Madly (9 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Samantha

BACK AT THE SHOP, IT looks just as I left it—obviously the rest of the family aren't back yet. That suits me fine. I leave the
CLOSED
sign turned around—it's only ten minutes until real closing time anyhow—and do a quick round-up of the sheets of paper on the floor, not bothering with my organization system any more.

Once the store looks reasonably respectable (as if I had spent all day clearing things up, rather than bunking off with Zain—did that actually happen?) I take the vial of synth eluvian ivy out of my bag and put it on the counter, staring at it as if it's radioactive. Bringing it into the store, I'm a rebel. I feel like I'm being watched; that the store itself is judging me for tainting it with the presence of a synth.

That wasn't just any panic attack. That's what being a traitor feels like.

But I have also been betrayed. If my life is so tied to the store that I can't even think of doing anything different without breaking into a panicky sweat, then I need to make this work for me. The hunt is my opportunity. One day I'm going to be the master of Kemi's Potion Shop, and I'm not going to go down without a fight.

I think of the missing merpearl and I know what I have to do. I have to make a potion. It's one that can be dangerous in the wrong dose, so I have to be ultra careful. I pull my journal out of my bag and turn to the page I need, reading the ingredients list several times over before beginning.

I walk over to the shelves and examine them, hands on hips, chewing my bottom lip as I go. I have several variables to take into account:

1. My subject is strong, and their mind will resist the effects of the potion.

2. They are familiar with potions, and if there is anything wrong with mine, they will notice it right away.

3. I definitely cannot get the formula wrong.

No. The consequences of that don't make me shudder; they make me want to vomit. But if I get this right, it could change everything.

The gathering of the ingredients goes quickly—I already know that I have everything I need in stock, which is quite a relief—and I walk into the back room with armfuls of jars. Once there I begin isolating the
exact quantities of each ingredient, carefully measuring them out into wooden bowls. I then head back to the store and replace the jars on the shelves, so no one will be able to notice at first glance that they have been disturbed.

I return to the lab and begin the mix.

Each potion has a base formula that works for everyone unless they have a natural immunity to it. I have a natural immunity to sleep serum. The normal mix of lavender, chamomile, and sloth hair does little for me. But add a touch of melling bee honey, and you've got me. The sweetness triggers the cells in my brain that react to the potion and
poof!
I'm asleep.

I don't think my subject has natural immunity to the potion I'm making, but there is a good chance they have built up a resistance to it.

I've finished the base potion now, and it bubbles away over a tiny blue-flamed burner. The liquid is absolutely clear, so much so that if there weren't any bubbles, I might have trouble seeing if liquid was there at all. That's good. That's exactly how it should look.

But there is something missing, and like a lightning bolt it hits me. I almost sprint back to the store shelves, crouch down to the very bottom, and measure out half a teaspoon of a fine white powder.

The new bell above the shop door jingles, seeming louder than it ever has before, like an alarm going off in
my brain. I hear my mum's voice before anything else, her delight at seeing the store returned to normal, followed by my dad's low tones, my granddad's shuffle, and Molly's light giggle. I stand up slowly, careful not to spill any of the powder.

“Oh, hi, Sam!”

“Hi, Mum. Good day at the shops?”

She nods while unwinding the scarf from her neck and throwing it over the hook by the door. “Yes, I think we have everything we need now. Who's hungry? I'm going to put dinner on.”

“Me! Me! Me!” Molly skips along to every word, following Mum through the door into the kitchen.

“What's that you have there?” asks Granddad, nodding toward the spoon of powder in my hand.

“Oh—it's essence of wisteria . . . I'm making a potion for someone young, so I thought it would make it easier to digest.”

“Well, don't forget to add a drop of rose oil to help the essence mix properly—or else you risk messing with your formula.”

“Of course, Granddad.” I say it with a smile, but inwardly I curse myself for almost forgetting that crucial step. I probably would have noticed once I mixed the essence in, or so I tell myself. “I'll just finish this up and then I'll come in for tea.”

“Okay—don't be too long, sweetheart,” says Dad.

The essence of wisteria goes in, as does the drop of rose oil. I take the potion off the boil and transfer small portions of the liquid into different vials until it's gone. I'm only going to need one vial for my experiment, but there's no point wasting a good mix.

I take a deep breath and walk into the kitchen. I wonder if anyone is going to take notice of how much I'm shaking.

“Molly, can you pour Granddad's juice for me and bring it to the table?” Mum asks.

“Do I have to?” she whines.

“Don't worry, I'll do it,” I say. Molly's timing couldn't be better.

“Thanks, Sammy!”

I head over to the blender, where my granddad's daily dose of vitamins—spinach, lettuce, lemon juice, and a snip of the fresh wheatgrass from the plant on the windowsill—sits freshly pulsed. He never starts a meal without it—says it keeps his brain sharp.

I pour the gloopy green mixture from the jug into a thick-bottomed glass, adding my serum at the last minute. I almost drop the vial but I manage to keep my cool, slotting the empty back into my jeans pocket in one swift movement. I bring the glass over to the table and place it down in front of Granddad, which he acknowledges with a grunt, and then take my customary seat at the far end of the table. Mum places a plate of
lasagna in front of me, and although the smell of melted cheese would normally drive me wild, my mouth is dry. Until Granddad takes a sip. And . . . nothing. He notices nothing amiss with his drink.

“Everything okay, Sam?” Mum asks. Everyone is already tucking into their dinners, but my cutlery is undisturbed.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, picking up my fork and digging in. “Daydreaming.”

“Well, eat up or it will get cold.”

I take a few bites, and it's delicious.

“Anything happen in the store today?” asks Dad.

“Actually, Zain came by.”

“Zain?” My dad seems puzzled.

I take another bite of food and keep chewing.

“Zain . . . as in Zain Aster?” says Mum.

I nod, and have to stifle a giggle at my dad's stupefied look.

“Bloody useless synth,” mumbles the head of the table.

“Granddad!” scolds Mum. “Not while we're eating!”

“What did he want?” There is a reserved edge to my dad's voice too, although I am more intrigued by Granddad's outburst.

“I guess to see how I was doing after dropping out of the hunt,” I say with a shrug. “We knew each other at school a bit.”

“Oh, I have got to tell Sarah about this,” says Molly, already taking her phone out and opening up TalentChat.
“She was really hoping to see him at the concert.”

“No phones at the table,” says Mum to Molly, who puts it away with a slight pout. Then Mum raises her eyebrow at me. “That's . . . nice that he came by. You never mentioned him before. I suppose ZoroAster are the main frontrunners in the hunt now.”

“Zol and his band of minions couldn't mix a real love potion if the recipe came and danced in front of their faces,” says Granddad.

“We could, though, couldn't we, Granddad?” I ask, not yet ready to make eye contact.

“Well, of course we could.”

Mum tuts and says, “Enough with the hunt now, okay?” If she could reach to kick Granddad under the table, she would. And if I didn't have a feeling about what was coming, this conversation would have sent me over the edge. But I do, and so I'm able to be strong. She puts her hand over mine and squeezes it. “You tried with the first ingredient, Sam, but now you have to concentrate on the store again. You were getting so far with your inventory, weren't you?”

I smile at her, endlessly grateful that she's so protective of my sanity. But then I move my hand away and keep my gaze focused across the table. “We thought we didn't have the first ingredient, but we had it all along, didn't we, Granddad?”

Mum says my name in that loud
What on earth are you
doing, Sam?
tone and Dad slams his hands on the table so loudly the cutlery jumps. “Your mother said, enough!”

Amidst the commotion, I almost miss Granddad's answer. “Yes, of course, it's under the sink in the lab.”

I can't look at Mum or Dad—even though both of them are quiet now, Granddad's words registering—as I'm paralyzed to my chair by my granddad's stare. His brow is furrowed, his lips pursed tightly together as if he's attempting to reassert control over his own mouth. He's looking at me with an intensity I can't bear, but I also cannot turn away or avert my gaze. He looks so angry. But there's something else. Something that gives me hope he's not going to murder me. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking.

“Molly,” he says, not even breaking his stare for a moment. “Fetch me a glass of water.” Molly jumps up from the table so quickly her chair almost falls backward onto the linoleum floor behind her, and rushes to the sink. “No, not from the tap, from the jug in my study.” She goes immediately.

We wait until she returns. My parents are dumbfounded by my granddad's revelation and also not yet sure about my involvement.

“Dad,” says my dad. “You knew the whole time—”

Granddad holds up a hand to stop him, and waits for the glass of water from Molly. He drains it, wipes his mouth, and takes a deep breath.

“I thought I was immune to truth serums, Samantha.”

Mum gasps and the blood drains from my face.

“But somehow, you have created a mix that I am not immune to.” To my surprise, he takes another sip of his juice and washes it around in his mouth. “Hmm . . . what is it? You adjusted the base formula—fortified it.”

I can only nod, still cautious.

“And, of course, the essence of wisteria wasn't meant for a young child at all, but an old man. It's . . . inspired. I knew you were good at mixing, but I didn't realize you were this good. You will be a great master of alchemy one day.”

I blush a deep red, but I can't allow myself to forget what this trouble has been for. “Then will you help me with the hunt? We can't let the synths win.”

“I let the synths win a long time ago, Sam.” He looks sad, tired. “But you are the alchemist who is bound to complete the Wilde Hunt. I won't stand in your way.”

That's about as much as I can hope for. I jump up, run around the table, and kiss him on the top of his head, his fine white hair tickling my nose.

“But we're out, Sam,” says Dad, scratching his chin. “It's already been announced.”

“Plus, it's so dangerous,” adds Mum. “We've already been robbed, for Talent's sake. ZA sabotaged you at the Rising . . . Who knows what they'll do if you ever get close?”

“If everyone thinks we're out, that could be our advantage,” I muse. “I can do this, Mum. I'll be careful.”

“Sam?”

I turn around and Molly is behind me. In her hand is a ceramic piggy bank, which she holds out for me. “It's not a lot, but it might help a bit.”

“Mols, you don't have to do that!”

“But I want to. I know you can beat anyone else in the hunt.” She puts the piggy bank on the table and gives me a hug.

“Molly's right,” says Dad. “We'll help in whatever way we can. This is your dream, and we'll support it.”

My eyes well up with tears. My mum pats my hand. “Eat, first. Finish your dinner. Then you can start making the world's most sought after potion, okay, honey?”

I grin; my parents' excitement is almost matching my own.

“But, Sam—if you ever potion your grandfather again, you will be grounded for life, got it?”

I'm not going to argue with that.

*   *   *

I devour the rest of my dinner and then head for my granddad's lab. Right under the sink, as Granddad had revealed, is the jar of powdered merpearl. It still possesses a slight glow of luminescence, a pink-white sheen. I tilt the jar round in a circle, and instead of behaving as normal powder does, it shifts more like a liquid. In fact,
instead of tumbling in individual grains, it reminds me more of tiny waves crashing against the glass.

“It's beautiful.” My dad's voice catches me by surprise.

I give the jar another whirl and watch it again. “This isn't powder from an ordinary mermaid pearl, is it? It belonged to Aphroditas. When we were on the boat, I was watching her. These were her colors.” I peer closely at the label.
C
OLLECTED ON FULL MOON NIGHT, 1942.
“And it's as powerful as it can be; even though it isn't fresh, it will be strong.”

“There was a time when Kemi's Potion Shop only had the finest ingredients,” he says.

“I wish I lived in that time,” I say, unable to tear my eyes from the merpearl.

“Maybe you will again. You know your grandfather means well. He saw the rise of the synths first hand, watched Zoro cheat your great-grandmother out of her win. Back then Zoro was trying to establish synth legiti­macy. Now Zol is trying to protect it. And with Emilia coming out of the woodwork . . . it's so dangerous, Sam. I wish I could come with you. To protect you.” He smiles sadly. “But you're the Participant, so I can't come even if I wanted to.”