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“I’m sorry, love.” Mari reached for my cheek. “You’re the second person I’ve had to turn away today. If there was anything else I could do, I would. But I’m confident this pain elixir will help immensely,” she reassured me.
I chewed my lip. My mother needed that medicine. There must be something else—some other way to get it. She didn’t need to be sedated; she needed a solution. Any solution. I couldn’t go back empty-handed.
The walls of the apothecary pressed in on all sides, creating a closeness that weighed heavily on my senses. Air felt dense, and an invisible force seemed to constrict around me, making every breath a laborious effort. The very atmosphere conspired to squeeze the breath from my lungs, my chest threatening to implode.
“Thanks,” I mustered after a moment. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate this.” I dropped the jar into my satchel and headed toward the door, the wheels in my mind turning.
“Elowyn,” she called out as my heel met the street. “I’ll send word the minute I hear the shipment is on its way. If you need anything, my door is always open.”
If she lived that long, I wanted to say. Instead, I muttered another ‘thanks’ and stepped out, taking a full breath of the damp mid-morning air. Without the tonic, I couldn’t see her making it another six months.
Sugarfoot sensed my disappointment as I approached and nuzzled her snout against my cheek.
“I was too late.” I ran my fingers through her mane, trying but failing not to feel sorry for myself—for my mother—for my neglect. Her death would be on my hands. My stomach revolted as last night’s dinner made its way to the back of my throat. “What am I supposed to do now, girl?”
I ransacked my worthless brain, desperate to come up with another plan.
A young girl, no older than ten, walked out of the bookstore carrying multiple brown bags—her defeated mother followed closely behind. The amount of money my mother spent on books for me when I was about that girl’s age was likely in the hundreds. If only I could go back to those carefree days.
Sugarfoot nudged me in the same direction, but I brushed her off, reminiscing about the stories of beautiful faraway lands inside those fairytales I read late at night. She’d forbade me from reading them at one point. Mother was afraid I’d become disillusioned with reality, so I’d sneak them into the bag when she wasn’t looking and hide them under my mattress. I still had my favorite, albeit very worn, copy of A Void so Dark, about a faerie princess on the verge of death. Her dark magic had consumed her, but the sun restored her health using nightingale, a flower with magical healing properties.
Sugarfoot nudged me again, and I whipped around—a threat hanging on my tongue—when an idea popped into my head.
It was outlandish. Improbable. Downright delusional. Yet that didn’t stop the smile that curled up my lips. What if such a flower existed?
“Stars, you’re a genius!” I rubbed the top of her head. “I’ll be right back, girl!”
Not wasting another minute, I pushed aside all logic and took off toward the bookstore, skidding to a stop before the stained-glass doors. I inhaled the warm, earthy scent of used books and entered. There was nothing more peaceful than the inside of a bookstore, the thousands of pages begging to be read. Characters to fall in love with. New worlds to get lost in. If only there was enough time in this life to read them all.
Relying on my intuition, I hastened up the creaky wooden staircase, weaving through the labyrinth of shelves. I held onto the hope that, when the moment came, I would recognize what I sought amidst the array of items.
The store was usually barren for a Saturday, with maybe two or three other customers wondering about. The faint hum of the phonograph trickled throughout the space, playing a lovely, classical piece I’d never heard before.
Shelf after shelf.
Book after book.
My finger had been damn near rubbed raw from running it along the endless book spines. Doubt gnawed at my ribs—this was ridiculous. Pointless. Maybe Mother was onto something. Maybe those books had disillusioned me from facing the realities of the world.
My shoulders rounded. I should just accept it. Let my guilt swallow me alive. Go back home with my tail between my legs.
Then, I saw it.
The mythology section loomed ahead, dark and tucked into the far back corner of the library, away from prying eyes. The hairs on my neck stood up as a worn, leather-bound book, unlike the rest, caught my eye.
I pulled it off the shelf. Something ancient inside me knew this book didn’t belong there—even holding it felt wrong. It was whimsical and alien and filled with odd symbols and incantations. A grimoire, I realized.
It called to me.
But what was it doing there?
When King Broderick II banished the fae across the Dolorem River, they’d taken all their magic left with them. And all magical instruments had been eradicated—burned. Questions buzzed around in my head as I flipped through the pages, passing different potions and concoctions. Until I spotted it.
Nightingale:
A late-spring flowering perennial. Star-shaped petals. Deep red foliage with a black stem and angular leaves. Fully erect and fast growing. Blooms at night and withers the forthcoming morning.
Location: Faerway
