“Sorry.” The Crow, usually so quick to make light of the most somber events—a trait that drove my sister up the wall at the beginning of his stay in Glace—appears more dismal than I do this evening.
“Nothing happened, Izzy.” Aodhan gives her hand a gentle squeeze.
Before the bleakness can fester, Ilya slings his arms around Izolda and Milana’s shoulders and shepherds them toward the door. “Kostya’s Grand Jubilee isn’t going to organize itself, ladies.”
The instant they’re gone, I mutter to Aodhan, “Guard your mind better.”
He sighs, running a hand through the dark-brown hair he keeps cropped close to his scalp. “You try having someone in your head.”
Gods forbid.
I graze my necklace with the edge of my thumb, praying the ornament cast in the Cauldron can preserve me from more than just the effect of salt and iron…for if I cannot safeguard my people, then how can I possibly protect a mate?
1
ISLA
The letters on the labels twitch, rearranging and distorting themselves without cease. I clasp my lids, reopen them. The lines and curves freeze, but their inertia lasts only for a second before they’re warping once more.
I snatch an apothecary bottle and squint at the label to decipher my grandmother’s penmanship. Because of my condition, she’s taken to writing in bold, block letters, but unfortunately, many of her ointments and poultices were brewed before my birth, so their contents are inked in elegant cursive.
It takes me a hot minute, but I finally manage to decipher the words: “Reduces inflammation of the gut.”
After tucking the jar into the waistband of my leather trousers, I magick myself out of Shoshair’s closet of miraculous remedies and soar back her way. The hallways—especially in this part of the Sky Kingdom—are eerily quiet, what witheveryonehaving gone to Glace for Konstantin Korol’s Jubilee.
Although Phoeppa suggested keeping my grandmother company so I could attend, my parents insistedIstay at her side. They trust my uncle implicitly, but Phoeppa isn’t a Crow. Hecan’t tap into the pack’s mind link and inform my father should Shoshair’s sudden illness worsen.
In truth, even if Dádhi hadn’t insisted, I would’ve stayed, because my paternal grandmother means everything to me.
I make a pit stop at the Sky Tavern where I snatch a mortar and pestle, unscrew the lid on the jar, then tip it. A sliver of mossy fungi plummets into the scooped gray stone, releasing the scent of damp earth. I mash it up into the finest sludge, then uncork a bottle of extra strong liquor—which Connor brews from mountain berries and which my grandmother adores—and pour some atop my mushroom puree.
Once I’ve got everything mixed, I fill a metal stein and give my concoction a whiff. Somehow, the liquor has intensified the muddy odor. Not to mention that it’s tinted the clear liquid brown. I scan the countertop for a syrup likely to camouflage both the smell and color. I opt for a neon green one and drizzle in a liberal amount.
The result is…
I shove the drink away so fast that some splashes onto my hand and then I dry-heave, stomach spasming from the fumes. That fungi paste must be extra potent if the stench alone can reach my abdomen. After my throat stops contracting, and saliva stops filling my mouth, I add another finger of berry liquor, another squirt of syrup, then dump in heaping spoonfuls of sugar.
Tentatively, I bring the cup to my nose. The aroma hasnotimproved. My grandmother adores me so much that she’d probably take a sip of my healing cocktail. Nevertheless, I adore her too much to subject her to such a rank beverage.
I glance at the jar again. Could the fungi have expired? It didn’t smell expired in its original form. Perhaps I could spoon some mash onto her tongue? Just as I go to wash the stone bowl and pestle, another idea slams into me.
I prick my index finger on one of the ruby spikes adorning my hoop earrings, then think of the berry cream Shoshair relishes as I press my bleeding fingertip against the metal mug and paint one of the only sigils that I don’t botch—twin peaks. The instant my blood penetrates the stein, the odor turns sweet and creamy.
Feeling rather proud of myself, I carry my potion to her quarters that are steeped in darkness. A single oil lamp combats the gloom. It burns on her nightstand, casting the heavy tome propped on her thighs in light.
“I whipped up your favorite berry shake!” I tread toward the bed I spent the greater part of my childhood in, snuggled up beside my grandmother.
“Oh, sweetheart.” A smile presses into her wan cheeks. “You didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”
“It was no trouble at all, Shoshair. How do you feel?” I plop down on the edge of the mattress. “Any better?”
“A little under the weather, but I should be right as rain in a day or two.” She closes the book and sets it aside.
Thanks to the foiled sketches of flora stamped into the cloth-bound cover, I deduce it’s a book on plants. Her favorite.
I lower my gaze to the drink in my hands, a touch of guilt coiling through me that I plan on tricking her into ingesting a remedy. Especially after her whole spiel about how one’s immune system turns weak if one forever coddles it.
Yes, this is what our pack healer—who brews remedies for everyone but herself—explained to me when I suggested she take a dose of something and let me fly her to Glace so she didn’t expend energy.
