“I will be heading into town shortly,” she says, her back to me. “I expect your work to be complete by the time I return.”
Not that it’s any of my business, but Lady Clarisse rarely ventures into town so late in the week. “Are there additional supplies you need? I’m happy to go in your stead.”
“This has nothing to do with inventory.” She snatches the breath-of-a-saint from my hand, tossing it into the pot. The tea’s lavender shade deepens to violet. “I’m meeting with someone about selling the estate.”
A low, incessant drone begins to flood my eardrums, not unlike a swarm of bees. “You’re s-selling the estate?”
“Yes.” She sounds positively charmed. Giddy, almost. “I’m tired of this dump. It’s too far from town, too expensive to maintain, and business suffers as a result. It’s time for something new.” Grabbing a small flask, she fills it with Lover’s Dream, then stoppers it. “Imagine:a shop on Market Street. No,twoshops, a whole slew of them!” Her soft, girlish laugh tinkles the air. “I deserve this.”
Color bleeds hot across my pale cheeks. It feels as though her ladyship has taken a pitchfork and rammed it straight through my chest. What is left? A heart full of holes.
I love the estate dearly. How can I not? I’ve lived the last sixteen years of my life amongst its wild grounds. Nan took me in—a young girl of six—when my mother failed to care for me. I’ve lived here ever since.
“I don’t understand,” I croak. “How will y-y-you—”
“What have I told you about your incoherency? Speak clearly, or do not speak at all.”
I swallow down all the mangled bits and fractured words. “How—” I pause. “How w-will you find enough land to grow everything required for the business? Moving into town means higher property taxes, l-less space, and—”
My employer whirls around, regarding me with familiar disdain. “When I want your opinion, Min, I will ask for it.”
I fall mute. Lady Clarisse’s name may be marked upon the deed to the estate, but she does not love this place as I do. To her, the narrow stairs are a nuisance. The kitchen is cramped, outdated. She despises the wallpaper, yet has never made an effort to replace it.
The estate is not perfect, but it is home. It is here I first learned to create teas, a child standing only as tall as Nan’s hip. My grandmother loved the land, loved the character of the warped floorboards and creaking beams, though both the landscape and architecture of St. Laurent differed greatly from her homeland. Following Nan’s passing, Lady Clarisse was kind enough to allow me to stay on as an employee, after having bought the estate in a private sale. If it is sold, I will lose Nan’s crushed ginger fragrance, which still lingers in certain rooms. I will lose, too, those memories of belonging, ofNan. “My lady—”
“Come here, Min.”
My pulse scatters, a wild-eyed beat bruising my sternum. Head bowed, I shuffle across the room, skirting the small woodfire stove.
Selecting a flower stalk from a nearby vase, she holds it up for my perusal. “Identify.”
How can she expect me to focus after informing me I will lose my home? I try to concentrate on the flower, its spherical head. “Handmaiden’s basket.”
She dips her chin in satisfaction. “Uses?”
“It is a natural blood thinner. When picked after the frost, the petals may be used as a temporary stimulant.”
“And?”
Was there a third use? Not that I can recall. I have scouredThe Practice of Herbal Remediesand committed its instructions to memory. There is no third use, which means this is a test.
“There is none,” I state firmly. Only when she returns the bloom to the vase do my lungs loosen.
“Adequate,” she says, though the curtness with which she speaks suggests otherwise. “But tell me, what do you get when you combine handmaiden’s basket with three wings from the sand dusk moth?”
A decade I have worked for her ladyship, yet I am still no more than a lowly apprentice despite my twenty-two years of age. She does not trust me to handle the immortal-born ingredients, secured always under lock and key. She believes me incompetent. At this rate, I will never become a full-fledged bane weaver. “I don’t know,” I whisper.
“Of course you don’t.” Pityingly, she smiles. “I see this is too complex for you, but I suppose I should not be surprised. Some of us are destined for greatness. Others, unfortunately, are only fit for chopping herbs.”
My tongue falls slack behind my teeth. She is correct. Someone needs to chop herbs—and I am adequate at the job.
Lady Clarisse shifts her focus elsewhere, much to my relief. “I’ll need you to bring the prisoner in the northern tower his meal while I’m out,” she states, snagging her sweater from the wall hook and shrugging it on. “Can I trust you to do this properly?”
I straighten in surprise. Each day, I bring meals to the prisoners in the cells below. Never this one. Never the northern tower. “Yes, my lady.”
Satisfied, her ladyship brushes past me. She has nearly reached the front door when my foolhardy tongue decides to expose itself. “Are y-you sure this is the best w-way to go about things?”
She halts in place, spine rigid. “Excuse me?” Slowly, she turns to face me, strands of her black tresses pulling free of the low tail hanging down her back.
