She was too busy building up a sweat, creating what looked like a bowl full of sparkly, incredibly thick peanut butter. And then she lit the ancient burner under her Gram’s big old pot, and dumped in the stuff, and poured in some water.
And not from the tap.
From the barrel outside.
Because before, she’d been afraid that rainwater in a potion might poison someone.
But now she knew it wouldn’t. It wouldn’t hurt anyone, and it definitely wouldn’t hurt Seth.Nothing can, she thought absently, as the brew began to bubble and the kitchen filled with a too-thick, strange-smelling steam.
Like smoke, but less acrid.
Spicy, she wanted to call it. But that wasn’t it either. In truth, it was more a feeling than a smell.Like lying under a blanket on the couch as Gram brings me ginger ale. And just as she had this thought, she tossed in five whole garlic bulbs all at once. And got the exact reaction she’d expected. In fact, she jumped back the instant she did it, and sure enough: the pot rattled. It shook.
Then it let out an almightyPOP. As if she had stuffed several balloons in there.
Funny, she thought. But amusement wasn’t what she felt. No, what she felt was satisfaction, unmistakably satisfaction. And it was so strong, she didn’t really know what to do with it all. It filled her body all the way up, until it simply had to overflow.
So it wasn’t a surprise when tears spilled down her cheeks. When she had to sit down. When she had to think over all the fears she had ever had, and all the ways they were no longer true.
“I think I’m okay to do this now, Gram,” she said to the spirit that was sometimes there, and sometimes not. And in reply that spirit brushed a hand over her hair, gentle but unmistakable.
I think you are too.
CHAPTER TWELVE
She didn’t want to go into town while in the middle of an enormous burst of personal growth, and acceptance of her hidden skills, and the new awareness that there were racing snails and talking trees and ghostly grandmothers around. But the simple truth was: she didn’t have half the things she needed to make the other potions she wanted to. She didn’t even have the right kind of container for the salve the Extra-Strength Soup had turned into.
It needs a small jar with a screw-top lid, that little witch voice inside her said.
And it wasn’t just that she wanted to listen to the voice.
She was starting tolikethat voice. So instead of doing anything sensible, like sleeping for three days, she grabbed her jacket, and remembered her shoes, and wheeled her bike down off the porch. Then sped off into the misty, slightly pink-tinged early morning, in a much more sprightly manner than she had any right to.
This is going to hit me hard later, she thought as she weaved around the puddles that pocked the lane into town. Though as soon as she did, her head filled with a dozen more ingredients she needed to make the perfect Stay Awake Draught. She even thought a Sleep Substitute type of thing might be possible—something that didn’t just keep you going, but replenished the body as if it had in fact slept. And had to brake because of it, in the middle of the golden-leaf-littered road, and get out her journal, and scribble feverishly for twenty minutes.
By the time she arrived in town, it was practically a normal time to be there. Signs adorned with Halloween decorations andpromises of pumpkin spice were being set out. Awnings were being unfurled, bright in the light drizzle that fell. And smells weaved their way down the street.
All of it the same as it had been before.
Except for one difference.
One shocking difference, that nearly made her careen into the nearest mailbox. She had to brake so hard she almost went over the handlebars. Then couldn’t do anything but sit there on her bike seat, eyes as big as moons, mouth hanging open.
Because there, across the street, was a supernatural creature of some kind.
Not even ofsomekind—it was completely recognizable to her. It had the legs of a human, clad in what looked like a pair of jeans. But above the waist it was a bull. A great big bull, with a snout and enormous curling horns and everything. A Minotaur, she knew. Just standing in front of the movie theatre, examining one of the posters.
Like that was normal. Like it was considering going to see the latest Marvel movie.
How on earth do people not see something that enormous, she wondered.
Though size didn’t really seem to be the issue. There were two other normal-sized beings down the street—one with a set of leathery wings, and the other without a face. But nobody reacted like that was the case. She saw the old dude who ran the hat store lift a hand in greeting, to the one with a blank swirl instead of an expression. Then Blank Swirl lifted a hand back.
And Blank Swirl was not alone in being acknowledged. There was what looked like a goblin—green-faced, vaguely moist—carrying a donut and a coffee in its hands. Which meant that somebody at the donut place must have served it. Somebody must have taken whatever weird money it offered, then handed over a strawberry glazed.
Though why this was the fact that unglued her mind she had no idea. It felt more like the whole idea of a goblin having a morning latte should’ve been the thing to do it. Or the hand wave betweenBlank Swirl and the hat-store owner. Or even the very existence of Minotaurs.
Hell,especiallythe very existence of Minotaurs.
