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My smile is broad as I catalogue the ingredients. While I already have lavender, chamomile, and the sunblossom honey in my collection upstairs, I’ll need to swing by the palace apothecary to obtain the duskmint and willow bark.
With Achlys trotting behind, stick in mouth, I head into the palace.
“It’s only a few ingredients,” I plead, resisting the urge to stomp my foot.
I’ve spent the last five minutes arguing with the palace healer, but she won’t budge.
“I’m positive you won’t miss a bit of duskmint and willow bark,” I try again.
The room is small, likely because the fae can mostly heal on their own and typically only require a healer for grave wounds, but well stocked, judging by the numerous glass jars of varying sizes lining the shelves behind her.
She flicks a lock of copper hair over her shoulder. “What do you even need the ingredients for?” Her voice is bored as she stares at me, stone-faced, with a half-finished sketch of a male forgotten on her desk.
If I squint, I suppose it could be a very poor rendering of the king.
“That’s none of your business,” I say hotly. “Listen, I’m Gwyn—”
“I know who you are,” she snaps. “You’re King Riven’s witch.”
This is the second time someone in the palace has referred to me as his, as if he owns me.
And it’s the second time the notion has left me feeling… wanted.
“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask, brow furrowing.
“I’m forbidden from providing you with any ingredients to cast your spells.” She gestures to the door. “You may see yourself out.”
“Who gave you that command?”
“That’s none of your business,” she says, throwing my words back into my face like a slap.
I’m just about to storm out of the apothecary when Arkyn pokes his head into the room.
“There you are,” he says, and I don’t know if he’s speaking to me or the healer. “Riven’s been looking everywhere for you, Gwyn.”
“Oh,” I say, unable to mask my surprise.
“Of course he was,” she mutters, swiping the artwork from her desk and crumpling it in her fist.
“Vessaryn.” Arkyn’s normally friendly smile is somewhat forced. “I see you had a chance to finally meet Gwyn.”
Vessaryn narrows her eyes at him. “I sure did.”
His gaze flicks between the two of us, with it landing on me as he asks, “Is everything all right?”
Maybe I can get the ingredients and find out if Riven told Vessaryn not to service me—without making her an enemy—if I just…
“Everything’s fine,” I say lightly. “Vessaryn was just about to procure me some duskmint and willow bark for a potion I’m brewing.” I turn to her. “Isn’t that right?”
If Vessaryn’s minty-green eyes were daggers, I would be stabbed thrice over. That was definitely a bad move.
Her chair scrapes against the stones as she grits out, “That’s right.”
My heart and mind race as she retrieves the ingredients I’ve asked for, places them into two miniature satchels, and tosses them to me.
So it wasn’t Riven who gave the order to deny me access to ingredients. If he had, Vessaryn would have denied me again, even with Arkyn here.
If not the king, then who?
