Chapter 3
“MIN.” A PIECE OF PARCHMENT slaps my chest. “Master Alain should have everything listed in stock, but if for some reason he doesn’t, go to Pierre’s on Market Street and tell him I’d like to call in a favor.”
“A favor?” I accept the list from Lady Clarisse in puzzlement. Behind me, a kettle boils over the hearth, and hot porridge bubbles in a small pot on the kitchen stove. “Why—”
“No questions.”
I duck my head. “Apologies, my lady.”
Each week, Lady Clarisse sends me into town to collect the ingredients she requires.
Though we grow the majority of our herbs at the estate, those originating in far-flung realms can be difficult to source.
In these instances, we purchase from Master Alain, a local herbalist who has a reputation for acquiring rare flora.
“While you’re gone,” she says, turning to study her appearance in the mirror, “I’ll be working on Our Lady of Mercy.
It’s paramount that you acquire every ingredient on the list. If you fail, the draught will be useless, and I’ll be forced to start over.
” Her dark eyes seize mine through the looking glass, and I freeze, a hare caught in a toothed trap. “Understood?”
The threat of punishment is enough to ensure I obtain the necessary components, whatever the cost. “Yes, my lady.”
Her mouth wilts with distaste as she smooths a bit of powder over her cheek.
No sign of the scar. Nevertheless, it is clear her appearance does not satisfy her, as she shies from her reflection to tie sprigs of lavender with twine, oddly quiet.
She slips the bunches into a glass jar and rests it on the wooden shelf over the sink.
Meanwhile, I glance through the list more carefully.
I don’t want to miss anything. One item, however, gives me pause.
“Pardon, my lady, but I’m not familiar with this ingredient. What is vanishing night?”
“Ah.” Her features grow pointed with pleasure as she turns.
“A few months ago, I stumbled across a merchant who hailed from a realm called Under. He showed me all manner of oils and herbs, powders and poultices. Vanishing night was one of his rarer finds, a dust ground from the fangs of a darkwalker.”
My attention latches onto that word: darkwalker. “What is that?”
“An immortal born of darkness, originating from a realm far north of the Gray. They feed on humans.”
“They consume mortals?” I ask in borderline horror.
“Not their bodies. Their souls.” The edges of her mouth curl upward in some horrid likeness of a smile.
“Once I have the vanishing night for my brew,” she whispers fervently, “I will finally learn the location of the prisoner’s god-touched weapon.
For months, I’ve tried every potion under the sun to weaken his defenses; nothing has worked.
But with this element, I shall succeed.”
I stare at her in confusion, my dismay surrounding the darkwalker already forgotten. “God-touched weapon?”
“Slow, stupid Min. Have I taught you nothing over the years?” Yet she speaks with rare affection, as though I am but a loveable, senile pet.
“Only a god-touched weapon can fell a god, and if I am correct in assuming our dear prisoner is, in fact, one of the Anemoi, then he possesses a weapon powerful beyond measure.”
My eyes are wide, wide, wide. “What sort of weapon?”
“An ax. Not only is this weapon a conduit to his powers, but it is perhaps my only means of obtaining what I seek: the heart’s blood of a fallen god. With it, I will have no need for those lesser immortals. Why, I could create a tea that would grant immortality itself!”
Immortality. What wonders this word wrought. “That’s amazing,” I say, because it is what she would expect from me. “I wasn’t aware that was possible.”
“The naysayers doubt me. But soon I’ll have the evidence to prove them wrong.
You know what I have endured. What I continue to endure,” she says, glaring in my direction.
My stomach lurches, and I angle my face toward the floor.
“With immortality, I will reclaim the power I lost. Never again will the gods take from me those I love most. Never again,” she whispers with curdling fury, “will I be weak.”
Lady Clarisse returns to her herbs, a clear dismissal, but my feet remain entrenched in the floor.
Everlasting life. Not once had I questioned my employer’s motives, but it makes sense.
The unexpected death of her husband left her ladyship with a hole in her heart.
She wants to ensure that will not happen again.
And I realize now that the prisoner was correct: Lady Clarisse would never let him, or any of the immortals, walk free.
At the very least, disposing of them would prevent the prisoners from taking their revenge.
“What are you waiting for?” she barks. “Off with you!”
My heart trills alongside my ribs. Mother of Earth, give me strength. “If it’s not too m-much trouble, my lady, I w-w-wanted to broach the topic of s-selling the estate.”
Her thin eyebrows climb, and a lock of ebon hair falls across her sweat-glistened cheek. “Oh?” She cants her head, inspecting me as though I am a small grub. Something in need of squashing. “And why is the estate any of your business? You should be thankful I provide a roof over your head at all.”
“Understood, my lady. But I w-w-was thinking. Wh-what if I bought the estate from y-you?”
Her dark eyes bulge. “You? Purchase the estate?” She crows a laugh.
“You need funds to purchase property. What will you do, pull coin from out of thin air?” Shaking her head, she rinses her hands in the washbasin, dries them on a cotton rag hanging from the wall.
“Not that it’s any of your concern, but I already have a buyer interested. ”
No, I cannot accept this. “Wh-what if I offered something else besides c-coin?” Contrary to Lady Clarisse’s beliefs, I’ve a small inheritance left to me by Nan that I refuse to touch.
The funds are buried in a metal tin behind the garden shed.
I’d hoped to one day use them to reinstate Nan’s business, once I gained enough experience.
Surely St. Laurent is large enough for two apothecaries?
“Something besides coin,” she iterates, curious now. “Like what?”
“Information. From the p-prisoner.” My voice strengthens. It could work. “I could f-find out where this god-touched w-weapon is.”
My employer considers me with new eyes. There is no laughter, no scathing remark or questioning my intelligence. I have captured her attention at last.
Then she snorts. “Have you been listening to anything I just said? The brew will gift me what I seek.”
“But—”
She lifts a hand, cutting me off. “While there’s still daylight.”
I bite my cheek, knowing better than to argue.
Gathering my basket and coat, I hurry out the back door, down the pathway cutting through the overgrown grass until I reach the iron gate guarding the entrance to the estate.
Steel clouds roll in from the east, and large waves hammer the rocks below.
My body stiffens, already anticipating the water’s icy touch, but I am safe here, on these cliffs that rise high.
The wind, cutting and cold, tugs at my threadbare dress and apron.
Gooseflesh prickles my skin, and I shiver.
I’ve two, maybe three, hours before the storm hits.
My pace quickens as the path angles downhill toward St. Laurent, with its shining bell tower and lustrous pillars nestled like pearls against the expansive lavender fields and tidy vineyards.
Dirt hardens to smooth, rust cobblestones, their uneven surface poking painfully against the worn soles of my loafers.
I wince. The thin rope I’ve used to bind my shoes is slowly disintegrating.
Lady Clarisse gives me a few pennies’ worth of salary each week, whatever remains after room and board have been deducted.
In a few months, I should have enough saved to purchase new shoes.
I dare not risk spending my inheritance on something so minor.
Apartment buildings border the northern edge of town, arched windows stamped button-like down their fronts, the corroded copper roofs akin to sloped green hats.
As I travel farther south, storefronts begin to replace the elegant structures.
A small chapel has burrowed itself into a hillside.
The sparkle of its windows reminds me of jewels: emerald swirled with aquamarine.
Meanwhile, a chorale drifts through the open doors of the sanctuary.
Whisking around the corner, I step onto Market Street, which is wide, framed by green hedges and two-story edifices constructed of gray stone.
Ivy climbs the ancient walls and iron balconies ornament the upper levels.
The air, perfumed with warmed sugar and yeast, drifts from the bakers’ carts that are too many to count.
Truly, one may purchase a tart or loaf of bread from any corner.
Farther on, a large fountain burbles at the entrance to the local park.
After purchasing a small sourdough bun, I tear into its soft center and allow my pace to slow.
Each window is dressed dashingly in dried flowers and wreaths.
Welcome mats grace the doorways of every bakery, florist, butcher, and grocer.
A fine-looking gentleman in a tweed coat walks his dog along the strip of grass bordering the road.
He tips his hat in my direction with a freckled hand, and I drop my eyes, hurrying onward.
Two women bundled in sweaters sip hot tea on the small porch of a bookshop, their bronzed skin flushed in the chill of morning.
“I, for one, thought the production was phenomenal,” says the first woman as she refills her porcelain cup from a teapot. “I swear I could smell the meat as he cooked her dinner.”