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LUCK OR SOMETHING SIMILAR seems to be on Ginata’s side; as she slips the blanket over her body and shuts her eyes, allowing her mouth to slacken as though in sleep, she hears Cook stirring.
She keeps still, a sudden itch on her face, maddeningly overwhelming. She fakes a sleep stir, and scratches at her cheek, mumbling slightly as though still dreaming.
Cook steps around her and starts her chores, being as quiet as she can.
Ginata opens her eyes, mutters something incomprehensible and sits up slowly. “Where am I?”
“Oh, you poor darling. You fainted in here yesterday. I covered you over and let you sleep. It’s early, why don’t you go to your bed?”
“I think I will. Thank you.”
Cook passes her a mug of ale and a sweet cake. “This will help.”
Ginata takes them both and leaves the kitchen. If she is quick, she will be able to go to her room, find the recipe, the spell, for the death draught, gather what she needs and leave the castle before anyone wakes. By the time they come from Everleigh’s room to look for her in the kitchen, she will be long gone.
She unlocks the door to her rooms and sees Finn, Will and the teacher asleep. She steps softly inside and shuts the door, wondering why they are in her rooms. Creeping silently through to her work room she finds Everleigh, Ceryn and Archer sleeping on the floor in a heap. She can smell something sour and rotten in the air. Archer, she guesses correctly. One of his wounds must be infected, she hopes he’ll survive, but she cannot let pity or concern slow her down.
She heads quietly for the shelf of books and runs her fingers along the spines. When she gets to the one she wants she can feel it; a sick squirming sensation inside her.
She flicks through the pages until she reaches the right one: the writing is stark, written in a rusty red hue, which she remembers from the last time; it looks as though it’s written in blood.
DEATH DRAUGHT
Underneath in normal ink are a series of complicated instructions, more ingredients than for any spell she’s ever seen and several illustrations of the steps involved. She can remember the day she made it with Halfreda. Halfreda confessed that she had made it once before, to aid the King, probably to get rid of one of his enemies, though she never went in to detail.
She reads through the spell again, feeling the familiar tingle of unease. Deadly nightshade, a spider’s web, the heart of a dead animal, she shudders – disgusting.
She will need to take everything back to her cottage and make the draught there. She gathers the ingredients she needs, the spell book, a dagger, anything else she can think of and with a basket in each hand, she sneaks from the room.
Deciding to use the same technique to capture a freshly dead heart as when she made the draught with Halfreda, she sneaks into the stores on the way past, where all the meat is kept for castle consumption. She takes a dead chicken and slips it in to her basket.
Hunkering down on the edge of a copse of trees, Ginata tucks her baskets out of the way and places the chicken in full view.
It doesn’t take long before a beautiful red fox slinks over. It sneaks closer sniffing, and licking his lips, rotten teeth dripping with saliva. It catches hold of the chicken, and Ginata shoots her arm out and catches hold of the fox. She snaps its neck before she can change her mind. She reaches for the dagger and cuts out the fresh heart. She wraps it in cloth and slips it into the basket, wiping her bloody hands on the grass.
She heads to her cottage, her heart heavy. She remembers more of Halfreda’s words of wisdom regarding a death draught: from the moment you first think on it, from the second you open the spell book and put your finger on the filthy stinking words it makes you feel like your soul is slowly dying, being poisoned or strangled.
That’s exactly how she feels.
She opens the door to the cottage, Millard and Wolf are languishing on her arm chairs, laughing and sipping ale. She slams the two baskets down on the floor and Millard looks at her with concern.
“Ginny, what’s wrong?”
“A death draught is a terrible thing, my King, it puts you in a terrible mood when you have to make it.”
“I’m sorry, Ginny. What can we do?”
“Just be quiet and let me work.”
Neither men have seen a potion or a draught being made before and are happy to silently watch.
She sets her old copper-bottomed pot on top of the flames in the fire and then reaches for her basket and pulls out the bloody heart, the cloth all soaked through. The smell is nauseating, and both Millard and Wolf make gagging noises. She’s happy to leave it in their full view until she needs it.
She pours in several liquids, referring to the spell book over and over again. Halfreda was so quick and capable with spells, recipes. Ginata is not. She’s slow and methodical, careful and calm. Checking and double checking her measurements and the order it all goes in.
She chants and mutters as she works, and the flames under the copper pot lick bright green. The air around them is shimmering as sparks shoot and fizz out of the pot. The room has an energy and a sound other than just the three of them.
The spell is alive.
Millard sits forward in his chair, fascinated.
When she throws in the dead heart the flames and the sparks turn black and the smell is like a hog roast. Ginata remembers the feeling well: hungry and sick at the same time.
The sound of the spell has changed. Ginata peers into the pot, gazing at the swirling liquid; it’s mesmerising, potent, evil. They can all hear it whispering, taunting and Millard stands up. “What’s it saying?”
“Everything and nothing,” Ginata says, her voice full of weary disgust at what she’s doing.
She takes a tiny black vial from her basket and ladles the death draught in. She mutters as she does and there is a scream from inside the vial; an unholy inhuman sound. She remembers it, and has the same reaction as last time: goose bumps all over and a headache. She screws the vial shut and places it to one side.
She lifts the copper pot, wincing at the heat. “Open the door.” Her voice sounds harsh and deep, not like her at all and Millard does as he’s told despite hating being told what to do by anyone.
He follows her outside and Wolf trails behind him, looking worried.
She takes the pot to the end of her path and pours the contents on the floor. Instantly the grass fizzes and turns black, dead. She doesn’t have a jug of stuff like Halfreda did to neutralise it, but she piles some stones over the top of the black patch, hoping it will stop any animals getting accidentally killed.
Ginata is sweating and looks awful. This spell has taken it out of her. “I need to sit down. I need a drink.”
Wolf pours her a drink, grudgingly, and Millard hands it to her.
“Thank you,” he says, kissing her hand.
She holds out the vial and he slips it into his pocket. “I can feel it!” He doesn’t sound concerned or anxious, just excited, enchanted.
Ginata shudders. “It’s awful.”
“It’s wonderful.”
Ginata closes her eyes to block out Millard’s words and within seconds she’s asleep.