The heat in Felix’s chest cooled enough to gather himself, and he focused back on the boy beside him.
The rigid set of August’s jaw had softened, and the crease in his brow faded under the woman’s gentle magic. Her hands fell away, but August remained still like a stone. The music swelled, soaring to a crescendo before coming to an abrupt halt as the musicians finished their piece. A ripple of applause followed, then faded.
Only then did August’s eyes finally flutter open.
Felix studied him, evaluating. “Well?”
August’s face lit up with a smile so radiant it seemed to push back the shadows. It was the first full smile Felix had seen from him, and it sent a flutter through his chest. The bitter thoughts melted like snow under its warmth.
“Solach,” Felix muttered, amazed. If her magic had such a profound effect on August, what could it do forhim? His curiosity was, as usual, a gnashing, hungry thing.
Abandoning his interrogation plan, Felix dug out the rest of his caernand dropped it onto the blanket. “My turn.”
He deserved some relief after such a terrible day.
The apothecary door clicked shut behind August as he stepped out onto the deserted street. Fog had rolled in from the bay, swallowing the distant buildings. Soon, it would be too thick to see anything at all.
He had the tonic. Now he just needed to get home.
But he only made it a few steps before curiosity dragged him to a stop. He pulled the bottle from his pocket, lifted it to the streetlamp, and watched the liquid slosh inside.
Could it actually work?
If Lottie had come with him, she’d scold him for even considering trying it here instead of waiting for the safety of the cottage. She’d call him an idiot—lovingly, of course—and, as always, she’d win. He’d sigh, give in, and slip the bottle back into his pocket before heading home.
Which was exactly why, when he’d left just before dusk, he’d taken a plain dagger instead of Lottie’s and slipped out without her knowing.
If the tonic worked, the entire trip would be worthwhile, and she couldn’t be angry with him.
August sighed and pulled the stopper.
Here goes nothing.
The viscous liquid barely touched his tongue before his stomach revolted. It tasted like rotten fruit filtered through dirty dishrags. He spat it onto the street, but the bitter, acrid taste clung to his tongue like the grime at the bottom of a pond.
“Gods,” he gasped, spitting again for good measure. No way he was drinking that without something to wash it down.
He wiped his tongue on his sleeve as he looked up at the light filtering through the stained-glass windows of the nearby pub.
One drink.
He’d force this swill down, then head straight home.
The smell of tobacco smoke and roasting meat met August as he pushed through the heavy oak door. A fire crackled in the massive hearth, warming the small space. The walls, covered in intricately carved wood paneling, featured gilded accents that were clearly aiming for sophisticated, though they’d missed the mark and barreled straight past it to gaudy. August grimaced at the old ship anchor mounted on the far wall, a tacky centerpiece for an already dreadful design.
There were far fewer patrons than he had guessed from the level of noise. Six, maybe seven, around a single table, though August didn’t dare look up long enough to count. A near-empty pub wasn’t great for staying hidden.
A bald man slammed his hands on the table and pushed up from his chair, but his legs didn’t catch him. He hit the ground with a thud, and the others erupted in laughter. They were clearly hours into a night of heavy drinking.
Good. At least if they were drunk, they wouldn’t recognize him. And even if they did, they’d forget by morning.
August chose an empty table at the back of the room and sank into a chair, then set the tonic bottle down, staring it down as he traced a knot in the wood with his finger.
The usual creeping sense of being watched intensified until the air seemed to crackle and buzz with the tension of it. August tugged his hood low and ducked his head.
This was a mistake. He never should’ve come in here. Why hadn’t he just gone home?
He tapped his boots against the ground, his legs itching to bolt.
