it would make everything go away. I sat on the closed toilet, my knees drawn up to my chest, my arms wrapped around my legs, wondering if there was any way I could get myself out of this mess. Aunt Grace had said that even if I left Avalon, I’d be a target now that people knew about me. And since Grace had my passport, it wasn’t like I was getting out of Avalon anyway.
Tears stung my eyes. Why couldn’t my mother just be a normal mom? Why couldn’t she just go to some stupid twelve-step program and dry out? She’d never even tried. If she’d only tried to stop drinking, maybe I never would have gotten so fed up I had to run away, and none of this would have happened. Ididn’t need her to be perfect, I just needed her to be sober. Was that too much to ask?
I sniffled, then dashed the tears from my eyes. If there was one thing I’d learned in my life, it was that tears didn’t get me anywhere. I was the one who always had to keep my head while my mom had hysterics over the crisis-du-jour. I’d gotten very good at setting my own feelings aside to be dealt with later, so that’s what I did now. It was harder than usual, but eventually I managed to pull myself back together.
Ethan was gone when I finally ventured out of my cave. Kimber was clattering around in the kitchen again, and I headed toward the sound. I smelled something cooking. At first, I thought it smelled like rice, but I realized that wasn’t right. My stomach, having thoroughly emptied itself of its meager contents, thought whatever it was smelled pretty good.
When I entered the kitchen, Kimber was mashing something the color of paste and the consistency of vomit through a strainer. Suddenly, it didn’t smell quite so good anymore. Thick, off-white liquid dripped through the strainer into a small pot sitting on the stove. When she’d forced every bit of liquid she could out of the strainer, she dumped the contents into the trash.
“Almost ready,” she said, not looking at me, her whole concentration fixed on her task. Steam wafted into her face, and I saw that a fine sheen of sweat coated her skin. Whatever she was doing, it was hot work.
“I’m afraid to ask,” I said, “but what’s almost ready?”
She poured a good-sized dollop of honey into the pot and stirred it around. Then she turned on the stove, and low blue flames caressed the bottom of the pot.
“Your hot posset,” she said, reaching into the cabinet over the sink and pulling down a bottle of something that had the distinctive amber color of alcohol.
“What’s a posset?” I asked as I watched her pour a generous dose of—I squinted at the label—whiskey into the pot.
“It’s what you give someone if they have a cold. Or if they have a headache. Or if they’ve had a bad day. Or if they can’t sleep. Or if’”
“Okay, got it. Cure-all remedy. But I’m too young to drink.”
She laughed, wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm. “Legally, I am, too, but that’s not going to stop me. I had my first posset when I was five. You’re older than five, aren’t you?”
I sniffed the air, trying to identify the smell, but all I could recognize was the whiskey. “But what is it? What’s in it, other than enough booze to make me wear a lampshade on my head?”
She shrugged and stirred the posset, which was steaming merrily. “Milk. Oat meal. Honey. A bit of nutmeg. And the fine Irish whiskey, of course.”
Oh, gross! Oatmeal? Who puts oatmeal in a drink? I wondered how I was going to get out of drinking it without being completely rude.
Kimber turned off the stove and got out a couple of mugs, filling each one to the brim with the thick, milky liquid. I’m sure I was making a face, but that didn’t seem to discourage Kimber. She thrust one of the mugs at me, and I took it almost by reflex. Then I just stood there staring at it, wondering if I was going to have to make another run for the bathroom.
“I promise it’s not poisonous,” Kimber said as she blew on her posset, then took a delicate sip. “And there’s almost no situation a good, hot posset can’t make better.”
I hesitated a moment longer. Then I thought about being attacked by Spriggans last