one to Flynn before turning to his workstation. So many tools. Too many tools. The apothecary’s demonstration replayed in his mind, and he ripped the buds from their stems, throwing them into a bowl of water.
“The first few symptoms are rather obvious,” Diccus said. “Sneezing, bleeding. But it’s the second wave of symptoms—the fever, the dizziness—that will really hinder your progress. I recommend making haste before then.”
Tobias blinked as sweat dripped into his eyes, trickling from his hairline. Focus. He shoved his bowl over a contained flame, and Flynn did the same, mirroring each step he took, each move he made.
What’s next?
Flynn pointed down the line at the Intellect, who was grinding a heap of something in a mortar—seeds. Tobias scooped up two fistfuls from a shelf overhead, shoving one into Flynn’s hands and dumping the other into his own mortar. His hands worked quickly, pounding the seeds with a pestle, releasing all his aggression. The seeds disintegrated in front of him—and then they faded into a mass of grey.
Tobias shook his head. His vision blurred, cloaking the world in a fog. Another shake, then he breathed in deeply, and his vision cleared just in time to watch drops of red splatter onto the table.
His nose was bleeding.
He turned to Flynn in a panic, only to see two streams of blood coursing from his nostrils. Flynn’s voice came out as a croak. “Keep going.”
And so they did, wiping away the blood before continuing with the task at hand. Tobias tried to push past the blurring and poured his powder concoction into his drinking bowl, nearly spilling it in the process; his head felt light, but only for a fleeting moment, and he prayed to God it wouldn’t return.
Flynn spun toward him, blood smeared across his upper lip. “What’s next?”
Shouting sounded behind them. The Physician opened a wooden box in the center of the table, and out hopped dozens of yellow frogs, springing onto the floor. The men scrambled after them, wildly swinging their tongs, desperate to catch their next ingredient. The Brave threw a man out of his way, while the red-faced Poet struggled in the middle of the group.
“Frog!” he screamed. “I need a fucking frog!”
The room was in a state of anarchy. Competitors attacked one another, throwing punches and trampling bodies in desperate pursuit of the amphibians. Just when the task seemed futile, a single frog hopped by its lonesome at the opposite end of the laboratory.
Tobias grabbed his tongs and shot across the room, blinding himself to the mayhem. He jumped over bodies and zigzagged past flailing limbs, then slid along the tile, slamming his tongs into the floor. The squirmy frog was wedged between the two silver rods—thank God—and he plucked it up before stumbling back to his workstation.
Tobias clasped the table’s edge, nearly toppling onto his equipment. A wave of dizziness hit him, sending the room spinning in circles, his vision so warped he could hardly interpret what was happening around him.
A pang shot through his stomach, gripping tightly like a curled fist. He lurched forward, cringing as the pain spread from his gut up to his throat, bubbling and seething—nausea, threatening to tear from his mouth, to send him tumbling to the floor. He tried to fight it, to feel anything besides the churning of his wretched stomach, but even the simple act of breathing sent a stab piercing his insides.
Horror flashed before his eyes: his frog wiggled free from his tongs and hopped off down the tabletop. Tobias’s lungs froze, but a second later a knife crashed down on the frog, chopping its head from its body. Flynn dropped his blade and scooped the frog up in his tongs.
“Here.” He shoved the tongs into Tobias’s grasp. “Get to work.”
That was impossible; Tobias’s legs were ready to give, and he rested his weight on the table, fighting to stay on his feet. With as much stability as he could manage, he held the tongs and pointed the headless frog over his drinking bowl, draining its innards into his concoction.
“Most of you should be feeling rather ill by now,” Diccus said. “The nausea can be quite debilitating. Fighting it will only weaken your mind. It’s an unnecessary strain on your body, and quite frankly, you need all the energy you can muster.”
Tobias ignored him, staring out into the haze of the laboratory. Herbs covered the tabletop, and severed frog heads were scattered across workstations. A crowd had formed around two men—the Physician and the Intellect,