Chapter 6
“HOW ADEPT ARE YOU AT making poisons?” Eurus asks, directing me down a corridor on the second level of the manor.
The summer I came to live with Nan at her estate, she placed a mortar and pestle into my hand. I haven’t looked back since. “I can manage,” I say.
“That tells me very little.”
I glare at the East Wind’s back, where his scaled wings sit flat along his spine.
With his long-legged stride, I’m forced into a trot.
“If you want a more detailed r-r-response,” I say, “you need to ask a more s-specific question.” The slap of my shoddy loafers is abruptly muffled by the long, worn rug stretching the length of the hall.
Tall, elegant windows panel one side, offering a view of the island, where sandy footpaths wind down the protruding rock to the strip of beach below.
He grunts, quickening his pace. The East Wind is… irked by my challenge? “Allow me to rephrase,” he says. “How much of your employer’s work was hers, and how much was your effort?”
All teas made in-house are touched by my hand, every one of them. “M-most teas, brews, and poisons w-were created by me.”
“But she takes the credit.”
Admitting this feels like a betrayal to my employer. There would be no apothecary without her. She informs me of this often enough. “I’m j-just her apprentice.”
“Mm.”
The corridor empties into a vaulted chamber.
My breath hitches, and I peer upward at the spherical glass ceiling overhead.
The East Wind crosses into an opposite hallway, but I linger, taking in the luxurious, cushioned furniture, the walls featuring a surprisingly eclectic collection of framed art.
A sitting room, perhaps? The manor is surprisingly clean.
I spot neither dust mote nor cobweb, smudged glass nor grime.
Nan’s estate is cluttered on the best of days.
I hurry after my captor. At least my clothes have dried, though the pain of my wounds is still a distant nuisance. As for the manor, there is an unnerving vacancy to the space. No flame brightens the ample fireplaces, no bodies occupy the halls. I question how long it has sat empty.
I finally catch up to Eurus as he rounds a corner. “Can you s-slow down?” I huff.
He halts, waiting until I draw alongside him. “Are there certain poisons that require immortal parts for their creation?”
“No.” My thoughts drift to The Practice of Herbal Remedies.
Sometimes, brews would take months to produce, the proportions modified until Nan deemed them satisfactory.
Lady Clarisse hasn’t the patience for that.
According to her, two canines extracted from a certain hound hailing from the realm of Under possess the same numbing properties as combining three parts red sand, one part willow branch, and three parts glacier ice.
When creating Ivory—one of her ladyship’s most popular beauty teas—with the latter group of components, the draught must steep for seven weeks. But with the teeth? Only three days.
“I w-wasn’t allowed to access those ingredients anyway,” I add, glancing sidelong at Eurus. As if sensing my attention, he shifts his hood in my direction. My heart stutters, and I snap my gaze straight ahead.
As we pass the third or fourth dining room, I glance through the open doors. Walls paneled in blue silk cool the space. Giant tapestries hang alongside oil paintings bordered in ornate gilded frames.
“So you know enough to create poisons with natural materials alone?” the East Wind remarks after countless minutes walking in silence.
“I do.” It is how one manipulates the roots, stems, and buds that changes a brew’s character.
Whether one slices stems vertically or horizontally, whether the flowers are crushed or crumpled or rolled or diced, at dawn or at dusk, in sun or in rain.
The cycling of sun and moon, the acidity of the soil, the frequency of watering—so much affects a plant’s nature.
I decide whether those elements lead to everlasting love or a slow, agonizing death.
I suppose I never realized the power that holds.
We turn a corner. Down to the first level—lower. As we descend into a dank, dim stairwell, the slap of water draws my focus to the bottom steps. The lowest level of the manor has been entirely flooded by sea water. A small boat, tied to a wooden post, rocks to and fro.
My tongue feels as though it has swollen to thrice its normal size as the East Wind climbs into the vessel and settles onto the bench. “Get in,” he says.
I am frozen, a broken stone having risen from the earth. “I can’t,” I whisper.
He stares at me. The darkness of his hood blends easily with the low light. “What do you mean you can’t?”
“I’m afraid of w-water, remember?”
Liquid licks the walls of the submerged chamber. It reeks of salt. My pulse climbs.
“That is not my problem,” Eurus responds in his toneless rasp. “Close your eyes, if you must.” He gathers the oars, slotting them into place. “I want no further delay.”
“Why can’t you f-f-fly there?”
“My wingspan is too broad for some of the smaller passages. Now get in.”
I have been here before. Hesitate, and suffer the consequences. The bruising on my chest and back throbs, a reminder of what occurs should I step even a toe out of line.
I climb into the vessel on shaky legs. My shoe catches on the lip of the hull, and I go sprawling, a brushfire igniting across my back where the fabric drags. The boat rocks. A splash sends me cowering. Only a thin layer of wood separates me from the ice-slickened water.
The East Wind loosens the rope with a tendril of wind. Once released, the boat bobs, the current pulling us down the leaden passage.
“Wait.” My hand lashes out, clamping the closest thing in reach: the East Wind’s wrist.
He stiffens, tears his arm away with a jagged exhalation. I swallow and shrink lower. It appears the East Wind does not like to be touched, or at least not without his consent. “S-sorry.”
“Keep your distance,” he growls. “Now close your eyes.” The oars cut the water. “Breathe.”
Behind my eyelids, there is darkness. Within that darkness, there is the memory of hands dragging at my flesh, the burn of salt in my throat. Floundering, thrashing, clawing. Then, a drifting, velvet peace.
“I can’t breathe,” I whisper hoarsely. “The w-w-water…”
“Listen to my voice, bird.” Something heavy cups the back of my skull. His hand? “I won’t let you drown.” There is a pause. My nape prickles beneath a scrutiny I cannot see. “Remember that I have need of you.”
I shiver, my mind small and distant as the East Wind circles the oars, propelling us backward through the passage. If I do not think too deeply on who this voice belongs to, I’m able to focus on its timbre, which is coarse, yet strangely soothing to my fractured mind.
Every so often, there is a light splash. It is the Master of Sea, mocking me. He tasted six-year-old Min’s fear and now seeks to claim what was promised: a young child forced beneath the waves, a sacrifice in exchange for the return of a beloved husband.
At the next bend, my body leans into the East Wind. I should withdraw, but there is something stabilizing to his presence as we cross this uncertain water. Heat blankets my spine, and over time, my shivering tapers off. He sits stiffly against me, but doesn’t pull away.
Hours or days or months later, the boat knocks against solid land. The vessel dips as the East Wind disembarks, but I remain in place, eyes squeezed shut.
Suddenly, he grasps my upper arms and hauls me from the boat. Once Eurus sets me on stable ground, I peer up at him, some of my earlier wariness having dissipated. I cannot remember the last time I was consoled. I do think he comforted me, in his own way.
“This way,” he mutters gruffly.
I’m led up another staircase, down a stone corridor, all murk and depths, but thankfully dry enough. My loafers clip out a frenetic pace.
From shadow, there is light. We arrive at an open chamber, the air perfumed by moss that clumps the smooth paving stones underfoot.
Meanwhile, an entire stretch of wall has succumbed to its springy tufts.
Overhead, the stone ceiling is partially caved in, almost as if something blasted it apart.
The jagged opening has since been covered by a layer of stained glass, which filters the light into beams of fuchsia, olive, and mustard.
The chamber houses a large garden with raised beds.
I recognize the more common herbs of rosemary, lemon verbena, basil.
Yet there are some plants I don’t recognize.
Curiously, I touch one such leaf: heart-shaped, with a deep orange blossom.
I frown, mentally flipping through the pages of The Practice of Herbal Remedies.
Could this be meolan? I’ve never seen it in person.
Once dried, its petals can heal all manner of ailments of the lungs.
A sparrow flits toward its nest in the cracked wall.
To my right, a trough has been hewn into the floor, allowing a stream of water to carve through the space.
It seems the garden has been contained to the manor to protect it from the salt-drenched air beyond.
I glance at Eurus, who studies me as I dip my hand into the stream.
When I lift my fingers to my mouth, I am startled by the lack of salt there. “It’s fresh,” I say in surprise.
“For as long as you are in my employment,” the East Wind says, ignoring my comment, “this will be your workshop. Here, you will find all manner of plants and herbs, in addition to tools, oils, stone and glassware, a hearth. If you require additional supplies, the manor will procure them for you. Now. What are the three most potent poisons you know how to create?”
I scan the overgrown garden. It is certainly extensive, but it will take time to identify what, exactly, grows here. “Fable, Goldenrod, and Eastern Blood.”
“And out of those three, which is the deadliest?”