Chapter 4 #3
“Shut up, Ry,” I smacked him on the arm, which only made him laugh harder. Gia didn’t say anything. She gave me a slow, knowing thumbs-up. I rolled my eyes. But yeah…I was absolutely, hopelessly head over heels.
The next morning was alchemy class, one of the few classes I could actually look forward to. I stepped into the dim, warm room where rows of long tables waited, each set with a black iron cauldron perched above a steady blue flame.
Bundles of dried herbs hung from the low ceiling, swaying slightly in the heat, their shadows crawling along the walls like watchful sentinels. The air smelled of burning lavender and simmering oils, comforting in a way that made me want to linger.
I took a seat at an empty table. Luna slid in beside me, setting her thick alchemy book down with a quiet thud, while Jackson claimed the spot on my right.
His cropped, short black hair was neat and practical, and his olive skin contrasted with the dark collar of his uniform.
Fine, balanced features gave him a composed appearance: high cheekbones, straight nose, a jaw defined but not severe.
When he glanced at the front of the room, I caught the color of his eyes: charcoal gray, steady and observant.
By the time every table had its four cadets, the professor turned to face us.
She was striking in a way that seemed intentional.
Fair skin, bright emerald eyes that seemed to miss nothing, and a thick, long braid of red hair trailing neatly down her back.
The vivid color stood out against her dark green robes like a banner.
She carried herself with precise composure, movements measured and economical, as though even her gestures were carefully chosen.
“Welcome, students, to Alchemy 101,” she said, her tone clipped but not unkind.
“I am Professor Honeyburg. Today, you will be learning to make a basic healing salve, something simple enough to craft in the field, provided you can gather the right ingredients.” She flipped open her book.
“Please turn to page one hundred and forty-eight.”
I followed the instructions, though I didn’t need to. I knew this recipe by heart. My mother had drilled it into me when I was younger, insisting I learn after my endless habit of getting scraped, burned, or bruised.
“So,” Professor Honeyburg said, scanning the room, “who can tell me the difference between the poisonous fig root and the safe variety?” My hand twitched upward, but Jackson beat me to it. “Yes, cadet Windward?”
“The toxic fig root looks almost exactly like the non-poisonous one. The only way to tell the difference is that the harmless variety will glow faintly in the dark.” That was correct.
I remembered the way my mother had shown me for the first time, the faint green luminescence blooming under the shadows of her hand. I thought it was magic, then.
“That is right,” the professor replied with a nod.
“Now, hold your fig roots under the shade hood and check for the glow.” We obeyed.
A few cadets cursed quietly when theirs stayed dull.
Luna scowled at her root as if it had personally betrayed her.
The professor’s gaze sharpened. “For those whose roots did not glow, head into the greenhouse and collect a new one. And do not come back with the wrong kind. Poison figroot will kill you faster than you can call for a healer, and it does not care how careful you think you are. Test it before you bring it in. Is that clear?”
The words hit me harder than they should have.
For a moment, I heard my mother’s voice instead of Professor Honeyburg’s, low and serious, warning me the same way when I was little.
“Never mistake the bad root for the good one, Rynlee. It’s patient.
It waits for you to slip.” She’d made me repeat the rule until I could hear it in my head without trying.
Even now, standing in the middle of the academy, the memory clung to me.
Luna muttered something under her breath and stomped toward the greenhouse doors with the others.
“As for those whose roots glowed,” the professor went on, her tone softening again, “you may begin making your salve. Follow the recipe carefully, and I’ll be back shortly.
” She swept in after the other cadets, her robes trailing like shadows behind her.
I didn’t need the book. Closing it, I peeled the root, letting the pale flakes fall into the warm water.
A sweet aroma rose immediately, another telltale sign it was safe.
Dittany leaves came next, sliced thin with the small silver knife at my station, followed by fresh mint.
The moment I dropped in a pinch of great oak bark, the concoction melded together; the ingredients breaking down into something smooth, useful, alive.
Lastly, I poured it into a small tin we had been provided with on the table, and for the first time since arriving here, I was a little steadier. Like maybe this place hadn’t taken everything familiar from me just yet.