“No,” she said heavily. “I won’t.”
He grimaced, as if he actually felt some amount of guilt for what he’d done. “That’s not—I’m not talking about the Vow.”
She could hear the capital letter in the way he said it. That vow certainly made all others look flimsy by comparison.
“What I’m getting at is that the first spell a person casts is…” He waved a hand, searching for the right word.
“Magical,” she said. “In every sense.”
“Yes,” he murmured. And in that moment, there was something between them—an almost tangible connection formed by the same life-changing experience—that pushed everything else aside.
She looked away.
“Next lesson—spellcasting during brewing.” He sounded tired. “Shall we?”
Topping the to-do list was an anti-arthritic brew. Which happened to be one of the few that required aconite.
She chopped ingredients on her side of the table and studiously avoided looking at Blackwell, pulverizing ginger on his side. This was horrible in a way the previous afternoon had not been. Yesterday, she could detest him in peace. Today, he seemed to be reverting back to the man she’d started to like and respect. She didn’t want to see that Blackwell anymore. She couldn’t afford to forget what he was when he let the mask slip.
Every fresh ingredient in the brew they were making needed a preservation spell before stewing on the stove. The book didn’t explain why the spells had to be cast separately in this case, just that they did, and she didn’t want to know the reason badly enough to strike up a conversation.
But eventually they finished the pre-spell prep work.
“These ingredients can’t be allowed to go bad before the brew is used up,” Blackwell said. “The amount we’re making is meant to last one month, split between the dozen people who want it, but the preservation spell had better give it a shelf life of at least three months to account for patients who don’t suffer every day. Six would be better. So cast like you mean it, please.”
She arranged her body into position, arm trembling from nerves and fatigue. It wasn’t even noon yet, and she felt as drained as she had at the end of her first day, when he’d puther to work scrubbing the house. She thought of the warning in the top-secret report that got her into this mess: “Many were exhausted by the effort.” She’d disregarded that originally, chalking it up to sexism. Now she was forced to consider that it might be the unvarnished truth, which did not bode well.
She glared at the feverfew leaves.“Healdan.” The spell gathered steam through her body and burst out, but if it had any effect on the leaves, she couldn’t see it.
“Here,” he said—so much closer than she expected that she reared back, adrenaline surging. He took a step backward himself, hesitated and laid on the worktable the instrument he’d apparently been trying to hand her. It looked like a thermometer, except about twice the length.
“There’s a window of a few minutes when you can measure how long a spell will last—really, the strength of it,” he said, circling back to his side of the table. “Hold that incantometer right over the feverfew.”
The mercury—or whatever was in the tool—rose sluggishly upward,1, 2, 3,before giving up at4.
“Four as in four months?” she asked, unable to keep the frustration out of her voice.
“Four moons, technically, but it’s essentially the same. We’ll just put an expiration date on the bottles before delivering them. Give the next ingredient a try—please.”
She did. That spell measured in at only three moons.
The next one she cast—on his ground-up ginger—couldn’t get past the two-moon notch. She leaned against the table for support, thinking it a bitter irony that she wasso upset about her ineffectiveness at a task he was forcing her to do.
“I’ve overtaxed you.” Blackwell sounded almost apologetic. “You’ve cast, what, nearly twenty spells this morning? You’d better have something to eat, then go home. Take a nap, perhaps.”
This was her opportunity—to say she wasn’t up to the job, to beg him to let her go free.I was wrong, Omnimancer. Womenaremeant to be treated differently than men.
“I’m not frail” tumbled out of her mouth, all sharp edges and elbows. She wouldn’t say those other words. Not even if they were the only keys to freedom—though she doubted she could say anything that would change his mind.
As if to confirm that suspicion, he said, “You walk two miles through the forest every day. Of course you’re not frail.” He held her gaze, assessing her. “Spellcasting is demanding, Miss Harper. Magic isn’t jumping to do our bidding.”
Except for her magic, which instantly did whatever he wanted. If he’d ordered her to cast those preservation spells, rather than asked her, she probably would have managed. Right before passing out.
“Come on,” he said. “Into the kitchen.”
Perhaps he’d forgotten that if he didn’t add “please,” her muscles would spring into action, propelling her there. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care.
The silence pressedagainst him as he made Miss Harper a sandwich, his back turned so he didn’t have to look at her.
