She nodded. “Poppyseed, barleycorn, ynce, shaftment. Most brewing measurements are in barleycorns, each of which is—what—roughly a third of an inch?”
“Right.” He tapped the ruler marks running along the edge of the wooden table. “The small marks are poppyseeds, the larger are barleycorns. Cut the bark into squares ofpreciselyone b.c. by one b.c.”
“What happens if you add one piece that, God forbid, is a few poppyseeds over the limit?”
“Probably nothing noticeable. A handful like that could seriously undermine the brew’s effectiveness, though. The willow bark will have its normal, pain-easing effect, but the extra kick you would’ve had thanks to magic—gone.” He measured and chopped for a moment in silence. “Magic sets a high bar. Everything has to be just so or it won’t work.”
Barleycorn by barleycorn, they accumulated the proper weight on the scale—as measured in “grains”—and added them to the jar. Blackwell muttered spellwords over the mix, scowling in concentration, and poured the entire contents of a vodka bottle as a chaser. Another spell followed. He held the jar up to the light, staring critically at the result.
She couldn’t take the suspense. “Is it all right?”
“If I were a more experienced brewer, I could tell by sight.” He looked rather grim, as if it cost something toadmit that. “Fortunately, there’s a spell for determining efficacy.”
He sacrificed another leaf to the cause. The tincture glowed a deep green before fading to its original color.
“Good,” he said. “So glad we didn’t screw up one of the easiest brews in the book. This must sit overnight before it can be decanted and delivered, so?—”
“On to the cold medicine?” She bounced on the balls of her feet in anticipation.
“Brewing cannot possibly live up to that level of enthusiasm.”
She laughed, completely happy for the first time in a long while. “Just remember that I’m comparing it with grocery-store clerking.”
Miss Harper couldn’t leave soon enoughfor him—he was beside himself with anxious anticipation. Had she taken his bait?
The instant he heard the front door thunk closed behind her, he reached above the brewing room’s doorframe, feeling carefully for the spot where he’d cast a chameleon spell. His fingers fuzzed out of view just before closing on the camera he’d placed there.
It was the size of a lunchbox—the smallest model yet—but still required a magical assist to balance on the doorframe. He lifted it down, extracted the film cartridgeand all but ran to the receiving room, where he had an ingenious projector that developed film as it played.
The last image his camera captured shone onto the closed curtains—a black-and-white Miss Harper smiling as he crossed into the room, the leaf behind his back in mid-dispersal from his muttered spell to turn the camera off. He hit reverse and watched his assistant zip backward around the room, appearing as if she were clearing the worktable and putting the equipment into cabinets, before the camera arrived at the start of the film and automatically switched into play mode.
She put her newly bought spices on the table and tucked the paper bag behind the trash can. He smirked as she pressed her ear against the wall—that seemed a good sign. Then the moment of truth: She saw the spellbook. She reached out a hand.
And, pulling it back with a sigh, she spent the rest of the time on brewing preparations.
“Miss Harper, I amverydisappointed in you,” he muttered as the camera came to the end of the reel and shut off.
CHAPTER 9
Dinner was already underway when Beatrix arrived home, giddy from a day spent using her brain more than her feet. She sat in the empty chair next to the newly moved-in Ella and tried to avoid Rosemarie’s piercing gaze from across the table. The woman was practically scowling at her.
“I hear you have a new position, Miss Harper,” said Caroline Massey, now the only boarder out of three who wasn’t connected with the League. She had a habit of speaking so softly you could barely hear her, but tonight the dinner table was quiet enough to give her no competition. “How does it suit?”
“Very well, thank you—to my great surprise.”
Lydia had a short coughing fit.
“Oh dear ... Are you all right?” Miss Massey murmured.
“Very well,thankyou,” Lydia said, pinning Beatrix with a carbon copy of Rosemarie’s look.
“It’s fortunate, really, that I don’t hate every minute of the job,” Beatrix said, fed up with Rosemarie and closer to fed up with her sister than she liked to admit. “After all, I didn’t have any choice about taking it and can’t really quit.”
“I see,” said Miss Massey, who looked as if she didn’t see in the least.
“Would you like seconds?” Ella asked, handing Beatrix the casserole dish even though her plate wasn’t close to empty. As Beatrix took a small spoonful to be polite, Ella murmured: “The caterer’s pulled out.”
Beatrix bit back a gasp. Food at a conference was critical. The only thing worse than no caterer was no conference room.
