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Possibly weeks, or until the smell of a dead corpse led someone to him.
The disturbing thought makes my stomach turn.
I watch as Lizette dumps the leaves into the pot, rubbing her hands together to make sure every tiny fleck is mixed in, before looking to the written recipe again.
To avoid hauling all of the potion ingredients to my bedchamber, we’re brewing the antidote in her room. It’s small and mostly bare, but she has a bed, a wardrobe, and a lumpy, high-backed chair. There’s a single painting on the wall, perhaps to make it look a little less sad, and all the servants on this hall use a communal bathroom a few doors down. There’s also a communal fire-burning stove that we can use to brew the antidote when it’s mixed.
It isn’t much, but in typical Lizette fashion, she hasn’t complained once.
“It’ll have to do,” I say.
She unstoppers another bottle and adds three drops of a clear liquid to the mixture. It’s been so long since I’ve assisted her, I’m slowly forgetting what I once knew. I hate feeling useless while she works to concoct the potentially life-saving mixture, but she repeatedly assures me it’s all right.
“You don’t have to stand around here while I work if you don’t want to,” she says, picking up a long silver spoon and stirring the pot as the recipe instructs. “If you’d rather hang out in the library or the garden, I understand.”
I shake my head firmly. “I’d much rather be here.”
As hard as it might be for her to believe, it’s true. I’d rather be stuck inside this tiny room with her all day than venture around the castle right now. Lizette is a sense of comfort that no one can compare to, and wandering the halls nowadays riddles me with anxiety. An indescribable weight follows me around, tickling my intuition the way it does when I’m being watched, and I can’t shake it. I constantly feel like a target, even though I’m most likely to be attacked by my food at mealtimes, so remaining hidden away in a room is a much safer bet.
“We still have some calming solution,” Lizette reminds me, pointing to the small leather chest tucked beneath the foot of her bed. That’s where she’s hidden every potion she’s made since we arrived. The raw ingredients, she stores in the bottom of her wardrobe. “Take some if you’re feeling nervous again.”
I wring my hands, and then scold myself for the nervous tell. A swig of the potion wouldn’t deplete the supply, and it would definitely help manage the panicky feeling threatening to overthrow my senses.
“Do you promise we have enough ingredients to make more?” I ask, my eyes lingering on the gap beneath her bed.
“Yes, I promise. Go on and get it out,” she urges, pointing over her shoulder at the bed. “You obviously need it, and I’ve found decent substitutes for all the ingredients. When we get low, I’ll make more.”
I nod, even though she’s gone back to looking at the spellbook, and shuffle my way toward the bed. Carefully pulling the trunk out, I lay it on top of the mattress and pop the clasps, throwing the lid open. Inside are a dozen glass jars, all full of different colored liquids.
“You’ve been busy,” I admire, pulling out a few unfamiliar colors and holding them up to the light to watch them shine. “I’ve never seen some of these.”
“The dark green one came from one of the books we borrowed,” she explains, unstopping another bottle. It makes a little pop. “It’s supposed to be a cure for some diseases. I mainly just wanted to see if I could make it, and it looks more or less like the description. The brown one is an experiment–don’t open it. It smells foul.”
I chuckle and take out the jar filled with pale pink liquid. I use the calming drought more than any other potion, so I easily recognize it, but sometimes, I wish I didn’t need it. Unscrewing the top, I bring it to my lips and take a deep whiff of the sweet scent before swallowing a mouthful. As it slides down my throat, I can already feel the whisper of its effects starting in my chest, working their way outward. My heartbeat slows to a steady rhythm, and I don’t feel like my skin is crawling.
“Better?” Liz asks as I snap the trunk closed and return it to its designated spot.
“Yes, better.” The longer I stand there, the better I feel.
“Great. Now grab those towels,” she says, pointing to a pair of folded hand towels amongst the clutter of ingredients. “We’re going to take this down the hall and let it steep for an hour, and we’ll need them to carry it back.”
Lizette leads the way, carrying the pot full of antidote ingredients, and I follow at her heels. We receive curious looks from several servants we pass along the way, and I know it has nothing to do with the potion. According to royal etiquette, I shouldn’t be here, but that’s one rule I’ll never follow.
Where Liz goes, I go, and vice versa.
The room Lizette takes me to is about the size of her bedroom, but there’s no door. Instead, there’s a single window on the far wall that overlooks the roofs of black buildings, a table with several mismatched chairs, a few shelves topped with knickknacks, and the wood-burning stove.
I step back while she works, desperate not to mess anything up. We only have one shot at making this antidote, and I won’t be responsible for ruining it. I couldn’t live with the crushing guilt. Liz lights a chunk of wood in the belly of the instrument and sits her pot on top.
“It’ll actually take a little longer than an hour,” she says, correcting her earlier statement. “It has to get hot enough to boil first, then it’ll brew.”
“What I’m hearing is, you’re stuck with me even longer,” I tease, pursing my lip. “Is that right?”
She chuckles and rolls her eyes. “Yes, that’s right. I guess there are worse things.”
While the potion boils on the stove, we reorganize the ingredient bottles in Lizette’s wardrobe, making notes of the ones that need to be refilled. When it’s finished, she carefully carries it back to her room and places it back in the middle of the floor.
“Is that it?” I ask, peering inside the pot. It’s a pale, milky liquid, and it doesn’t look appetizing. “Nothing else to do?”
