efforts and tainted liquid. Back to work, I tell myself.
I spend the rest of the day and long into the evening trying to isolate the remaining components but can find nothing I recognize. I test for alkali and acid, and I distil the tiniest amount and try to separate it that way but get no real result. I pause to heat some more of the soup and take it through to my mother with her tea. She eats it with relish, leaning towards the spoon as I lift it to her mouth, and again that thrill of hope blazes in me. I add the fourth drop of Silas’s remedy to her tea, studying her as she sips it docilely. I leave her laying peacefully, her face relaxed, and I take the book of tales back out with me before I lock her in. After a moment I drag the chest in front of the door, just in case. It doesn’t hurt to be cautious. Then I return to the table, to my charts and my vials. I’ve missed this.
I cover the windows and work by candlelight, trying to find lilies and anise and common rue and every single other plant I can think of, or find in my books, until I’ve soaked up all of the remedy from that fourth drop. I’ve tested against the humours strips, both phlegmatic and melancholic, but there’s no reaction to either. I still don’t know what is in Silas’s elixir. The only unusual ingredient that elicited any kind of reaction at all was lady’s mantle, and even that might be an anomaly, the result was so low. I’ve been working it so long I’m sure I can smell a hint of sulphur in it, and something metallic. What is it?
I scan the tabletop, the mess of paper and droppers and charts and dishes sprawled across it. I take the bottle Silas gave me and look at it. Two drops left. Tomorrow is the last night of the full moon, so for now I just need one drop for her… And I know I’m getting closer. I must be.
I take the gamble, squeezing out another drop. I test again for lady’s mantle, allowing the elements strip to leach away some of the miracle liquid. Again the strip darkens, barely, not conclusive, not at all, and I throw it to the floor. Useless.
I push away from the table, forgetting to be quiet, and freeze when the scrape of the bench splits the silence open. But the hut stays mercifully still. I force myself to take a break, eating the last of the soup straight from the pipkin without bothering to heat it, then washing it up and hanging it back over the fire. I need to step back, that’s all. I’m too close to it. The question is, do I keep trying here, or do I try begging Silas to tell me what it is?
Making up my mind, I stand and reach for my cloak. I’ll have to be so careful not to be seen, by either soldiers or Unwin, but if Silas can do it then there’s no reason I can’t.
When I open the door, Silas is standing there, hand raised to knock.
He looks me up and down and then edges past me, into the hut, and I close the door, hearing him suck his breath through his teeth as I do. He pushes his hood back and turns to look at me, his eyes sending a punch of shock through me. I’d forgotten, already, how they burned.
“You’ve been busy,” he says, his voice flat. “You’re wasting your time. And the potion.”
“Then save me from wasting more and tell me what’s in it.”
His expression becomes closed, his gold eyes dimming. “Be content, Errin, with what you have. I’ve already broken several vows by giving it to you. I can’t tell you any more.”
“She slept through the night, Silas,” I say. “She looked at me, this morning. She touched me. And if it’s because of your potion, if it can bring her back, then I need to know what it is. Silas, I need it. Please don’t dangle this in front of me and then take it away. I’ve lost too much.”
I turn away, feeling an itch in my throat and burning behind my eyes. Hopelessness bubbles up and I have to clench my jaw to stop from crying.
“Errin?” he says, and I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I wanted to help.”