Flicking to the chapter, I scanned through the recipes until my heart leapt as I read the title of one that could work.Poultice to draw out magic-infected wounds.God, it couldn’tbemore perfect. I read through the ingredients hurriedly, my heart sinking with each one.
Crushed rowan bark. Moss grown east-facing from an oak of at least a hundred years. Saffron. Turmeric. Fresh thyme.
I exhaled, staring at the list. Okay, they weren’ttotallyoutlandish ingredients, but how the fuck was I going to findmoss grown east-facing from an oak of at least a hundred years?
I lifted my head and stared into the kitchen, at the big sideboard crammed with bottles and jars. Briordan had been a drachmsmith. The ingredients he’d had would all be ancient, probably useless, but I could at least look.
Bringing the book with me, I set it down on the table and approached the sideboard. The jars and bottles were all filled with powders and liquids and clumps of unidentifiable things, but when I lifted one, I noticed a yellowed, handwritten label on the bottom.Petrified wood anemone.
I bit my lip, fighting off a smile.Briordan, you beautiful, organised bastard.I searched through the jars until I’d found everything I needed, except the thyme. The moss was still plump and fresh, somehow, as if it had been put in there yesterday.
Carefully setting everything down beside the book, I headed outside to the little garden at the side of the cottage. I knew what thyme looked and smelled like, because Mags had grown it in her little herb garden, and I spotted a big, wildly out-of-control clump of it easily. Insides jumping with excitement, I pulled off a few sprigs and went back inside. After setting it down with the other ingredients, I leaned over the book to read the recipe.
Mix well over hearth with spit. Once cooled, apply to wound and leave for half a day.
I wrinkled my nose. Withspit? Fine, fuck it.
I felt foolish, like a little kid as I carefully measured out the ingredients and dropped them into the cauldron after lighting the kitchen fire. I wasn’t Folk. I had no idea if this would work, but I could try. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone was here to see me doing this. If the blackbirdwasthe Carlin’s spy, it had gone, although I kept glancing over my shoulder at the window to make sure.
I spat several times into the cauldron until the ingredients clumped together in a mushy lump. Then I carefully scraped it all into a bowl with a wooden spoon and set it on the windowsill to cool. Steam curled from the bowl languidly as I paced, filling the kitchen with the scent of thyme and earth.
As soon as the mixture was cool against my fingertips, I carried the bowl and the book into the living room. Laying on my side on the sofa, I carefully applied the poultice to the scab on my neck. I’d planned on reading more as I waited, but I quickly realised the book was too fat and heavy—and delicate—for me to hold out in front of me.
Exhaling, I set it on the floor and shut my eyes. The poultice tingled on my neck, filling me with hope that, somehow, it might have worked. A bird trilled outside, and as I closed my eyes I pictured the blackbird hopping up onto my boot the day before and gazing up at me with beady eyes.
I drifted to sleep, big black eyes the last thing I saw behind my closed lids.
Please let it have worked. Please let it have worked.
I stared at the forest, my fingers gripping the strap of my satchel tight. I’d found it in an old trunk tucked beside the sofa and filled it with food and a glass bottle of water. The dagger from Nua was strapped to my hip in an old leather sheath.
My neck still tingled from the poultice, which I’d carefully wiped off after waking up. The sun was dipping back towards the horizon now, so I knew it’d been at least half a day. The scab was still there, though it had softened from the damp mixture.
Now it was time to test whether it had worked.
I exhaled a trembling breath, glancing around to make sure no one was approaching. My gut tightened in anticipation of the pain that was going to come if the poultice hadn’t worked, but I forced myself to walk to the treeline.
There were no notes pinned to any trunks today. My heart had sunk when I’d looked, hoping for another message from Nua.
It seemed as though all sound grew muted the moment I stepped under the forest canopy. The air was cool and damp, sunlight breaking through the leaves high above, but never hitting the forest floor. My heart was pounding as I took a step deeper, then another, my entire body bracing.
Another step. Further than I’d made it any other time. I started to grin, but it faded with a gasp when the now-familiar pain exploded, and I was flung back.
I wanted to scream as I stared up at the sky, flat on my back and panting wildly through the pain as it slowly faded. Angry, hopeless tears blurred my vision, but I blinked them back.
It hadn’t worked. Of course it hadn’t worked. I wasn’t Folk. I couldn’t make fucking potions. I’d just wasted an entire day playing make-believe like a fucking child.
I shoved to my feet and threw down the satchel, wanting to stomp on it. Impotent rage flooded me, making me tremble. I wanted to break something. Punch someone in the fucking face. One of the Folk. I didn’t care which. Any of them. My skin felt too hot and tight over my bones, and when I heard a musical trill, I spun wildly towards the sound.
“Fuck all of you,” I shouted at the blackbird, which hopped a few steps and cocked its head at me. “Go and tell your Carlin to go fuck herself. Go and tell her whatever you want. Just fuck off.”
Snatching up the bag, I stamped into the cottage and slammed the door behind me