7 #2
By the time Ruiz returned with a box full of notes and bottles, Caya had finished a cup of tea, checked her mirror once more for any signs that her transformation was failing, and was standing behind his desk to stare at the painting.
She was struck by how young and happy he looked, even in portrait.
The man she’d met had haunted eyes and more lines on his face than the one who held this woman and little boy close.
Before Seaward Palace was torn down, Caya had been part of a similar portrait.
She and Yoselin had pressed their cheeks together, smiling from ear to ear, while Queen Evaline and King Oberon sat in high-backed chairs behind them.
Though Caya had been the only one not wearing a crown of some sort, she and Yoselin were painted with such matching gleefulness that anyone who saw the picture would have thought they were sisters.
It had hung in the throne room, as though the Seawards wanted everyone who came to petition them to know that their family hadn’t been whole until Caya entered it.
The day came back to her as if it had just happened.
Yoselin, then five years old, had been dressed by lady’s maids, while Caya had waved away the servants to tie herself into her own much simpler outfit.
“I hate portrait days,” Yoselin complained as the maids combed and braided her thick dark hair. “They’re always so boring.”
“I’ve never had a portrait done,” Caya said from over by the vanity, where she was carefully weaving a ribbon into her pinned hair. It hadn’t been even a year since her parents died, and she was still far more used to doing things for herself. “I think it sounds kind of nice.”
“Standing for hours sounds nice?”
“No, having a portrait done. That way, you can remember your loved ones forever.” Memory was such a fragile thing for her then.
Her parents had seemed eternal and invulnerable, and she fell asleep most nights wondering if her remembrances of them were accurate or just an amalgamation of them and the royal family.
She had no portraits, no photographs. Just her own young mind, forgetting more and more every day.
“Even if it’s boring, the picture will be nice. ”
Yoselin made a thoughtful sound. In defiance of her servants, she hopped down from the stand, her hair streaming behind her, and threw her arms around Caya. “You’re right. I’m being rude. I want to remember us forever.”
“Us and your parents.” Caya laughed, her mouth muffled by Yoselin’s shoulder.
“No, us,” Yoselin said firmly. “They’re the parents I have, but you’re the sister I chose.”
Like nearly everything else from her old life, the portrait was gone now, and the echoing memory was all that she had left.
She understood why Ruiz brought his with him, even to a rented manor, even though it must hurt to look at it.
She would have given anything to recover hers, and instead she was left to be the only one to remember it forever.
“This is what you’ll be looking for,” Ruiz said, setting the box on his desk.
He rifled through it until he found a journal, which he flipped open to a realistic drawing of an orange blossom: a star-shaped white flower with golden stamens tipped in orange.
Five oval petals ended in sharp points, though there was a second flower on the page with six.
Lines and notes on the bottom noted that the blossom was two or three centimeters across, with a delicate, waxy feel and a scent of citrus and tuberose.
“Since the Alban Peninsula has the largest number of orange trees in the world, the healers had an abundance of flowers at their disposal for their salves.”
Caya eyed the drawing dubiously. “I thought orange blossoms were for perfume or cooking.”
“You can use a sword to cut a ribbon, but that doesn’t mean its only purpose is spectacle.”
Ruiz handed her the journal before turning back to the box to remove five glass bottles.
Every page was filled with his cramped handwriting.
Failed potions, discarded ingredients, sketches of plants.
The recipe for the morpher potion was somewhere near the center, with every page thereafter dedicated to different ways to increase or reduce the potency of its effects.
“These flowers are everywhere,” Caya said. “How am I supposed to figure out which one is spirits-blessed?”
Floor plans and photographs were the next to be placed on the table, one of House Muerte and one of House Vida.
House Vida was a five-story wooden tower with floor-to-ceiling windows.
A decked terrace led to the front door and a floating staircase that wound around the outside of the manor.
The top floor lacked the windows of the others, but was surrounded by another terrace, this one covered by a domed rooftop.
By contrast, House Muerte was not a manor but a castle.
Rounded turrets, cylindrical towers, and looming spires soared skyward from the center of a small forest, which surrounded the gentle hill the stone structure rested on.
“Each of the Houses is surrounded by forest and gardens, but you’ll find their spirits-blessed orange blossoms in their interior courtyards.
Safe from the public and easily accessible by the coven.
The magic in your blood will guide you to the right ones.
” Ruiz had circled two different rooms on the plans, one that appeared to be on the top floor and one that appeared to be on the ground floor.
“Each event will be an opportunity to get inside, and, hopefully, to update our map of the layout for future use. These floor plans are from the last Coronet, and some aspects might be outdated.”
Caya set down the journal and picked up one of the bottles. “I should hang on to another one of these just in case, right? I’m still working on my endurance.”
“Drinking more of the potion won’t help with that. Only your mental fortitude will,” Ruiz said, taking the bottle. “We have less than a year to turn you into the perfect weapon, and it will take more than books and drinks to do that. It will take practice. Sparring.”
With a grin, Caya asked, “Are you offering, old man?”
“There are practice swords in the armory.” Ruiz snorted. “I’ll try not to make you bleed.”