At the next bend, my body leans into the East Wind. I should withdraw, but there is something stabilizing to his presence as we cross this uncertain water. Heat blankets my spine, and over time, my shivering tapers off. He sits stiffly against me, but doesn’t pull away.
Hours or days or months later, the boat knocks against solid land. The vessel dips as the East Wind disembarks, but I remain in place, eyes squeezed shut.
Suddenly, he grasps my upper arms and hauls me from the boat. Once Eurus sets me on stable ground, I peer up at him, some of my earlier wariness having dissipated. I cannot remember the last time I was consoled. I do think he comforted me, in his own way.
“This way,” he mutters gruffly.
I’m led up another staircase, down a stone corridor, all murk and depths, but thankfully dry enough. My loafers clip out a frenetic pace.
From shadow, there is light. We arrive at an open chamber, the air perfumed by moss that clumps the smooth paving stones underfoot. Meanwhile, an entire stretch of wall has succumbed to its springy tufts. Overhead, the stone ceiling is partially caved in, almost as if something blasted it apart. The jagged opening has since been covered by a layer of stained glass, which filters the light into beams of fuchsia, olive, and mustard.
The chamber houses a large garden with raised beds. I recognize the more common herbs of rosemary, lemon verbena, basil. Yet there are some plants I don’t recognize. Curiously, I touch one such leaf: heart-shaped, with a deep orange blossom. I frown, mentally flipping through the pages ofThe Practice of Herbal Remedies. Could this be meolan? I’ve never seen it in person. Once dried, its petals can heal all manner of ailments of the lungs.
A sparrow flits toward its nest in the cracked wall. To my right, a trough has been hewn into the floor, allowing a stream of water to carve through the space. It seems the garden has been contained to the manor to protect it from the salt-drenched air beyond. I glance at Eurus, who studies me as I dip my hand into the stream. When I lift my fingers to my mouth, I am startled by the lack of salt there. “It’s fresh,” I say in surprise.
“For as long as you are in my employment,” the East Wind says, ignoring my comment, “this will be your workshop. Here, you will find all manner of plants and herbs, in addition to tools, oils, stone andglassware, a hearth. If you require additional supplies, the manor will procure them for you. Now. What are the three most potent poisons you know how to create?”
I scan the overgrown garden. It is certainly extensive, but it will take time to identify what, exactly, grows here. “Fable, Goldenrod, and Eastern Blood.”
“And out of those three, which is the deadliest?”
I hesitate, feeling suddenly uneasy by the direction of this conversation. “That depends.” I link my hands together at my front, feeling much more grounded now that I am surrounded by plants. “Some bane w-weavers claim Fable to be the deadliest. It works quickly to paralyze your n-nervous system.” Lady Clarisse favors Fable for its particularly agonizing deterioration. Cruel, but effective. “Others s-swear by Eastern Blood.”
“What are their properties?”
I pause. What are the consequences of divulging this information? Eurus claims my knowledge of the herbal arts is significant, but only because he lacks it himself.
As though sensing my reluctance, the East Wind extends his wings, their massive shadow eclipsing me entirely. Scarred skin, stretched taut across hollow bones. He has received his fair share of hurts.
“Let me be clear,” Eurus articulates, in a voice that allows no argument. “If you withhold information from me, you are making your life decidedly more difficult. Grant me your cooperation, and you will not suffer here.”
I shuffle back a step to place distance between us, my gaze watchful. Indeed, I have suffered enough these long years. I am grateful Nan never had to witness it. “Fable w-works quickly, and though it is not deadly, it c-causes the drinker such incredible p-p-pain that many seek to end their suffering through other m-means. Eastern Blood has n-no specific taste or scent. Once it is consumed, y-you may begin to feel dizzy, but a decent night’s r-rest will cure that. The following week, your muscles m-might feel w-weak, you might have difficulty w-walking, but again, a hot meal will do wonders.”
I lick my lips as the East Wind’s large hand drifts toward his thigh. Those long, pale fingers curve slightly, as though seeking something tangible to grasp.
“By the third week,” I continue, “you will lose y-your sense of smell, then your sense of taste. Your throat will feel s-sore, as though you’ve caught a cold. Days later, you will pass in your sleep, with no outward indication of the cause of d-death.”
“I see.” He rubs at his face. A lock of dark hair falls forward, which he tucks away. “What, in your opinion, is the most powerful of those three that you listed?”
His question takes me aback. “My lady believes—”
“I didn’t ask for her opinion,” he cuts in harshly. “I asked for yours.”
I blink at him, wide-eyed. This is a jest, no? Yet the moments pass, and he continues his uncomfortable scrutiny. He wants my opinion, for however little it is worth.
Nan would say Goldenrod. She always knew best. But having observed Lady Clarisse for a decade now, I have learned that pain has its place, it has its power, and that power should not be ignored.
“Eastern Blood,” I tell him. “It is slowest to t-take effect, but there is no antidote, and it is the only one that invariably leads to death.”
He gives me a slow once-over. At least, I think he does. I wonder what he sees. I wonder if he finds me lacking. “How long will it take you to produce each of those poisons?”
I make a mental calculation. “Goldenrod w-will be completed by tomorrow evening, so long as my w-work is uninterrupted.” This last bit, I speak with a pointed look. “Fable will require at least two weeks to complete, though sometimes it takes up to f-four, depending on how much sap can be b-boiled out of the black pine root. Eastern Blood requires five to six w-weeks. This is, of course, dependent on whether I have all the necessary ingredients on h-hand.”
I sense his discontent and ponder how it might soften or harden his expression. “It is cutting things close, but… very well. You will produce each of those poisons,” he tells me. “But I want a triple dose of Eastern Blood.”
Dutifully, I nod, even as the knowledge that I will be contained here for weeks stirs my panic. There must be a way to get in touch with my employer. Perhaps I can use this time to find out where the East Wind has hidden his god-touched weapon. “What is expected of m-me? Am I to remain in that tower until you call for m-me, or…?”
“I’m not here to monitor you,” he says. “You are free to explore the manor at your leisure. My only requirement is that you report to me with your progress at the end of each day.”
