Page 51 of Potion Sickness

“That’s Prudence’s own fault for not answering.”

“Those were the twenty-six times I didn’t answer,” Pru says. “I assure you I answer plenty.”

“Well, I saw some men. Three of them, moving about in the haze. Start from there.”

“Mom,” Pru says, carefully. “Can you try to focus on Damien? Did he do it to himself? The poison, I mean?”

“Oh, he did it to himself,” Genie says immediately. “He stood where he was told. Or he told her where to stand. Something like that. I can’t see clearly, and it’s making me cross.” She sighs. “He’s a vain man, that Damien. He was a vain boy. He came to the house once to collect Prudence for a dance and spent the whole wait looking at himself in my hall mirror. Didn’t say a word.”

“He hasn’t changed much,” Pru says.

“They never do,” Genie concurs. “Is there honey?” Genie says.

“In the bakery bag?”

“Somewhere, Marigold. Prudence brought me a jar once. It was very good and I’ve been out for a week and the kitchen here only has honey that comes from a horrible little plastic bear.”

“Annabel’s honey, I’d imagine,” I say. “From her hives.”

“Yes, yes. The pretty girl. The one with the bees.” She turns to Pru. “Tell her I’ve been out for a week.”

“I’ll tell her,” Pru says.

Genie starts to drift after that, the way she does. She asks us both, several times, whether we’ve eaten. Halfway through she calls me Eudora — her mother, our grandmother’s name — and doesn’t notice. Pru doesn’t flinch, and neither do I.

“The timer’s going. I’m making a roast,” she says, standing up abruptly. I’m fairly certain the kitchen at Hemlock Hill would not let her near a pot, but we accept that she’s decided it’s time to go.

Pru puts her hand over her mother’s hand on the arm of the rocking chair and they sit like that for a minute.

“Friday,” Genie says.

“Today is Friday.”

“Yes, Prudence. I know. The crown.”

“Opening’s not for another week, Mom. Not today.”

“I know when it is.” She waves a hand. “The crown looks lovely on you, I’ve told you. Don’t worry about the play.”

“You keep saying that, and every time you say it I worry more about the play.”

“That’s not my fault. That’s a failure of listening on your part.” She pats Pru’s hand twice. “Bring your honey next time. You too, Marigold. I’m running out of Fridays.”

“Do you want the crossword book?” Pru says.

“I want both.”

“I only brought one.”

“Then bring another next time,” Genie says.

When we stand to go, she catches my hand again.

“You’re doing it properly,” she says. “You’re ruling things out. That’s the only method you need.”

“I’m trying my best,” I say.

* * *