The Potion Diaries (11 page)

He shakes his head. ‘No. All we can do is keep on studying our craft, so that our knowledge hasn’t died out when the world finally comes to its senses.’

‘But the Princess . . .’

‘I won’t help the Royals. This is a mess of their own making. And how can you trust people who exile their own family?’

‘You mean Emilia.’

He nods. ‘They’re terrified the Princess’s power will pass to her. I’ve been in a Wilde Hunt, Sam. You know that. And let me tell you, the “rules” of the Wilde Hunts don’t mean anything to the Royals as long as they get their cure. I was apprentice to your great-grandmother and by all rights she should have won that Hunt. Zoro Aster stole the potion from her and submitted it as his own. Auden’s Horn accepted it. Then Zoro Aster told everyone the potion was made from synths, establishing his company’s legitimacy for ever.’

‘But then someone should tell the Royals!’

‘You think we didn’t try that? But your great-grandmother had lost her potion diary detailing her formula. Without that, it was our word against his. And the blasted Royals had their cure, so what did they care? They had no problem stripping us of our commission and handing it over to Zoro Aster and his new synth company. Centuries of loyal service, forgotten just like that. Your great-grandmother was never the same again. That’s why you can never trust the Royals or the synths.’

I have so many more questions, but I’m too tired to ask them. Besides, he’s turned back to his potion.

‘I’m going to get some rest,’ I say.

Rather than go straight upstairs though, I stop by the door to the library – my favourite place in the entire world. Maybe a quick look in there will make me feel better.

Surrounded by the books, my mind drifts back to the love potion. Somewhere in this room, there could be an answer. Anita and Arjun still need the right recipe; they’re not out of the Hunt yet. Maybe I can help them.

I run my fingers over the crinkly gold writing on the spines, the titles barely decipherable after years of neglect. They are almost all recipe books – some clearly written by mad wizards with no idea how to put a potion together, but most full of useful knowledge.

I stare at the huge wall of spines in front of me. There isn’t a book called
BEST RECIPE FOR LOVE POTIONS IN HERE
but one of them must contain a clue. I pick three of the most likely tomes off the shelf, bundle them into my arms and take them over to the desk in the centre of the room.

The title on the first one has all but peeled off, but on creaking open the front cover I blow a cloud of dust from the title page and read:
Foure Hundread Emploies for Pricolici Breathe.

Great. Four hundred uses for the breath of an animal that has been extinct for three hundred years.

Who am I kidding? I live for this stuff. If not for the stale words and ancient advice within, then for the crackle of the parchment as I turn each page, delicately peeling the paper apart from its neighbour. The letters cling to each other like lovers, ink solidified by time into glue.

I carefully leaf through the rest of the book. Nothing. But this is the thrill of the hunt for me – the research, sifting through words like they’re grains of sand, hunting for diamonds. The fourth stack of books is where I find the first sparkle of a gem. It’s the word
philtre –
the old word for love potion. But the excitement dies as quickly as it comes when I see evidence of the purge that happened well over a century ago, when love potions were classified as illegal. The first two sentences are still there, the thin, black cursive letters dark spots upon the page:
A philtre is one of the most dangerous potions known to mankind, for both the preparer and the taker. Proceed with the utmost caution
. After that, the letters huddle together in a thick black mess, as if they are trying to avoid the spell to make them disappear. In the mass of letters I can make out a few ancient words –
indicum
and
eluvium
– but I have no idea if those are relevant or just a jumble. I’ve heard that the older a recipe is, the harder it is to truly destroy it. And now the evidence is there on the page, right in front of my face.

Maybe I need even older books – and I know where to find them.

It used to be one of our weekly rituals, a special secret between Grandad and me. I don’t know if he has ever taken Molly, and I’ve never asked – I like to pretend that he shared his love of books with me and me alone. I return to the front of the library and grab the key from its hook inside the doorway. It always puzzled me that Grandad kept the key out in the open, where anyone could grab it. Then his words ring in my ears. ‘It takes more than a key to open a door, little girl. You have to know where the lock is too.’

And I do.

I haven’t been in the room other than when Grandad has taken me, and as I touch the key, I feel a chill run down my spine. It’s never been expressly forbidden to me to enter the room on my own, but I’ve never had a reason to go in either – most of the books are so old, they are written in an ancient language I can’t read.

The chill from the key is enough to make me pause. I hold my breath until my lungs burn, my heart beating in my ears. I don’t know what I’m listening out for – there’s nothing but a subtle hum from the light bulb, and the muted clattering of pans in the kitchen from Dad doing the dishes. I let out the breath in one big whoosh and shake out my limbs, then pad over to the far side of the library.

I have to crouch down to reach the right shelf and it makes me suddenly smile to think that I am so much taller now than my grandad. He’s always seemed like such a giant in my life, but now at five-eleven and still growing, I tower over him – and most of the girls (and some of the boys) in my class. Sometimes I despise my lanky frame, and the massively overgrown feet that come with it, the arms and legs slightly too long for my body. Once, at Anita’s older sister’s wedding, the Patels tried to dress me in their traditional clothing – a beautiful blue-and-gold stitched shalwar-kameez that made me feel like a princess – except for the fact that the trousers stopped way too high above my ankles and made me feel like a giant playing dress-up in a princess’s clothing.

The red book stands out to me on the shelf like a sore thumb, but I can see how others would pass it by without a second glance. I take it down from the shelf and, sitting behind it, obscured in the shadows of the library shelf, is the lock. I slip the key in, turn it a quarter of the way and feel the entire bookshelf jump to life and swing out towards me.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Samantha

‘
S
AM! TIME TO GO!’ MUM SHOUTS UP THE stairs, not realising I’m in the library. I glance down at my watch, and my jaw drops. I’ve been studying books for almost four hours non-stop.

I walk back through the lab and into the kitchen.

Mum frowns. ‘I thought you were in your room, resting?’

‘I got a bit . . . distracted.’ Tiredness hits me like a freight train – a minute ago I was fine, now I’m exhausted. There’s no mistaking what kind of potion I need.

Caffeine – for alertness and rejuvenation.

There’s a small amount of coffee left in the bottom of the carafe from breakfast, and I grimace as the cold, bitter drink slides down my throat. Better than nothing. ‘I’ll be fine, Mum.’

She smiles wryly at me, giving me a quick look up and down. ‘We can wait ten minutes for you to shower and change, if you want?’

I look down and I can see what she means – I’m still in the same clothes I wore to the Rising. The bottoms of my trouser legs are caked in salt from the sea spray and I wrinkle my nose as I realise I smell more mollusc than teenager. ‘Good plan,’ I say, before running upstairs.

A few hours later and we stand up in a jubilant ovation, as Molly’s class of twenty step forward and take a bow. Molly is wearing a pair of beautiful silk gloves – her object – the iridescent material catching the stage lights and making her hands seem like they’re glowing.

Maybe they are. The rest of her certainly is. Her smile reaches to both ears, and she radiates happiness. Against the other students, she’s like a beacon. But then again, I am biased.

Of course her object is a pair of gloves. My gorgeous, sweet sister has no use for an aggressive object like a wand or a staff. She will be a healer, a teacher. Her magic will be gentle.

But she’ll need her own pair of gloves eventually, and gloves are costly. They have to be made from material that will grow with her, mould to her hands like a second skin. The best material would be changeling leather – super malleable, but nigh on impossible to get hold of nowadays since changelings are at risk of extinction. Silk gloves, like the ones the school have lent her, would be more practical – there are worms in the southern caves whose silk shapes itself around any form. One of the big malls on the outskirts of Kingstown sells them.

Molly practically skips off the stage and rushes over to find us in the audience. I shift from one foot to the other as she chats to my parents. A few people stare sidelong at me and cover their mouths to whisper. Almost everyone is talking about the Hunt, although not directly to our family. There’s excitement, but there’s fear for the Princess too. No one knows what will happen if the Hunt doesn’t succeed.

Mum catches my eye. ‘Will you stay and watch Molly for a while, until she’s ready to come home?’

Molly puts her hands on her hips. ‘I don’t need looking after any more, Mum. I can make it home on my own.’

Mum smiles and puts her hand on Molly’s head, but her eyes stay trained on me. ‘Be back in time for dinner, okay? I don’t want either of you wearing yourselves out.’

I shrug. ‘Sure thing.’

Our parents leave, and Molly shoots off to hang out with her Talented friends. I slump down onto a plastic orange chair and watch as they compare notes on their new objects – Molly’s best friend, Alex, was given a ring. Rings are pretty rare but powerful conductors of magic. She’ll probably go into politics or business – something that requires a mix of power and subtlety. None of them will have to worry about their futures now; there’s plenty of demand for strong Talenteds in all sectors. I pull out a book and try to read. My eyelids are so heavy, I could drift off at any moment.

‘Sam?’

Molly’s quiet voice snaps me out of my daydream.

‘I’m ready to go,’ she says. She tugs at the edge of her glove.

‘Already?’

‘Yeah, I’m kinda tired.’

‘Everything all right?’ I stand up to go, slipping my bag over one shoulder. ‘Gloves bothering you?’

‘I’m just not used to them yet.’ We walk out of the stuffy auditorium and into the warm summer air. The breeze picks up as we stroll in the direction of home.

‘That’s understandable, but it’s exciting, isn’t it?’

‘I guess.’

I frown. This isn’t the Molly from a few minutes ago – smiles and giddy laughter. ‘Okay, seriously, what’s up?’

She shrugs. ‘I thought Grandad might come.’

I pause. ‘I think he had some mixes to catch up on.’

She shrugs again.

I decide to change the subject. ‘So are you allowed to show me what you can do with those gloves?’

Molly looks up at me, her blue eyes sparkling. ‘Really? You wanna see?’

‘Of course!’

She looks up and down the street, but we’re the only ones around. She reaches up to where a summer-blooming magnolia tree is leaning against a garden fence, its long branches dangling across our path. She finds one bud that hasn’t yet bloomed and wraps her gloved hands around it. She closes her eyes and whispers a spell. Ever so slowly, the bud begins to grow, unravelling into a stunning white flower.

My jaw drops. ‘Oh my god, Molly – that’s amazing!’

‘Thanks.’ She beams. ‘I’m really hoping I’m good enough to get into medical school.’

I laugh. ‘That’s years away; you don’t have to think about stuff like that yet.’

A frown creases the smooth skin on Molly’s forehead. ‘Of course I do. I mean, I’m not the one with the Kemi gift, like you have. I don’t know what I’m good at.’

‘A gift which is useless,’ I mutter, gazing at the magnolia she’s opened. ‘You’re the one who’s going to be rich beyond your wildest dreams and have the big fancy career.’