eyes open and she looks down at the book, and then up at me. There’s no recognition in her gaze, and I feel my cheeks start to redden, embarrassed by my sentimentality. How is it possible I can still think—
A cold hand closes over mine and I gasp. But before I can snatch it away and run, her fingers curl around mine, as light as the petals on a rose. For three seconds she holds my hand, and then she drops it, her eyes falling shut again.
My skin tingles and my eyes burn as I leave the room, turning the key with finality. I lean against the door and breathe, in and out, until I’m sure I’m calm. Then I make myself a cup of tea and sit back at the bench staring at my experiments, too many thoughts in my head, a small seed inside me beginning to grow. And try as I might to ignore it, I can’t.
It’s too early to say that what Silas gave her is what caused this change, even though I know, somehow, in my blood and bones, that it is. That it has to be. Whatever miracle his potion is, it’s reaching her, and bringing her back. And if I can figure out what it is, and make more of it, keep making more of it, we might … We really might be able to go home.
If she’s conscious again, she’ll be able to help me manage her condition. There’s a chance we could return to Tremayne, not to the farm but…
I could pick up my apprenticeship again. I could go back to the apothecary, Master Pendie might still make me a partner, and then we’d have enough money to rent somewhere, on the outskirts. With a cellar. Forget Unwin, forget refugee camps, forget trying to find somewhere far from other people to hide her. Home. Even if war comes, we’ll be safer there, behind the city walls.
I will crack this, so help me, Gods from every pantheon, I will crack this.
It’s my mantra throughout the afternoon: if the beast can be controlled, then maybe we can go home. I only stop working to check on my mother and the book, but that’s as far as I go with chores. Dirty dishes stay dirty, the windows stay covered, and I’m still wearing my blood-covered smock from yesterday. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but this. I will find out what is in this potion and then I will copy it and everything will be all right. I sacrifice another drop to this goal.
Every time I think of going home, back to the apothecary, to my real life, the same thrill I felt when Kirin first mentioned it runs through me. Back with our people, surely it will get better. Surely if anything can heal the wounds left by Papa, it would be going home. And Lief would know to look there if he … when he…
I squeeze the glass pipette I’m holding so tightly that I crush it, tiny cuts peppering my hand. I barely notice them though, the knot in my chest tightening again. I freeze, blood welling up on my palm, but I don’t care, disgusted with myself. Guilt holds me in its claws and pins me down and I stare at the vial, at the work I’ve done.
And then I remember Kirin saying we could have stayed in Tremayne all along; the bewildered pain in his voice that we turned down his help and left without saying goodbye. For the first time I feel a stab of anger towards Lief. He put us through the move here, put me through Chanse Unwin’s leering, through countless sleepless nights for his pride. He went to work in a hostile country, leaving me alone with a grief-stricken mother who couldn’t bring herself to eat, because he didn’t want charity.
We’re here because he had too much of an ego to rely on his friends, our friends. Mama’s illness, my making poisons, all of it, none of it needed to be. Stupid, stupid Lief. How could he? And now he’s… No. He’s fine. He’s Lief. He’ll find us. And when he does I will make him sorry for everything. He can take care of Mama while I go back to work. See how he manages.
I find myself shaking and close my eyes, breathing deeply. When I open them I look again at the vial. Half of the mixture is gone. The table is strewn with abandoned