I’m hoping you can help me—I mean, us, get out of it.”
Thistle stood, crossing the rough stone floor of the narrow kitchen to a bank of drawers. “Well, the first thing we can do is confirm the type…or in this case, types of magic at play,” she explained, opening and closing multiple drawers. “Vesper, have you seen the idleroot?”
Vesper stretched his legs out in front of him, flexing his claws. “Third from the left, second row.”
“Ah, of course.” Thistle opened the recommended drawer and pulled out a twisted, gnarled root, no larger than a quill.
My brows lifted. “That…stick is going to solve our problem?”
Thistle snorted. “This stick is going to confirm what it is we’re working with. Idleroot is one of the only plants in existence without magical properties of its own, which means it draws on the magic around it when activated.”
Quinn’s head tilted. “How can it show us the gifts?”
A broad smile stretched across Thistle’s face, as if she’d waited years for someone to ask her that very question.
“Each gift has a signature, a color, a texture. The idleroot makes it visible.” She held the plant up to the light, turning it over in her hands before placing it on the table between Quinn and me.
“Now, you’ll both need to take hold of one side with your right hand. ”
Quinn’s spine locked. “Will it hurt?”
“Not at all,” Thistle soothed. “It will be less painful than an afternoon of Mav’s jokes.”
I considered taking offense, but thought better of it when I saw the way Thistle’s words had calmed Quinn.
We both reached out and grabbed the root.
It was rough and strangely cold on my fingertips.
Thistle pressed two fingers to the pulse on my wrist and the same for Quinn, then murmured a throaty incantation in Old Avandrian—a language much better suited to spellwork than speech.
For a moment, nothing happened.
I looked up to find Quinn’s eyes searching mine. My head dipped in a gesture paired with a grin I hoped passed as reassuring, though I didn’t feel reassured myself.
The root twitched. Once. Twice.
Then it began to writhe like a serpent, emitting a high-pitched buzzing sound. My first instinct was to rip my hand away, but Thistle’s voice cut through my panic.
“Don’t let go!”
Light burst between our joined hands, illuminating the idleroot.
A single, shimmering golden strand stretched between Quinn and me.
The tether.
I recognized it at once; the same thread I’d seen in my dream.
Before I could speak, another light appeared: a thicker cord of silver, brilliant and spiraling. It looped around our wrists and the idleroot.
The two lights intertwined—the gold of the tether and the silver of the time-cord—braiding midair in a sun-struck weave that pulsed with power.
And though I lacked the words to describe it, suddenly I felt her.
Quinn.
Her fear, hurt, and loneliness crashed into me, waves upon rock.
The heaviness of it threatened to pull me under.
The current of her emotions was so strong that I was powerless against it.
There, hiding under all of it was a tiny flicker, warm and sure.
Was this the hope she spoke of? Across from me, Quinn’s mouth parted.
Her hand tightened on the root as if the same sensation had hit her, too.
Was she sensing me? And what would this cosmic braid reveal to her?
Thistle’s eyes widened as she studied the shapes. “I…I’ve never seen anything like this.” She muttered another incantation. The light faded, and the threads disappeared in a puff of smoke carried away on the wind.
“What in the seven hells was that?” I asked, surprised to find my heart racing and my breathing ragged.
“That,” Thistle began, “I have no explanation for.” Her eyes stayed on the idleroot. “The Time magic is interlaced with the Tether magic. I’ve never seen gifts connect that way,” she went on. “Old. Strong. Whoever cast it must have been deeply gifted in the higher orders and didn’t fear the cost.”
“So, I’m not losing my mind?”
Quinn winced at my words, and I regretted them immediately.
I’d laughed when she’d first told me. I’d dragged her out here like she was a puzzle to set on Thistle’s table and solve between tea and supper.
The shame of it warmed my face and left a worse ache behind—the shape of a problem no longer imaginary.
“Not this time,” Thistle said with a patronizing pat on my forearm.
“Good,” I said. “Now, how do we break it?”
Thistle’s dark eyes went wide as they met mine.
“It can’t be broken, at least not by me,” she said.
“Time and Tether are both higher-order magics. I’m a Hedge.
Lower-order magics have never been capable of breaking spells cast by the higher order.
Even spells in the same order level are difficult to undo or manipulate with differing gifts. ”
Quinn angled her head. “Am I to understand that even though you can sense the weave, it is beyond your reach?”
Thistle nodded. “I can see it and maybe pull on it, but I shouldn’t.” She didn’t oblige with miracles. Thistle never did.
I ran my tongue over my teeth. “Can’t you try and cut the thread?”
Dark curls danced as she shook her head hard. “It would be dangerous for me to even try, for all of us.” Her gaze darted between Quinn and me. “Best case, you both sleep for a week. Worst case…”
She didn’t need to finish the sentence. We could all end up dead or cursed beyond any hope of redemption.
The kettle interrupted with a squeal, and Thistle poured steaming water into five teacups. One for each of us. One for Vesper. One for the empty chair she never explained. Some griefs kept their own names.
Quinn wrapped her hands around hers. I leaned forward, letting the steam hit my face, needing to anchor myself to something tangible.
“So we’re stuck like this?” I asked, though it was more an admission of defeat than a question.
“For now. Unless you find someone with power in the right orders and a reason to risk helping.”
Vesper yawned. “Or we could all nap and pretend it isn’t happening.”
“Helpful,” Thistle muttered.
I tipped the cup to my lips. The tea was sharp, mellow, then punched the sinuses. “Perfect,” I wheezed. “Is there no other way?”
“I don’t know another…” Thistle ran a hand along her cheek. “But I have a friend who might. He owes me a favor, but the journey is too long to make before nightfall.”
“If it’s the one I’m thinking of, he still owes me fish from last time,” Vesper added.
“Can we stay with you and all go tomorrow?” I asked. “I wouldn’t rush but…” My eyes slid to Quinn and back. “Time is of the essence.”
Thistle smiled as she stirred a lump of sugar into her tea. “Yes, tomorrow.”