Everywhere he looked, bundles of dried herbs hung from wooden beams—lavender, sage, and many other mysteries. Jars lined wooden shelves, some oddly empty aside from a strange shimmer within. He picked one up, squinting and holding it to the light. Tiny specks of dark green and maroon were dancing together like fireflies in hidden currents.
“Can you see those?” asked Darcy. “They’re floramotes combined with terramotes.”
“I didn’t realise people kept motes in jars.” Cinn spun the jar around in his hand, watching the motes spin with it. They were pretty. Maybe he could decorate his house with some.
“How else would we keep them? That’s not any old jar, by the way. Don’t drop it, they’re expensive.”
Like a child in a toy shop, he put it down and picked up something else from the shelf underneath. A large flask with a thin neck, it bore a label proclaiming it Mortalisfade. Its liquid, a deep indigo reminiscentof the midnight sky, appeared to swirl and writhe within the confines of the container.
“Woah! What’s this?”
Darcy snatched it off him so fast her arms were a blur. “That needs to stay on the shelf. Not only is it deadly dangerous, but it took me three weeks to brew.” With care, she set it back, then stared at it, as if entranced. “This is the elixir we were experimenting with before you came. The one that causes a temporary state very similar to death. If used correctly, in conjunction with some other elements, it’ssaidto allow us ordinary moteblessed access to the shadowrealm.”
“But it never worked?”
“No. Elliot and Julien took turns almost killing themselves with zero results. I hated every second of it, but they threatened to do it without me if I didn’t supervise.” She muttered something that sounded like ‘fucking children’ under her breath. “I had to revive them from flatline several times.” She eyed Cinn. “We arenotgoing down that route again.”
Cinn stared at the dark swirl of liquid. Would there ever be a scenario where he’d risk his life in order to communicate with someone one last time? “Béatrice was Julien’s sister, but Elliot…” He left his thoughts unfinished.
“She was his sister too, in lots of ways,” Darcy said quietly. “Don’t tell Julien I said this, but they might have been just as close. He understood her in ways that Julien never could. Especially when Julien was being the overprotective big brother. You’ve seen how in denial he is about her involvement with the Arcane Purifiers, right?”
Snorting, Cinn said, “Yes. I’m scared he might not believe me if I ever manage to deliver a message from her.”
Seizing a crate from the damp floor, Darcy darted through the basement, swiftly loading it with an assortment of items. “Well, let’s hope she’s got some answers for us. It’s bad enough he already carries guilt overthe death of his mother, without all of this Béatrice stuff for him to also beat himself up over.”
“What? How did his mother die?”
Darcy’s hands paused. “That’s his story to tell.”
The dining room table was cleared.
The candles, lit.
Elliot, late.
“Take the book to copy from and the aethraven ink to get that bit done, at least.” Darcy handed Julien the pot of dark fluid. A phantom itch spread across his skin, a reminder of the last time they’d done this, and he’d awoken in agony. At least the ink had done its job however, and prevented him from bringing back the umbraphage back with him.
“There’s no point getting on the table yet. Elliot could be hours longer. Come lie down in Béatrice’s room. Maybe it’ll be good luck to do it there.”
The sofa would probably also do the trick.
But he couldn’t refuse his chance to peek inside Béatrice’s eternally closed door.
When he followed Julien through it, the air hung oppressively heavy with memories. Pure eclectic chaos, shelves overflowed with novels, walls were plastered in arty photography and snippets of illustrated poetry, lots of it French. It was as if the room had inhaled a deep breath when Béatrice had left, and had held it in this whole time, awaiting her return. He didn’t want to touch anything here—felt uncomfortable even standing in it, in fact—let alone lie down on her rumpled bed.
A quote on the wall caught his eye: beautiful typography surrounded by hand-painted golden stars.Though my soul may set in darkness, itwill rise in perfect light. I have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night.The words were familiar, but not from his English classes.“This is what you and Darcy said in the graveyard, when you were staring at her headstone.”
“Oui. She loved poetry. She wrote several herself. Performed them even. That poem was her favourite, I think. I had to battle my father to be allowed to read it aloud at her funeral.”
Cinn attempted to move towards Julien, but tripped over a stray mug, its long-evaporated contents leaving a dark ring behind within it.
Julien laughed, setting the ink and book he carried on Béatrice’s bedside table, pushing a stack of trinkets to one side to make room. “She’s a lot messier than me. Was. She’d often bribe me to tidy her room for her when we were children.”
An image of two golden-haired children playing together passed through his mind. He’d never had a sibling—both a blessing and a curse—and was acutely aware he’d never been able to fully understand Julien’s loss.
As if in a trance, Julien wandered over to a half-finished knitting project that lay sprawled on the desk, needles still embedded in black yarn. Never to be completed. “This was meant to be a scarf for me, I think.” Julien sighed and ran his hand over his face. “I actually forgot how much I hate coming in here. Sorry.”
“Shall we—”
