“Honey.” Morgan nods and flounces back to the sitting area.
I examine the jar. “What do I do with it?”
Morgan gives me questioning look. “You eat it?” she says. “Or, not you.Oneeats it—whoever is ill. Serve to him in a cup of warm milk. He’ll feel better.”
“Because of the magic?”
“Because milk and honey is good for you,” Morgan says. “Themagicpart is observing the residue left in the cup when he’s done. It’ll tell you what’s wrong with him—or, not you. Me. Butyoucan tellmewhat you see, and I’ll interpret it.”
I nod, turning the little jar around in my fingertips. “So, like tea leaves.”
“Yep. But better. Bees know things,” she adds sagely.
“Thank you.” My throat feels thick with gratitude. It feels good to have something todo, to have my hands on a solution for once, for however small a problem it may be. “You’re the best, Morgan.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Morgan smiles winningly. “That why you came here? Just to use me for my magic? And my cheese,” she adds, helping herself to another hunk.
“More or less,” I joke. “No, I don’t know. I just needed to hang out. You know, normal girl talk stuff.”
“Mm.” Morgan swallows. “So you’re saying you’renotready to see my research project, then?”
There’s the tiniest hint of disappointment in her voice. I frown.
“Your…”
My mind jumps back to Easter Sunday, to Morgan and me in my bedroom at Camlann
I did a ton of research. All of this stuff about magical rites and fertility goddesses and the ties to pagan rituals across the world and…
“Oh.” I give my head a shake. I still don’t want to think about it.But Morgan did this for me, I think.And maybe I can get it over with quickly. Beats going back to Camlann, anyway“No, no,” I say out loud. “Of course. Is it…here? Can you show me?”
Morgan’s eyes light up. “Oh, can Iever.”
“No,no, Innana and Ishtar are actually the same.”
Thirty minutes later and Morgan is talking me through what can only be described as a serial killer board. She’s scribbled dozens, maybe hundreds of notes, names, dates, locations onpastel pink index cards and tacked them in various clusters to a corkboard that’s easily five feet wide and barely rests on her dresser—where she got it, I have no idea.
But I’m impressed.
Some I recognize—Greek and Roman gods and goddesses, a few characters from Irish annals I’d read with Emrys—and some are wholly foreign to me—roughly anything east of Constantinople, plus some of the more obscure Nordic and Slavic traditions.
“Innana”—Morgan extracts the card I’m holding in my fingers and delicately re-spears a pushpin through it—“is Sumerian. Goddess of erotic power, war, and resurrection. But herAkkadian equivalent”—she points to another card—“isIshtar. The one your church stole for the name of the Easter holiday.”
“Ah,” I say. “Of course.”
I take a step back and settle onto Morgan’s bed to survey the full sweep again.
“So where dowefit into all of this?” I ask.
Morgan shrugs. “You tell me.” She flourishes a pen and another stack of cards. “I’ll write. Start talking.”
I do. This time, it’s easier—easier because it’s Morgan, and easier because I’ve already heard Kingston recite the story once, and somehow that makes it feel more abstract, like I’m tracing over a tracing, playing a little game of telephone. I cut to the chase, anyway, summarizing what I remember from Moroslav in the church.
Before Kai?—
“Got it.” Morgan tacks up a little card that says RUSSIANS, then another one underneath it that says SPRING MAIDEN = DEAD. It’s so matter-of-fact I almost have to laugh.
“What?” she says, irritation lacing her voice as she glances over the corkboard.
