The Potion Diaries (15 page)

The walkway seems to shift beneath my feet. ‘
You
took my cure?’

‘Shh – keep your voice down.’ He comes closer. ‘Yes, I did. And I would have kept on taking it if you had continued making it. I need it now more than ever and nothing I try to make for myself works half as well – and I’m the one who’s doing my Potions degree.’ His face goes bright red, but I sense it’s not because of me that he’s embarrassed. ‘Come on, Sam, I’m the son of the great Zol! You think he’d expect anything less than perfection? And with that mix I could just about maintain the right levels of focus without looking like I was trying too hard.’

I let out a long breath. ‘Zain Aster took my cure.’

His forehead wrinkles. ‘I guess I was desperate. I would have given you the prize, by the way. But you switched your potion.’

‘Yeah, because I was worried about people like you.’ I want to be disdainful of him – he’s basically saying he cheated his way through his exams! – but instead I know exactly how he feels. I’ve felt that same desperation; that same pressure to perform. Maybe Zain is right. We do have more in common than I think.

‘And there I was thinking your life was so easy.’

Zain sighs. ‘It is easy, compared to most. I just don’t want to end up like my dad.’

‘What do you mean?’

He shrugs. ‘Forget it.’

We continue walking, and the labs below us start to fill up with more scientists returning to their workstations. We reach the end of the corridor, where a few white coats and goggles are hanging up on the wall.

‘Put these on,’ he says, handing me a set. I shrug the white coat on over my jumper and put on the goggles.

‘Wow, these are attractive,’ I say, catching a glimpse of my massive fly-eyes in the reflection of Zain’s goggles.

‘It’s a good look for you.’ He smiles, and he doesn’t sound as sarcastic as I did. It makes my heart skip a beat. Instead, I pull a face and he laughs.

We head down a spiral staircase, little metal teeth digging into the soles of my ballet flats. I should probably be wearing boots in a lab like this, in case anyone spills any chemicals. The lab technicians ignore us as we walk through their workstations, one of them holding a vial up to the light and tilting it this way and that.

‘Wanna see something cool?’ Zain asks.

I nod. He walks over to what looks like a little tube and draws his wand. ‘Name me an ingredient.’

The first thing that pops into my head is relatively obscure. ‘Eluvian ivy.’

Eluvian ivy
–
for truth serums and binding potions.

He stares at me for a moment, his eyes searching my face. He opens his mouth as if he’s about to ask a question, then decides against it. He points at the bottom of the tube, says a few words and a second later is holding a clear glass vial filled with fine green powder.
Eluvian ivy
is written in neat type on the side. He hands it to me, and I take it.

‘Awesome, right?’

Now that’s service. But this powder bears no resemblance to the glossy dark green leaf with thin, curling tendrils that I know as eluvian ivy. Looking at it makes my throat close up.

‘Hey, are you okay?’

I shake my head, backing away from him slowly. ‘No, this is wrong. I’m a Kemi. I don’t belong in a place like this.’

‘You’re not just a Kemi, you’re a great alchemist. You’ve got a mixer’s brain. You could work here, with us, with all these resources at your fingertips. It doesn’t have to be one or the other. You could be a mixer and not betray your Kemi heritage.’

‘If you think that’s true, you know nothing about what it’s like to be me.’ Heat flares up in my palms, threatening to dance all the way through my body. I need to get out of here.

My eyes dart around the lab until I spot a red sign marked
EXIT
. I make a beeline towards it. I bump into one of the mixers, who yells at me, but I barge past him. My palm slips on the bar of the door but I push it open and escape into the fresh air.

Alarm bells scream through the building but I ignore them and keep walking, shedding the lab coat and goggles as I go.

‘Sam! Wait!’ Zain shouts. He runs up behind me and grabs my arm.

I yank my body out of his reach but force myself to turn around; now that I’m out of the coat and out of the lab, my heart rate slows. ‘I need to go home, I need to . . .’ I look down. I hadn’t realised I was still holding the vial.

‘Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. You only set off the emergency alarm . . . and stole one of our ingredients . . . and probably the police are on their way here now. But it’s cool.’ He’s grinning at me, trying to break the tension.

‘I know, I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have come. Um, thanks for the invite.’ Like a reflex I extend my hand, and instantly feel like an idiot. His grin shifts from amused to bemused, but he takes my hand and shakes it. That humiliation over with, I spin on my heels and head towards the tram station. The sooner I can get away from here, the better.

Zain jogs to catch up with me and I almost scream with frustration. ‘Sam, listen – can we hang out again?’

‘Maybe,’ I say, but it’s a lie. I don’t want to see Zain again. I just want to go home, be with my family, and pretend this whole day never happened. He’s just a reminder of a life I can never have.

This time when I walk away, he doesn’t stop me.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Samantha

B
ACK AT THE SHOP, IT LOOKS JUST AS I left it – obviously the rest of the family aren’t back yet. That suits me fine. I leave the ‘Closed’ sign turned around – it’s only ten minutes until real closing time anyhow – and do a quick round-up of the sheets of paper on the floor, not bothering with my organisation system any more.

Once the store looks reasonably respectable (as if I had spent all day clearing things up, rather than bunking off with Zain – did that actually happen?) I take the vial of synth-eluvian ivy out of my bag and put it on the counter, staring at it as if it’s radioactive. Bringing it into the store, I’m a rebel. I feel like I’m being watched; that the store itself is judging me for tainting it with the presence of a synth.

That wasn’t just any panic attack. That’s what being a traitor feels like.

But I have also been betrayed. If my life is so tied to the store that I can’t even think of doing anything different without breaking into a panicky sweat, then I need to make this work for me. The Hunt is my opportunity. One day I’m going to be the master of Kemi’s Potion Shop, and I’m not going to go down without a fight.

I think of the missing merpearl and I know what I have to do. I have to make a potion. It’s one that can be dangerous in the wrong dose, so I have to be ultra careful. I pull my journal out of my bag and turn to the page I need, reading the ingredients list several times over before beginning.

I walk over to the shelves and examine them, hands on hips, chewing my bottom lip as I go. I have several variables to take into account:

1. My subject is strong, and their mind will resist the effects of the potion.

2.They are familiar with potions, and if there is anything wrong with mine, they will notice it right away.

3. I definitely cannot get the formula wrong.

No. The consequences of that don’t make me shudder; they make me want to vomit. But if I get this right, it could change everything.

The gathering of the ingredients goes quickly – I already know that I have everything I need in stock, which is quite a relief – and I walk into the back room with armfuls of jars. Once there I begin isolating the exact quantities of each ingredient, carefully measuring them out into wooden bowls. I then head back to the store and replace the jars on the shelves, so no one will be able to notice at first glance that they have been disturbed.

I return to the lab and begin the mix.

Each potion has a base formula that works for everyone unless they have a natural immunity to it. I have a natural immunity to sleep serum. The normal mix of lavender, camomile and sloth hair does little for me. But add a touch of melling bee honey, and you’ve got me. The sweetness triggers the cells in my brain that react to the potion and
poof
! I’m asleep.

I don’t think my subject has natural immunity to the potion I’m making, but there is a good chance they have built up a resistance to it.

I’ve finished the base potion now, and it bubbles away over a tiny blue-flamed burner. The liquid is absolutely clear, so much so that if there weren’t any bubbles I might have trouble seeing if liquid was there at all. That’s good. That’s exactly how it should look.

But there is something missing, and like a lightning bolt it hits me. I almost sprint back to the store shelves, crouch down to the very bottom and measure out half a teaspoon of a fine white powder.

The new bell above the shop door jingles, seeming louder than it ever has before, like an alarm going off in my brain. I hear my mum’s voice before anything else, her delight at seeing the store returned to normal, followed by my dad’s low tones, my grandad’s shuffle and Molly’s light giggle. I stand up slowly, careful not to spill any of the powder.

‘Oh, hi, Sam!’

‘Hi, Mum. Good day at the shops?’

She nods while unwinding the scarf from her neck and throwing it over the hook by the door. ‘Yes, I think we have everything we need now. Who’s hungry? I’m going to put dinner on.’

‘Me! Me! Me!’ Molly skips along to every word, following Mum through the door into the kitchen.

‘What’s that you have there?’ asks Grandad, nodding towards the spoon of powder in my hand.

‘Oh – it’s essence of wisteria . . . I’m making a potion for someone young, so I thought it would make it easier to digest.’

‘Well don’t forget to add a drop of rose oil to help the essence mix properly – or else you risk messing with your formula.’

‘Of course, Grandad.’ I say it with a smile but inwardly I curse myself for almost forgetting that crucial step. I probably would have noticed once I mixed the essence in, or so I tell myself. ‘I’ll just finish this up and then I’ll come in for tea.’

‘Okay – don’t be too long, sweetheart,’ says Dad.

The essence of wisteria goes in, as does the drop of rose oil. I take the potion off the boil, and transfer small portions of the liquid into different vials until it’s gone. I’m only going to need one vial for my experiment, but there’s no point wasting a good mix.

I take a deep breath and walk into the kitchen. I wonder if anyone is going to take notice of how much I’m shaking.

‘Molly, can you pour Grandad’s juice for me and bring it to the table?’ Mum asks.

‘Do I have to?’ she whines.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it,’ I say. Molly’s timing couldn’t be better.

‘Thanks, Sammy!’

I head over to the blender, where my grandad’s daily dose of vitamins – spinach, lettuce, lemon juice, and a snip of the fresh wheatgrass from the plant on the windowsill – sits freshly pulsed. He never starts a meal without it – says it keeps his brain sharp.

I pour the gloopy green mixture from the jug into a thick-bottomed glass, adding my serum at the last minute. I almost drop the vial but I manage to keep my cool, slotting the empty back in my jeans pocket in one swift movement. I bring the glass over to the table and place it down in front of Grandad, which he acknowledges with a grunt, and then take my customary seat at the far end of the table. Mum places a plate of lasagne in front of me, and although the smell of melted cheese would normally drive me wild, my mouth is dry. Until Grandad takes a sip. And . . . nothing. He notices nothing amiss with his drink.

‘Everything okay, Sam?’ Mum asks. Everyone is already tucking into their dinners, but my cutlery is undisturbed.

‘Oh, sorry,’ I say, picking up my fork and digging in. ‘Daydreaming.’

‘Well, eat up or it will get cold.’

I take a few bites, and it’s delicious.

‘Anything happen in the store today?’ asks Dad.

‘Actually, Zain came by.’

‘Zain?’ My dad seems puzzled.

I take another bite of food and keep chewing.

‘Zain . . . as in Zain Aster?’ says Mum.

I nod, and have to stifle a giggle at my dad’s stupefied look.

‘Bloody useless synth,’ mumbles the head of the table.