Erasmus frowned and removed his spectacles. “Hold your horses,” he said. “Queen Cordelia hasn’t fallen over and died after being poisoned. Perhaps this manbane is insidious. The victim merely appears asymptomatic, but feels the effects over time. There are many such poisons.”
“There are?” I said.
He nodded. “I’ve seen many a great witch struggle with some spell or potion or other—but they eventually figure it out. It takes practice, little flower, like all things. But I’m sure your potion has done the job, albeit not the best—ack!”
Erasmus jumped out of the way just as a large gray rat scampered across his feet and dived into a hole in the opposite wall.
“Blasted rodents!” he cursed, brushing off his trousers.
I cringed. “I should probably get going then,” I said, hopping onto the stairs in case the rat decided to come back. I fancied I saw a pair of eyes in the hole. “Keep me updated?”
“I will. And also,” Erasmus said as I was about to turn, “don’t tell your prince that the poison is witch-made. I don’t think letting everyone know that a witch is the cause of Queen Cordelia’s ailment would do any favors for witchkind.”
“He isn’t my prince. And it isn’t a witch. It’s the duchess!” Though I knew he was right, I couldn’t help but be indignant.
“The royals would sooner imprison a witch than they would a duchess, little flower,” Erasmus said, his face grim. “Promise me you’ll keep this, and your identity, a secret.”
I sighed. “I know. I promise.”
––––––––
WHEN I TOLD THE STRONGFOOT’Scook, Jasmine, that I wanted to help with the meals, she laughed at me.
“I am sure, Miss Flora, that you’ll find something else to amuse yourself with,” she said, gesturing dismissively with a wooden spoon.
But I was adamant. After pestering her for hours, she finally caved and let me help with dessert.
“I didn’t plan on making any tonight, so you can do what you like,” Jasmine said, handing me an extra apron. I thanked her profusely and set to work after the rest of the kitchen staff took their break.
Theodora had made her raspberry tarts in front of me so many times that I had learned the recipe by heart. Thankfully, I had some experience baking them, but they never tasted quite as good as Theodora’s. It never occurred to me that the exquisite taste of all Theodora’s food was due to her magic. I was eager to try it myself.
I spent the entire afternoon and the earlier part of the evening sifting and mixing and whisking. It was all very standard, but the most peculiar sensation overtook me as I made the tarts—very much like the sensation of making that potion at Lana’s cottage.
My arms and fingers tingled and my chest felt warm. Even without touching my crystal I saw a pulsing purple aura seeping into the dough from my hands. I was using magic. And it felt good.
By the time dinner was served, the tarts were ready.
Jasmine and a couple of other kitchen maids peered over my shoulder as I plated the pastries. They were not immaculately shaped like Theodora’s. Some had too much filling, others had too-thin crusts, and I had forgotten to sprinkle sugar on several. But I knew I had done a decent job.
I plucked one off the plate and invited the others to do the same. One bite and I knew I had done it. The peculiar, zingy aftertaste in Theodora’s tarts was present, though while hers tasted more mellow, mine tasted of something zesty.
“This is...not bad at all,” Jasmine said, her dark eyebrows shooting up to her hairline.
I smiled. It was as good of a compliment as I could get from her.
Tori and Lord Strongfoot, on the other hand, were more enthusiastic in their commentary.
“By golly, I’m never letting you leave,” Tori said, reaching for a third tart.
Lord Strongfoot reached for his fifth, a shower of crumbs and sugar falling from his beard like snow as he took a bite. “I’m almost afraid to say it, but Amarante, these are better than my wife’s custard pie!”
For the next couple of days, I spent my time in the kitchens. Jasmine had begrudgingly allowed me to help out with daily meals. What I lacked in skill I made up for in magic, and though no one knew why the food tasted marginally better, it was agreed that my presence in the kitchen had something to do with it.
As I continued to read Lana’s book on potion-making, I realized that attention to precision was a skill that did not come magically. But I was building on that very skill under Jasmine’s watchful eye. By the end of the week, I figured out how to mince and slice evenly and knew exactly how long it took for onions to cook through. It was only a matter of time before my growing confidence in the kitchen translated to potion-making, something I was sure Lana would be satisfied with the next time I saw her.
But as I learned the skill of measuring and slicing and timing, something else was nagging the back of my mind. I did not know how to levitate objects. It seemed like a pointless skill to acquire. I certainly wouldn’t be able to make things fly around outside of Witch Village—yet I wanted to master it. For the first time in my life I had something special and I had every intention of making the best of it.
One night when Genevieve was asleep, I attempted to move a perfume bottle. It was on the vanity a few feet away from my bed. I positioned myself at the foot board, my arms crossed under my chin, and stared hard at the tiny glass bottle.
