Chapter 1 #2
“Come here, Min.”
My pulse scatters, a wild-eyed beat bruising my sternum. Head bowed, I shuffle across the room, skirting the small woodfire stove.
Selecting a flower stalk from a nearby vase, she holds it up for my perusal. “Identify.”
How can she expect me to focus after informing me I will lose my home? I try to concentrate on the flower, its spherical head. “Handmaiden’s basket.”
She dips her chin in satisfaction. “Uses?”
“It is a natural blood thinner. When picked after the frost, the petals may be used as a temporary stimulant.”
“And?”
Was there a third use? Not that I can recall. I have scoured The Practice of Herbal Remedies and committed its instructions to memory. There is no third use, which means this is a test.
“There is none,” I state firmly. Only when she returns the bloom to the vase do my lungs loosen.
“Adequate,” she says, though the curtness with which she speaks suggests otherwise. “But tell me, what do you get when you combine handmaiden’s basket with three wings from the sand dusk moth?”
A decade I have worked for her ladyship, yet I am still no more than a lowly apprentice despite my twenty-two years of age.
She does not trust me to handle the immortal-born ingredients, secured always under lock and key.
She believes me incompetent. At this rate, I will never become a full-fledged bane weaver. “I don’t know,” I whisper.
“Of course you don’t.” Pityingly, she smiles. “I see this is too complex for you, but I suppose I should not be surprised. Some of us are destined for greatness. Others, unfortunately, are only fit for chopping herbs.”
My tongue falls slack behind my teeth. She is correct. Someone needs to chop herbs—and I am adequate at the job.
Lady Clarisse shifts her focus elsewhere, much to my relief. “I’ll need you to bring the prisoner in the northern tower his meal while I’m out,” she states, snagging her sweater from the wall hook and shrugging it on. “Can I trust you to do this properly?”
I straighten in surprise. Each day, I bring meals to the prisoners in the cells below. Never this one. Never the northern tower. “Yes, my lady.”
Satisfied, her ladyship brushes past me. She has nearly reached the front door when my foolhardy tongue decides to expose itself. “Are y-you sure this is the best w-way to go about things?”
She halts in place, spine rigid. “Excuse me?” Slowly, she turns to face me, strands of her black tresses pulling free of the low tail hanging down her back.
My fingers clamp the rough cotton of my apron.
I force them to loosen, though I cannot mask their trembling.
“The prisoner.” I lick my lips. “It’s b-b-been three months since he w-was captured.
If you have b-been unable to glean whatever information you n-need from h-him, might it be possible that he doesn’t kn-kn-know anything? ”
The vacuity of her expression is one I know well. I have irked her, or made a nuisance of myself, or both. “And what makes you think you have the authority to question my work?”
I drop my eyes. “I apologize, m-my lady. I did not mean to imply th-that I have authority over anything.” All of it, every hoarsened word, uttered in a breathless rush. “I am only concerned that th-th-these attempts will lead to d-disappointment, and I would not want your efforts to go to w-waste.”
Breath held, I peer upward through my eyelashes. With pursed lips, her ladyship wanders nearer, considering what I have said.
Luckily, she is lenient this morning. “Worry not. The faster you can make what I require, the quicker I obtain what I need from the prisoner.” She pats my arm with all the compassion of a venomous snake.
“I know it might be difficult for you, Min, but surely even the least intelligent people can manage to harvest a sprig of mint.” She shoves me toward the table, where the dented metal tray used for serving meals rests.
“Now make haste. Oh, and mix two spoonfuls of Nightmare’s Blood into the soup before serving it to him. The potion is finally ready.”
I stare at my employer with thinly veiled shock. Nightmare’s Blood?
“Is there a problem?” she demands.
“N-no, my lady.” My gaze lowers to the floorboards beneath my scuffed loafers. The floor is safe, always safe. I stare until her footsteps recede, and I am alone.
Nightmare’s Blood. What a vicious brew. In essence, it bleeds one’s mind of clarity, casts a veil across their senses so that the line between waking and dreaming is blurred.
Such vulnerability will allow her ladyship to wring whatever information she seeks from the prisoner.
Three months she has tortured this man. But he has yet to break.
The thought of administering this poison chills my blood, but the power to decide does not belong to me.
I cannot change what is. I must eat, sleep, make a living.
I must carve out a life, same as all the rest. The last thing I want is to attract Lady Clarisse’s wrath.
She favors the lash, amongst other cruelties.
But I see myself in this man, as I do in all the prisoners.
It would be a comfort to receive kindness, however reluctantly given.
After gathering the prisoner’s soup—potatoes in bone broth—I squeeze two drops of Nightmare’s Blood into the meal, as instructed. The scent of crushed cherries unfurls as the liquid blackens. Two heartbeats later, it lightens to its normal hue.
Six hundred and forty-four stairs carry me up the long, spiraling throat to the northern tower. When the solid steel door at last flickers into view beneath the lone torch set into the wall bracket, I slow, halting a few steps below the landing.
The cells buried in the belly of the estate are barred in iron, with narrow holes cut into the upper walls, which allow the glow of sun and moon to pierce the gloom.
The northern tower is different. It is singular, its isolated chamber offering neither window nor light.
As such, the prisoner has spent three months in darkness.
If he was separated from the rest, he must be powerful indeed.
Warily, I step onto the landing, whose window offers a view of the realm beyond: the sea, the cliffs, over which the tower juts.
My fingers tighten around the tray of food pressed against my belly.
A sound, heavily muted, comes from behind the steel door.
As I strain my ears, it comes again. Metal.
It sounds like a heavy chain being dragged across the stone floor.
The knots within me tangle further. My task is simple: push the tray through the slot located at the bottom of the door.
“Walk away,” I whisper. Easy, to do what is expected of me.
Instead, I slip my hand into the pocket of my apron.
Only one universal antidote exists: Winter’s Sunrise.
It requires no less than six weeks of steeping, the water continually refilled as its three components—pumpkin seeds, sweet mint, and the hair of a demon—break down into a paste.
As a precaution, I always carry a small vial with me, for exposure to poisons carries significant risk.
I am moving before my mind has the opportunity to deter me. Pulling free the stopper, I pour three drops of the antidote into the man’s soup, watching as it disperses. Then I shove the tray through the slot in the door and flee down the stairs as though death itself is in pursuit.