Chapter Three
VIOLET
Tiny bubbles form on the bottom of the pot. The grandfather clock in the other room ticks away. I watch closely, waiting for the first large bubble before I remove it from the heat.
Years of studying have led me to this point—watching water boil so I can make tea from a rare plant that could cure me, do absolutely nothing, or just as likely kill me.
A teacup holding the crushed flower paste sits patiently on the table for the next step.
I run my finger over the directions one more time to make sure I have followed them to the letter… as much as possible, anyway. They are not quite as clear as I would prefer.
Using a stone mortar and pestle that has been purified by fire, then cleansed with melted snow.
It’s unclear if that means to do these through ritual or simply by placing it in fire and then washing it with melted snow to clean away any lingering ash. I interpreted it as the latter, but now doubt gnaws at my insides.
The fae are known for their powers of glamour and compulsion and deception, among other things, but not rituals, or anything in that vein. However, that means very little when they keep most of their abilities secret from humans.
Crush the fresh leaves and petals of the frost bloom. Take care never to let the white petals come in contact with skin.
The entry goes on to explain that they would turn as transparent as ice and rot the delicate magic within. As fascinating as it would be to see, it isn’t worth giving up my last chance to grow another year older.
Place the mashed poultice in a cup. Boil the water, removing it from the heat when the first large bubble forms, then pour the water. Stir until the contents dissolve, then let the mixture steep for ten minutes before drinking.
I hadn’t written the warning down. I didn’t need to. Such things as “under-steeping will cause the plant to retain its poisonous properties, and over-steeping will cause the magic to rot and speed the curse to its ultimate end,” tend to stick with a person.
Giving the page a curt nod, I bite down on my bottom lip and turn back to the pot. My anticipation grows.
Not much longer.
I barely allow myself to blink until I see what I’ve been waiting for. Gripping the pot with a folded hand towel, I take it to the table and carefully fill the teacup, then flip over the minute glass to time it.
The paste dissolves with a few stirs. Instantly, the water becomes a deep blue with a beautiful floral aroma rising on white curls of steam.
The sand slips through the narrow glass neck.
Gradually, the tea lightens to a bright blue—more vibrant than any summer sky or paint pigment I have ever seen.
It’s hard to believe that small, white flower holds magical properties capable of affecting curses—and that it would be such a simple thing to prepare.
I don’t know if I am cursed, but after so long without a single answer or cure, it feels like one.
As the final grains of sand fall, I bring the teacup to my mouth and whisper a desperate plea, “Please work. Please work. Please work.” My breath sweeps the tendrils of steam from the surface of the water.
Then I drink until all that remains are glass-clear crushed petals that haven’t dissolved after all.
Warmth spreads through me, but it’s no different than with any other tea. A tingle so slight sweeps over my skin, though it’s impossible to tell if it is working or if it’s nothing more than anticipation and nerves fueling my imagination.
The grandfather clock chimes the hour. It’s later than I realized.
Demon shit.
Before heading upstairs to get ready for work, I do a quick clean.
I place the final pin to secure my hair into a simple, albeit slightly messy, twist at the nape of my neck. With that, I don my jacket and hat and grab my satchel. A little over half an hour after my little experiment, I’m on my way out the door.
The streets and sidewalks are busy, as usual, during mid-morning.
Each step causes the book to bounce against my hip like a thudding heartbeat while I focus on keeping my pace steady.
I return the smiles and nods of the familiar faces, waiting for one of them to stop me, reach into my bag for the satin-wrapped parcel, and reveal my crime to the world.
Perhaps it would have been better to wait until this evening to try the experiment. At least then my nerves could fray in the privacy of my own home.
An eternity passes before I reach the top of the steps to the archives. Warm air washes over me as I enter. The familiar scent of aged paper, ink, and leather is calming. This place has given me a sense of peace each time I step foot through the door.
Mr. Shaw is already reshelving books from the previous day.
His hair is parted to one side and combed neatly.
A few black strands persist in the mass of thick grays.
He moves slowly, and though his back is slightly bent with age, his hearing is as sharp as ever.
He pushes his thin, circular wire glasses up the bridge of his nose as he turns.
“How are you this morning, Mr. Shaw?”
The older man is one of the kindest people I know, though most find him unapproachable because he doesn’t talk much. It’s not that he’s quiet so much as he prefers to wait for others to give him room to speak.
“Ah, Violet, it’s always good to see your smiling face,” he says, then nods toward the large clock behind the main desk. “You’d better get going. Miss Byron arrived fifteen minutes ago, and she’s been looking for you.”
My brows rise. “What mood was she in?” I ask in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in.
He hums thoughtfully while scratching under his chin. “She is either happy or up to no good again.… It’s difficult to say.”
Talya is likely plotting something to torture Sebastian again.
There are times I envy them for having each other… then again, when they argue, I’m glad to be an only child.
I wave to Mr. Shaw and hurry toward the back room.
The lights are on, but it’s silent. Talya isn’t waiting for me as expected. She must have gotten bored waiting.
Quickly shrugging off my jacket, I hang it on the coat stand with my hat. I don’t waste time taking the wrapped book from my bag and striding down the last row of books. Reshelfing the book exactly where I found it brings an immediate sense of relief.
It was mixed in among a handful of antiquated human books that line the three bottom rows of the bookcases in the far back corner. The section reserved for books kept for prosperity that are considered low priority. Texts with information that has long been proven to be outdated.
It’s hard to say if they were intentionally hidden or stored there by mistake and forgotten when the fae demanded their return generations ago.
The door of the back room swings open on squeaky hinges. It’s followed by a thud of books being unceremoniously plopped onto the worktable, causing my heart to thud painfully against my ribs.
“Oh, good, you’re finally here, Violet,” Talya calls out from the entry. Her voice fills the room. “Where are—”
Instantly rising onto my toes, I begin wiping the highest shelf I can reach just as she rounds the far end of the aisle.
“There you are!” Talya heaves a sigh, letting her shoulders slump in exaggerated relief. She looks around, arching a brow. “What are you doing back here?”
I wave the cloth in my hand and start swiping at the next shelf down. “Just… dusting?”
“I’ve been waiting hours for you!”
“You have not.” I snort. “You only got here a few minutes before me. Besides, I got here at the same time I always do. ”
“Fine, fine… it feels like I’ve been waiting hours.” Talya grabs me by the wrist and pulls me to the other side of the aisle as if it will somehow give us additional privacy.
Playing innocent, I ask, “Is something the matter?”
Talya ignores my obvious act and bounces impatiently like a little kid waiting to go to the fair. “Something amazing happened, and I am about to burst if you don’t let me tell you in the next five seconds!”
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” I say.
“Do you remember when Mr. Marston came by with his eldest son two weeks ago?” I nod as she continues without waiting for an answer, “Well, when Father took them to the study after dinner, I thought for sure they were discussing trying to marry me off to Henry—but as it turns out, he was secretly courting Pearl Buntham and the two of them will be engaged by the end of the month. I cannot tell you how relieved I was when Father told me, but that didn’t explain why he’d been talking to Mr. Marston almost daily since then.
” Talya offers a broad grin, her round cheeks causing her eyes to close.
“That’s great,” I offer, not knowing what else to say. I knew she never wanted to marry him, but there’s more to this story for this level of excitement.
Her expression falls. “Honestly, Vi, sometimes I can’t tell if you are messing with me.”
I grimace apologetically. Talya shakes her head, laughing lightly.
“Well, Mr. Marston felt horrible and mentioned how Lilly is now ‘of age,’” she says in a mocking tone before grasping my hands in hers and squeezing so hard my joints pop.
“She apparently cares deeply for Sebastian—it seems the two of them shared more than one dance at her coming out ball—so now the two of them are engaged, and the Marstons are going to donate an amount equal to her dowry to the archives—and that’s not even the best part!
Father said he’ll give me the next year to learn how to handle the books under his supervision before he retires and leaves me in charge of running this place!
” Talya finishes in a rush that leaves her nearly breathless in her barely contained excitement.
I couldn’t be happier for Talya and even Sebastian.
“That’s fantastic, you’ve wanted this for so long.” I pull her in for a hug.