Chapter Seventeen

Cauldrons and Consequences

“Sabbath’s tears.” I extend my arm to show Soren the three sparkling orbs that have coalesced into the droplet needed for our potion. “Procured during a bout of laughter, which I hope doesn’t destroy whatever soul-sucking potion you’re surely bound to concoct for me.”

“Not soul-sucking. Soul restoring.” He snatches the vial. “Laughter is fine.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter, looking around. Moonlight washes through the streaked windows of the conservatory as I drop my eyes to the list sitting on the table. Soren’s already begun arranging ingredients and, touching a finger to a wooden box, I trace the words Grindelia hirsutula carved into it. Grindelia herb.

I frown down at the rest of the ingredients: eggshell, snakeskin, ginger—“What’s the ginger for?”

“Flavor,” Soren answers flatly.

I nod, resuming my reading of the items where they end with Anima spiritus, a spirit base that’s exceptionally difficult to come by. I wonder why Soren has it.

One thing’s for sure, this is going to be one nasty potion.

“We re-enact the process metaphorically,” he says, and I nod. Makes sense.

Magic loves metaphor. It’s why spellwriters can speak in them, stringing a few well-worded phrases into miracles. It’s why there’s a whole Brood dedicated to transforming one thing into another. Magic thrives on resourcefulness and imagination, taking one resource and envisioning more than what’s in front of you.

I watch Soren pour the Anima spiritus into the small cauldron and lift his hands, raising the essence of each ingredient one by one. Grindelia stems for life, essence juiced. Eggshell for protection during re-birth, essence fractured. Snakeskin for shedding my old body and clothing myself in a new one, essence boiled. An eyelash for right sight, and blood to tie the potion to me.

“What are the tears for?” I ask.

Soren doesn’t look up as he sweeps the scabrous snakeskin into the small cauldron.

“It requires the tears of someone who would mourn you.”

Oh. Emotion bubbles up in my throat. If I’d told Sabbath that, the tears would’ve been procured instantly.

Potions are a bit of an art form, like baking. They allow for creativity, but operate within a certain framework. You might squeeze the magic out in drops like juice from a lime, or coil it into a rope and simmer it for days. Or you might throw essence in object and all, still tied to its source, but, break the rules of bases and essences and you will have some strange side effects.

Soren motions for me to join in. Reaching for the egg, I hold it delicately in one hand and lift the other. My magic extends from the fingertips, nipping at the shell, permeating deeply enough to snatch the essence at the egg’s core. Dragging it to the surface, I watch the essence roil around the shell with an oily sheen, carefully sinking my thumb into the shell only enough to crack it. A bead of gold floods into the essence, and I stir my finger around the egg like I’m twirling a strand of hair, sweeping up the essence into my magical grip. It drops into the cauldron with a light thunk.

We repeat this process with the other ingredients, working in silence. Soren’s hands are efficient, practiced at the movements of this potion. He doesn’t even look down at the sheet of paper. In fact, he’s pushed it over to my side of the table for me to use.

“It seems like you know this potion by heart,” I note, watching him carefully. When he doesn’t acknowledge my statement, I find myself asking suddenly, “Are you a revenant, too?”

Soren blinks, taken by surprise.

Dropping my eyes back to my hands, I focus in and pretend his answer is of no consequence to me. This seems to do the trick, because he gives it freely.

“I died when I was an infant.”

“You’ve been a revenant your whole life?” I ask quietly, trying to push back the awe.

He offers me one stiff nod, and I let this news sink in... and the fact that he’s admitted it at all. For some reason, it makes me feel better—knowing that Soren Cain has been dead. It gives me hope for his ability to empathize.

“Mysterious,” I reply. “Do you make this potion for yourself then?” I hold my tone even, trying not to give away my surprise that he’s having this conversation with me.

“I don’t have access to all of the ingredients regularly.”

Staring down at the table, this seems blatantly untrue, but I don’t argue. “So you use the rune. The one you wanted to give me.”

“Yes. It does mostly the same thing.”

“What’s the difference?”

Chancing a furtive glance his way, I find his lips folded in on one another. As Soren ushers essence into the cauldron, he sighs. “The soulstabilis potion should lure your soul back to its body. It’ll work immediately, but it must continue to be taken until your soul tethers on its own.”

“No more shadow walkers?”

“No more shadow walkers, that you’ll be able to see.”

I crinkle my nose. I don’t like the idea that they’re there at all, watching me, even if I can’t see them. “And the rune?”

“It’s called the illecebra rune. It traps the soul into the body. It’s more long term than the potion but—” Soren’s muscles go rigid, as if he’s said too much.

“What?”

“It weakens over time as it heals, so you have to keep carving it.”

My body draws tight with the shiver ricocheting through me. The idea of slicing and re-slicing the same shape into your own body, over and over again, scar on top of scar…

“I’m glad we’re doing the potion,” I say, interrupting my thoughts before they spiral. “Even if you’d prefer to splice me up.”

Soren scoffs, shaking his head to himself. I think this is what amusement looks like on his face. “Braided smoke from this candle,” he directs.

“Sure,” I say, reaching into his space confidently and sliding the candle in front of me instead. The wick singes as I light it, just enough for a thin line of smoke to curl up into the air. “What’s so special about this candle?”

“It’s infused with the ashes of the dead.”

“Ah.” I nod. “Gross, but appropriate.”

The smoke separates into strands as I hold my hands up, playing my fingertips against the air as if I’m using a loom. The little lines weave in and out of each other.

“You know how to do that?”

“It’s braiding smoke, Soren. Yes, I know how to do it.” I give him an annoyed side-eye. “I’m a very capable alchemist, you know. At Spellfall, we train in the five pillars of magic for the first half of our schooling before being assigned Broods. Is it the same at Burnbright?”

“Yes and no. We’re separated in Broods from first year, learning the tenants of magic alongside our specialties.”

“Did you always want to be Runes Brood?”

“I never assumed I had a choice. It goes as far back in my family as anyone can remember. Did you think you’d be Alchemy?”

“My gran and Dad were both Transfiguration, so I’d been hoping for that. Lucky for me, I don’t seem to have the natural conjuring magic required to activate runes, or transform reality. But Alchemy’s fine by me.”

“Alchemy’s...”

“Boring,” I nod. Safe.

Soren shrugs. “I just thought Carrow’s daughter would’ve ended up in Runes.”

“My biggest fear as a child was that I’d go to Burnbright like my mother. And then it was that I’d be Runes Brood like my mother. Guess what? I don’t want to be like my mother.” My voice is harsh, defiant. I’m shocked by the intensity it carries.

“Is that why you were so afraid about the illecebra rune?”

“I wasn’t afraid,” I declare. “I just don’t want to have anything to do with it. It’s not my fault, what she did. I’m not her.”

“Did you somehow believe it was?” Soren asks slowly. “Your fault?”

“I know it wasn’t. I was nine.”

“But do you believe that somehow?”

I exhale angrily. “I don’t know why she did it. It could have had something to do with me, as much as anything else. Regardless, it’s not like she’s around to take the blame. And people still want someone to blame.”

“No one in their right mind would blame you.”

“Tell me you didn’t waltz into Spellfall and think, ‘There she is, the daughter of the person who’s the reason I have no parents.’ With your murderous eyes and annoyingly stiff body language.”

“Tell me you didn’t see me from across the banquet hall that first night and think, ‘There’s the one whose parents were murdered by my mother. I need to put on a front.’”

“That’s exactly what I thought.”

“Sounds like your issue then, not mine.”

I blow out a hot breath. “You knew who I was.”

“It’d be hard not to, Michlynn.”

Angrily, I fold my arms one over the other, unable to tell from his tone whether he’s being contrarian, or trying to be... kind. Sabbath’s tears slink down the length of the vial as Soren holds it high. They finally slip into the cauldron and the potion swallows them, spitting furiously.

“Your name is Michlynn,” Soren says thoughtfully, pushing the knife to me without menace. “Why not go by Mischa?”

Pricking my fingertip, I watch the blood well up on my skin. It crosses my mind that maybe when Soren called me the wrong name that first night, he’d been trying to call me the right one. The one that a friend would’ve used.

It’s a nice theory until I remember how angry he’d sounded saying it.

“I was told I insisted on having a k in my name. ‘Like Mom.’”

Mom. The word leaves a sour aftertaste in my mouth.

Pinching the blood from my fingertip, I watch the three drops fall into the potion, turning the whole thing a violent red. The bubbles thicken. “The textbooks call her Pandora, but her name was Kathrynn. Kat.”

I’ve learned for it to feel like this—forbidden. Shameful. Pandora Carrow isn’t my mother, she’s a villain in a story told to hundreds of children at night. She’s a cautionary tale, and calling her the thing she should have been to me is an acquired taste.

It’s a broken promise.

“TomKat Carrow,” Soren mutters, the nickname some relic of her time at Burnbright, no doubt.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry that it happened. That you lost your parents.”

“We share the consequences.” His face contorts into a wistful smile, there then gone.

With these words of his, a feeling of assurance creeps over me like a bed sheet that a child draws tightly over themselves, a shield against monsters. The feeling is comforting but thin, an impermissible, flimsy emotional illusion. As useful as that blanket in the face of monsters.

“Now, we wait for the potion to turn yellow. Hand,” Soren demands.

My palm faces up to him, and his touch paints the invisible illecebra rune. The blue light of this creation spits and pops between us, same as the potion.

Tonight, Soren extends his touch further up my arm. I open my mouth to protest, but only a haggard breath escapes. Colors shift in my periphery, a tingle grazing against my face as Soren drops my arm. I whip a hand up to my hair, pulling a strand into my line of vision.

It’s pink. Horrendously pink. The kind of pink that Tomorrow Jones would blow bubbles with. “What did you do?!”

“Another invisible rune. Simple enough magic that it’ll hold for a while. Longer than your glamor.”

“But it’s... pink!”

“It suits you.”

“Well, that’s insulting,” I scoff. Soren raises a brow. “And to think,” I glare at him. “I was just about to tell you we’d still help with your soul magic.”

I fold my arms over one another. His face doesn’t budge, perfectly arranged into an expression teetering on the edge of a smile. Probably, this is why he picked pink, so he never has to take me seriously ever again.

“Clever what you did back there, undermining me,” he says.

I clear my throat. “You should be more careful with your witch bargains.”

“Obviously.” His eyes sweep over my face, and for a moment, Soren seems impressed by my duplicity.

Bad sign, Mika. Don’t be devious enough to impress Soren Cain.

“Well, the Jones’ are still in. I got confirmation this morning. And you are very lucky because you were very insulting.”

“You’re still in?” he asks.

I don’t know why it matters to him. “If Sabbath’s doing it, I’m doing it.”

“Fine,” he concedes, turning back to the table.

Silently, I watch as his hands move quickly, efficiently, placing things where they belong, ordering them. Not wasting a single granule of anything. He seems good with his hands.

I stir suddenly from my trance. “Wait!” Rushing over to the shelves, I pour over the labels. Jars clink as I fumble through them, humming until I find what I’m looking for. “Flammulina velutipes!” I say triumphantly.

“A spirit repellent?”

“It’ll work, right? To keep the shadow walkers not just invisible, but away.”

Soren’s lips purse thoughtfully. “Right. Nice.”

Ignoring the half-compliment, I raise the broad yellow mushrooms and toss their essence into the cauldron. The potion seethes, rolling into a deep gold.

Leaning back against the work table, I let my eyes fall back to Soren’s hands, and the pale scars etched across them. His hands are like a book, all the scars words to his story, but in a language I don’t understand. Maybe one day I will.

No. I do not need to understand Soren Cain. I need Soren Cain to fulfill his end of the deal.

“This will take a little while to brew, a fortnight or so,” he sighs, taking the little cauldron into his arms and moving to the door ahead of me. The arrogant bastard has it in him to flash me a grin before sauntering away, leaving me to examine the exact shade of pink he’s turned my hair.

Finally! Mika's hair is PINK! I once had pink hair, and I miss it terribly. If you had a hot broody warlock playing hair stylist at your disposal, what color would you go? Leave a comment :)

xx Jessa

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