PART1WHAT THE WATER TAKES
1
FROM THE NORTHERN TOWER, THEREcomes a scream.
I pause amidst chopping herbs. The spacious, stone-walled workshop at the rear of the estate coaxes forth the crumbling sound. Moments later, a second cry follows, a hoarse shriek of harrowing pain.
A thread of unease slinks through me, and I glance toward the narrow staircase where Lady Clarisse vanished hours before. The screams should not trouble me. They are frequent, expected, wrenched from all manner of prisoner my employer has confined in the cells below the estate. But these particular sounds arise from the northern tower. And the northern tower is seldom used.
I glance down at my unfinished work as the distant chapel bell tolls the eleventh hour. Today’s delivery must be made before noon. According to the bell, I am already behind.
Lover’s Dream, one of the apothecary’s most popular teas, begins with four parts golden ash to one part larkspore, followed by a sprinkling of sleeping grass. After combining the ingredients into the small pot of liquid boiling atop the stove, I set it aside to cool before shifting my attention to Bones of Stone: two parts oleander, one part white clay, two parts griffin saliva.
Recent illness sapped the village mason of his strength. He now requires something potent enough to grant him the ability to lift entire homes by himself. I work as quickly as I’m able to without slicing offmy finger. The only thing Lady Clarisse loathes more than tardiness is incompetence.
The slap of footsteps reaches me, and I stiffen. From the corner of my eye, I watch my employer emerge from the stairwell and march gleefully toward a large metal basin tucked in the far corner. Her blood-spattered dress swings about her slender calves as she proceeds to wash the crimson from her hands.
“I assume, Min,” Lady Clarisse drawls without looking at me, “that the lack of chopping indicates your work is complete?” Water gushes from the metal pump, smacks against the brick floor surrounding the basin. Blood smears the hardened clay in red.
I resume slicing the oleander stems. A sticky white substance wells from the incision. Alone, it is toxic to mortals, but when mixed with griffin saliva, it is able to restore eyesight, grant incredible strength, and enhance healing, amongst other things.
“Lover’s Dream is ready for the final ingredient,” I say.
Lady Clarisse huffs with irritation, yet dries her hands and moves toward the locked cupboard, which I’m forbidden from accessing due to the prized nature of the contents held inside. After unlocking the door, she pulls a glass bottle and pipette from the shelf before squeezing two pearly drops into the cooling liquid. Lover’s Dream: a draught promising everlasting love. One part larkspore, four parts golden ash, a sprinkling of sleeping grass—and sea-nymph tears, procured between the hours of midnight and dawn.
Lady Clarisse is neither god nor saint, but she certainly acts like one.Lady Clarisse’s Apothecarysupplies the villagers of St. Laurent with miracles daily. But to do so, she must twist an elixir’s elements until it becomes something else entirely, a form of dried, pressed, or distilled power that once belonged to those immortal beings.
For that is who occupies the cells belowground: immortals. She snags their hearts, peels the hard-as-diamond nails from their fingers, squirts the juices from their eyes. She steals their hair, flaxen and ebony and flame, makes brews from their blood, bottles their voices—whispers and confessions and pleas.
From these components, her ladyship crafts the most remarkable teas. She promises undying love, miraculous healings, impossible swiftness of the feet. But the brightest jewels are her timeless beauty teas, which repair all manner of damage to the face, including natural aging. Lady Clarisse appears just shy of her third decade, though only I know that she is well into her fifth.
As the steam clears from Lover’s Dream, her ladyship narrows her eyes. “What is this?”
My attention shifts to the cooling liquid. According toThe Practice of Herbal Remedies, the brew should be a bright shade of violet, but the color is more akin to lavender.
I wipe my palms on the front of my apron.Breathe, Min.“We w-were out of sleeping grass,” I explain. “I substituted it f-for charred fennel—”
“What have I told you about substitutions?” she snarls.
Two, three, four heartbeats pass before I’m able to speak. “That you n-never w-w-want to see them in y-your presence.”
“So why have you ruined my tea with them?”
Generally, one may substitute sleeping grass with charred fennel without issue. “The Practice of Herbal Remediess-states…”
Her ladyship’s milk-white skin curdles into a mottled shade of red. She snatches the frayed, self-bound manual from where it rests on the counter. “This?” she hisses. “This is what you are referring to?” She shakes it so hard a page tears free, and I inhale sharply, worried Nan’s old book will fall to pieces. Along with a cookbook and a religious tome depicting the deities of Jinsan, this is one of the few things Nan left to me.
“Let me remind you that you work formenow. So whatever that old woman taught you, banish it from your thoughts.” Lady Clarisse tosses the manual onto the worktable where I have set various herbs out to dry. I hurriedly shove it into my apron pocket. “The next time I see that stupid book,” she seethes, “I will throw it into the fire.”
I drop my gaze. “Y-yes, my lady.”
She shunts me aside to mix additional ingredients into Lover’s Dream, likely to fix my error. Briefly, she stirs a pot simmering on theback burner, an unidentifiable tea she has been nurturing for weeks now. “Fetch me breath-of-a-saint. And make haste.”
I stumble through the back door, down the sagging steps, to the garden at the rear of the estate. A chill wind bites at my stockings, and a whiff of salt-soaked air cuts through the bright crispness of autumn. The estate clings to the cliffside like a barnacle. Eastward lies the sea, though I avoid peering in that direction if I can help it. To the west, the beech trees bordering the property have begun to rust.
The garden is all snarling bramble and climbing weeds. A short, rotting fence surrounds the plots of vegetables and herbs. I bang at the gate until the latch unsticks. Nan would be horrified to see this level of neglect. Always, the land must be tended to, otherwise the Mother of Earth will not provide. Then again, Nan is long gone, only my memories a reminder of our time together. What I wouldn’t give to feel my grandmother’s embrace again.
I make a note to replace the gate latch before returning to the workshop with the requested cutting. Her ladyship is busy pouring dried herbs into a small woven bag stamped with the words:Lady Clarisse’s Apothecary.
