Chapter Two
CASSIA
The thick paste of the wooden bowl shifts from a muddy brown to a pale green as I stir slowly.
The transformation happens in streaks, and my eyes lock in on the ribbons of color swirling as I introduce sage oil drop by drop.
The scent fills my small workspace—a corner of my bedroom—earthy and sharp, with the underlying sweetness of the birchweed sap I’d ask mother to collect from our garden last week.
“Almost there,” I mutter to my invisible audience, reaching for the powdered sealwort root.
My fingertips brush the small clay jar, its texture grainy against my skin.
It slides to the edge of the table, stopping just to the side of me.
Precision matters most in these final steps.
Too much sealwort and the mixture becomes rigid and cracks; too little and it slides off the skin like oil in water.
I’ve failed in both directions more times than I care to count.
Frustrating, but inevitable.
I tip the smallest pinch of the fine powder onto my palm, gently blowing half of it into the mixture.
I don’t want to risk overdoing it…again.
The paste bubbles faintly, tiny air pockets rising to the surface and bursting in slow motion, indicating that if I cease movement for a moment, the mixture will begin boiling.
I continue stirring, counting under my breath.
One hundred clockwise rotations, then the same in reverse, breaking any pockets that form.
This is my nineteenth attempt at creating a wound sealant—a transparent second skin that would encourage the perfect environment for healing.
I’ve read accounts of similar things in old medical texts, descriptions of liquid bandages that protected injuries while allowing them to breathe.
If I could replicate it, even crudely, it would aid my mother when she cuts herself in the kitchen.
Or Lachlan when he returns from his travels with scraped knuckles and mysterious bruises.
It could mean something beyond these walls.
The paste thickens as I work, clinging to the wooden spoon.
I hum, tampering the flutter in my stomach.
That’s promising. The last batch was too liquidy, dripping down wounds instead of sealing them.
Adding another pinch of sealwort, I hold my breath as it’s stirred in, praying to the stars this is finally it.
A soft knock at my door breaks the hardness of my gaze, though I remain still and continue to stir.
“Cassia?” My mother’s voice, gentle but insistent.
“Come in,” I answer, not looking her way as the handle twists. The mixture is at a critical stage—the ideal balance between each of my previous failures. Maybe this is the one.
The door creaks open, and I catch my mother’s reflection in the small mirror propped against the wall.
She’s always had a calming presence about her.
It settles my nerves without any effort on her part, even when I’m severely stressed over something as small as the dish in front of me.
Her eyes scan my face before drifting to the bowl, a familiar mix of curiosity and concern in her expression.
“Still working on your healing paste?” she asks, shifting to stand next to me. Notes of my favorite meal fall from her linen skirt, coated in the essence of warm bread.
Salmon. Not a meal we often get the privilege of, and is usually only reserved for particular occasions. I don’t question her, though, instead focusing on my answer while she works up the courage to tell me whatever is creasing the skin on her forehead.
I nod, giving the mixture one final stir before setting the spoon aside. “I think I’ve almost got it this time.”
She makes a soft humming sound, her way of expressing approval without saying it outright. Living in secrecy teaches you to speak in body language and expressions—I could have an entire conversation with each person in my family without ever uttering a word.
A rare privilege to experience, some would say.
“What’s the new ingredient?” She leans closer, crinkling her nose as her eyes study my work.
“Sealwort. Ground it finer than before.” I tap the tiny jar with my fingernail.
“The last batch was too liquidy, so I think the powder will help it set without hardening completely, if dosed in micro-increments.” She smiles at that, her hand finding my shoulder and squeezing gently.
I lean into her touch, accepting the way in which she prefers to express her love.
“I need you to clean up soon,” she says, her voice dropping lower as she clears her throat. “Your father’s boss is coming for dinner tonight.”
My stomach tightens. Vague memories of disgust wash through me from his previous visits. “Hardan? Tonight?” I already know it’s him, but I need her to confirm it. Not knowing for sure will just increase my anxious thoughts.
“I’m afraid so. You know how he insists on these dinners twice a year.”
I do know. Hardan Lesson, my father’s supervisor at the library, uses these social visits to remind my father of his place—to reinforce the hierarchy that keeps every man looking over his shoulder and every woman staring at the floor in submission.
“He’s bringing Eliana?” She nods, and my lip curls at knowing I’ll have to listen to the man berate and dehumanize his wife for the entirety of their visit.
I’ve never met Eliana—or anyone for that matter—but I’ve heard her voice through the floor in the past. I rage over the careful way she speaks, always waiting for her husband to finish spewing his nonsense before offering the most innocuous of comments.
The flat cadence of her words, devoid of anything that might provoke a reaction, is almost enough to yank me from hiding so her husband can learn what blood tastes like.
I hate him for what he’s reduced her to.
But I keep my mouth closed from the violence, instead saying, “I’ll be ready,” before turning back to my workstation, dismissing my mother.
I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d rather ignore her presence than say all the things spiraling through my head. She’s too kind for my brand of hate.
She hovers for a moment longer, her eyes on the small collection of jars and bowls that represent my modest laboratory. I know what she’s thinking—that I take too many risks, that my experiments could raise questions we can’t answer if an Enforcer were to demand a random inspection.
But she says nothing of this. She understands what these small creations mean to me.
“Don’t take too long. I am just finishing up the preparations.” She presses a light kiss to the top of my head before leaving me alone once again.
When the door closes, I examine the pale green paste in my bowl. It’s thickened to the consistency I’ve been aiming for—not solid, but not flowing like water. I dip a fingertip in, smiling at the texture. It’s smooth, almost silky, with a cooling sensation as it clings to my skin.
Hope flutters in my chest, a feeling I’ve learned to temper with caution.
I’ve been here many times before…thinking I’d finally solved the puzzle, only to watch my creation fail in new and frustrating ways.
I understand that’s the nature of everything—retrying until something works or until you die—but it’s frustrating all the same.
I want things to work the first time, not the twentieth.
I scoff at my naive thoughts. As if.
Wiping my finger on a scrap of cloth, I reach for a small vial. Using a thin wooden spatula, I transfer a portion of the paste into the vial for later testing. If this batch works, I’ll need to be meticulous in documenting every step I took to create it.
Dipping the same spatula back into the bowl, I scoop out a generous amount and consider where to apply it.
Usually, I’d make a small cut on my inner arm—controlled and easy to hide—but today I decide to try it on unbroken skin first. If it burns or causes irritation, better to find out before introducing it to an open wound.
My hand carefully applies the paste to the outside of my wrist, spreading it into a thin layer.
The cooling sensation intensifies—a mild tingling that’s not unpleasant.
The paste adheres well, neither dripping nor smearing, and I watch with fascination and unsteady anticipation as it begins to lose its green tint, becoming more translucent by the second.
“Please work,” I whisper to every star that will listen, holding my arm steady.
The transformation continues, each moment of suspended silence prickling my skin as I wait impatiently.
The paste thins further, molding to the contours of my skin.
For a moment—one perfect, hopeful moment—I think I’ve succeeded.
It appears exactly as I’d imagined: a transparent second skin, flexible and protective.
But of course my dreams stop there.
The tingling intensifies, sharpening into discomfort. Fingernails dig into my palms as the layer continues to harden, growing rigid instead of flexible. My skin beneath it whitens as the paste contracts, pinching and pulling from every direction.
“No, no, no…” I tap the edge of the hardening film, wincing when a tiny crack appears.
Then another. And another. The lines spider through the entire layer and, within seconds, pieces begin flaking off, leaving behind redness and a coppery taste in my mouth.
I should really stop biting my cheek when I get angry.
Managing a few deep breaths, I finally sigh before brushing the remaining fragments into my palm. Twenty attempts, twenty failures. What did that man once say about doing the same thing over and over again?
It doesn’t matter, regardless that I change minute things each time.
This one came closer than the others at least. The paste adhered well initially, and the transparency was perfect.
Perhaps a few granules less of sealwort will be the magic attempt?
Or maybe adding some rendered pine resin for flexibility?