“You bring me these things, and your father’s cursewill be over.” He sighs. “I haven’t had this recipe in years. My mother used to make it.”
My eye twitches, but I know it’s not wise to argue with magical beings. If he wants his stew, fine. We’ll make it for him.
I take a deep breath. “You’ve known about Father’s condition for over twenty years. Why haven’t you worked the counter curse before now?”
Ergmin lights his pipe again and takes a long puff. “The time was never right.”
Galinorand I leave the cottage. I’m still humming with frustration, and Galinor seems just as agitated.
As we walk back to the manor, he plucks the list from my hands. He scowls at the parchment. “What’s an iktar beast?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never heard of it.”
“There are probably field potatoes in your kitchen,” he says. “But a kember carrot?”
I shake my head.
“Pansley?”
I sigh. “It sounds familiar, but again—I don’t know. You’ve already seen the extent of my culinary knowledge.”
Galinor looks like he’s going to crumple the list in his hands.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
His handsome face contorts into a grimace. “It’s another scavenger hunt.”
“It’s not a scavenger hunt.” I tug the list away from him before he can crush it. “It’s a grocer’s list.”
A flock of geese flies overhead, calling in the air as they wing their way across the sky. Despite the bright autumn sunshine, the day won’t be a warm one. The brush under the pines has turned yellow, and soon the leaves will fall and leave the slender twigs bare.
“You don’t have to go with me,” I say quietly. “You’ve already helped so much.”
Galinor stops and gives me an incredulous look. “You think I would let you go alone?”
I watch him from the corner of my eye. “Probably not.”
He snatches the list back again. “Where do we start?”
“We’ll go to King Windom’s herbalist,” I say, examining the list in his hands. “He will know where to find all this.”
“How far away is the castle?”
“Less than a day’s ride.”
We reach the manor, and this time I enter without knocking. The hall is warm, but the atmosphere is hushed. Today, it feels like a cursed home. Has it always been like this? Or am I only noticing it now that I know?
No, I don’t think so. The changeling stone chased away the sadness—or cloaked it, at the very least.
“Mother?” I call as we wander the halls, looking for her.
We finally find her asleep on a bench near the fire in her sitting room, her embroidery forgotten on her lap. She’s pale and looks as if she needs the rest. I hate todisturb her, but I don’t have a choice. I shake her, and even though I’m gentle, she wakes with a start.
“Anwen.” She sits up, blinking. “Did you find him?”
I tell her about our morning spent at the cottage, and when I finish, she asks to see the list. Her eyebrows knit as she reads. “Where will you find all this?”
I take back the list. “I have to go to Dontel. If anyone will know, it’s him.”
