I stopped in the kitchen, desperate for something to calm my mind, to stop the spinning images of what Nick and I had just done, of all the things I wished we’d done Opening the pantry, I reached for the familiar bags of Red Rose tea.
But then my eyes fell on Natasha’s stash of herbs. Some were meant for flavor, of course, but others were intended to treat imperial patients. I’d studied herbcraft for years at the magicarium. I recognized everything on the shelves.
Cinnamon.
Cloves.
Thistle.
Those were all linked to Fire, tied to the elementals of the southern quadrant when I worked a ritual. Ever since I’d lost my powers, I’d been focusing on fire, on my basic schoolgirl spell to light a candle. Maybe I just needed to supplement my magical base, feed the fire within me.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I filled a saucepan with water. The gas flame whooshed to life, presaging the spell I hoped to work.
Impatiently, I waited for the water to boil. I had no idea how much of the herbs to add. I tossed in three curling sticks of cinnamon bark and an entire handful of cloves. I sifted dried thistle flowers over all of it, enough to cover the water’s surface.
I turned off the burner and let my tea steep. I wasn’t following a rule book. I wasn’t working through a lesson I’d mastered years before. I was doing what felt right, what felt honest and good.
My lips still tingled from the touch of Nick’s scruffy beard. I could remember the weight of his hands on my back and the strange flipping tension below my waist as he sent me back inside the building. I still felt the struggle between what I wanted to do and what I knew was right.
My fire tea was ready.
I found a sturdy stoneware mug, one of the plain white ones that the hospital bought by the gross. Pouring through a strainer, I caught the fragrant herbs and set them in the sink.
The tea smelled familiar—cinnamon and cloves like the coffee cake my grandmother baked when I was a child. But it smelled strange as well—a scent I thought of as “green”, like cucumber or celery. Or thistle.
I blew gently on the cup, breathing in the steam. Could my problem be solved so easily? Could I drink an herbal potion and restore my missing magic?
I gulped a healthy swallow, letting the hot liquid wash over my tongue and coat the back of my throat. It was strong—stronger than any black tea—and it was warming and nourishing and good.
I opened the drawer to the left of the walk-in refrigerator. Sure enough, in a jumble of string and notepads and pencils and pens was a box of birthday candles. I’d bought them myself, putting one on a cupcake for Dr. Hart’s recent birthday. Increasing staff morale, I’d told myself. Making everyone feel part of a family.
My fingers shook as I took out a blue-and-white-striped candle. I stared at it, unblinking, thinking about the taste of the tea, the heat of the herbs as I swallowed, the essential element of fire. I’d consumed the potential of those herbs. I’d fortified myself to work my spell. I’d thought outside the box of the magicarium’s oldest lessons, and now I was ready to reap the benefit of my creativity.
My voice trembled as I spoke the familiar words.
“Dark shies,
Light vies.
Clear eyes,
Fire rise.”
Nothing.
No burst of fire. No ripple of light. Not even a tiny spark of heat.
I’d been so certain. So sure. I thought I’d finally found a way past the block on my powers, through the disaster I’d brought upon myself. I was too stunned to cry as I poured the dregs of my tea down the drain. Instead, I double-checked that I’d turned off the burner, and I headed up the stairs.
But I didn’t fall asleep until the sun was high in the sky.