Chapter 14
I’m perched on the edge of Gryphon’s bed.
When I open Mom’s journal, the scent of pressed herbs leaps out at me.
This time, I start on the first page. Each entry is meticulously written, every plant cataloged, every remedy described in detail.
But it’s the errors I’m here for, the deliberate inaccuracies only a trained eye would notice.
I find the first on page seven. I run my finger along the line.
“Cutleaf toothwort grows in sandy, sun-drenched fields,” it reads.
But that’s wrong. Cutleaf toothwort, with its peppery taste and ability to ease sore throats, grows in moist, shady woodlands.
I’ve harvested it myself, felt its damp leaves beneath my fingers.
My brow furrows as I read the false line again, slower this time.
That’s when I notice it. In the word “cutleaf,” the letters e, t, and a are faintly darker than the others, as if Mom had gone over them a second time.
I stare at it, my heart fluttering. I flip to the next page, belladonna, the one where she’d written that it’s safe for children.
My heart thuds. The o in belladonna is ever so slightly emphasized.
Not enough to pick it out unless you’re looking for it, but a pattern nonetheless.
I hurry to the foxglove page, where I’d already spotted another mistake, and am gratified to see that both the x and v stand out almost imperceptibly from their peers.
It’s a while until I find the next certain error.
“Goldenrod blooms in early spring,” the entry states.
That’s wrong. Goldenrod—miraculous in its ability to fight infection and inflammation—blooms in late summer, its yellow plumes bright against the fading green.
My pulse quickens as I see a faint distinction in the r.
I flip to another page, the edges of this one brittle. It’s been turned to often.
“Horehound is used to induce sleep,” it reads.
My lips press together. Horehound is an appetite stimulant, a remedy for coughs and congestion.
It sharpens the senses, wakes the body—the opposite of inducing sleep.
My eyes narrow as I trace the words, and there it is, subtle but deliberate: the h.
Next comes a page that says basil should never be planted next to tomatoes, which even a layperson would recognize is a lie. The s and the i are marked.
I scribble down what I have so far: ETAOXVRHSI. Then, switching the order: ISTHROVXAE. Then another: TROXSAHIVE. None of those options make sense. It feels like I’m on the edge of something, a secret my mother is whispering from the grave, but no matter how my brain spins, I can’t decipher it.
Suddenly, three letters jump out.
V-E-X.
My heart thumps. Had my mother discovered a cure?
If so, why keep it a secret? I pinch the soft web of skin next to my thumb, then stop, remembering how much she hated when I did that.
I have HAROTIS left. With that I can make ROAST or SHORT or dozens of smaller words, and there’s even more possibilities if the V, E, X can be reused.
None of them makes sense combined with VEX, though, not that I can see.
I keep scouring the journal for more letters but am unsure what else is meant to be a clue, if anything.
Did my mother deliberately leave a message, or am I chasing falling leaves?
I’m suddenly overcome by an exhaustion so pure—abject grief and confusion and fear distilled into a potent tranquilizer—that my head dips. I will rest my eyes, just for a few minutes, and then get back to the journal. I shove it beneath Gryphon’s mattress and curl up on the edge of his bed.
.
“Here.”
The rough word jars me awake. I blink, panicking momentarily at the darkness. “Gryphon?”
His shadowy figure stands over me, holding out a bowl. Outside the window, night has fallen. I must’ve slept for hours. I shoot up so quickly that my head spins.
“I told my mother you weren’t feeling well,” Gryphon says, his face unreadable. “She was angry you weren’t available to cook for us today, so be ready to deal with that next time you see her.”
I rub my face. It isn’t just the hour making me light-headed. I haven’t eaten all day. That’s when I smell what he’s offering me. “Is that soup?”
He sets it on the end table, placing a spoon beside it and removing the plate he’s set over the bowl to keep it warm.
A delicious puff of steam curls into the air between us.
“The butcher offered it to me for helping move some heavy boxes,” he says gruffly.
“It’s little more than broth and vegetables, but he said it’s well-seasoned, at least.”
“I’m not that hungry,” I say, refusing to thank the boy who led my brother to his death.
He’s quiet for a moment, then inclines his head, the gesture almost tender. “It’s hard to take care of everyone else,” he says, “if you don’t take care of yourself.”
A dangerous softness tugs at my ribs. I drown it in anger before it can take root. “I said I’m not hungry,” I snap. Naturally my traitorous stomach chooses that moment to grumble like a goat locked out of the barn. I cross my hands over my belly to muffle the embarrassing sound.
“Suit yourself,” Gryphon says. Is that laughter I hear in his voice?
He turns toward the door. “I recommend you don’t come down until tomorrow, if you can help it,” he is saying.
“Both my parents are in a mood.” He stops with his hand on the doorknob.
I think he’s going to say more, but then he steps out into the hall and shuts the door behind him.
I wait all of five seconds before I scarf down the soup.