Page 3 of Potion of Deception (Potion of Deception #1)

“A recipe for a tincture for sandy illness,” he read out loud, opening the book. Violette looked up, her eyes widened .

“Spell against fatigue that gives energy,” he continued. “A recipe for returning strength. Oh, and here's the shopping list. You better not lose it, however I don't recommend you buy anything from the bakery on Luna de Medeis Street. I saw the pastry chef was picking his nose.”

“Give it back, it's personal!” she snapped and leaned over the counter towards the stranger, ending up too close to his face.

His hand moved the notebook away as she tried to take it back. The corners of his eyes raised in insolence, looking down at her.

“And in the corner lies an old book of spells by Agness Fumehex 'How to defeat the ailments that knock on your door: A manual for potion makers',” his words came out playful, as if he was toying with her.

“It's not funny,” she fumed and stood back on both legs, moving away from him.

“I'm not joking. It's you who's denying you need help.” The notebook fell onto the counter.

“I’m not denying it, I am just–” she suddenly stopped, reminding herself to not overshare. “I'm just confused.”

“You have a notebook with pages covered in recipes and formulas about curses and diseases. On the shelf behind you are three different books about dark spells and a manual on fighting the dark arts, and none of those are goods for sale, at least not in this store. Near the table on the right – glass jars of potions which smell like cypress, begonias, and tears of silver unicorn – main ingredients in healing elixirs. A blue thistle, known for its salubrity, sticks out from a bag on the chair. And between pages of this book,” he pointed out the book with a berry cover by the basket of potions, “there's a ticket for a lecture by Lumeria Lepos on ancient maladies.”

“You're either very attentive to details or crazy. And I think the second is closer to the truth.”

“Call it a talent.” He shrugged.

“I said what I said,” she declared, her face muscles tensed, letting him know that her mind wasn't about to change.

“I'll give you some time to think.” He reached into his pocket and a second later placed a tiny vial of purple-pink liquid in front of her.

Her hands crossed on her chest. “What is it?”

“The cure. Well, part of it. Give it to your father, I bet working in this shop you can understand if it's poison or not.

Look how his health changes throughout the night and thank me later.

I'll visit you tomorrow and you'll tell me if you want to help me or if you want to see your father in a coffin soon.”

Such a prick, she thought.

“I don't think it will change my mi–”

She raised her head. Gone. The man vanished as suddenly as he had appeared. Her gaze lowered to the little vial left by him. Such nonsense. Did he really believe she would do it? Was it just a joke? She didn't care… maybe, a little.

Tick tock.

Violette lifted her head to the big wooden clock on the wall. It was louder than usual, the sound bouncing through her mind.

“It's a sign I need some sleep.” She shook her head.

The situation seemed so ridiculous. Maybe she was just going crazy? This thought made her gasp a short laugh and with it, she left the shop.

The house smelled of herbal tea and honey.

The room she entered was poorly lit, barely lighting the place where her father dozed off again.

She froze in the doorway to the living room, her hand clenched.

Should she say hello? They barely talked nowadays, but she missed him and their long entertaining conversations.

He loved to tell her different stories about his adventures when he was young or some legends and other things he heard from wanderers while he was traveling.

Being a writer, he loved to share the ideas and stories he came up with, and she loved when his eyes were engulfed with excitement.

When she was little he always read her his new works, sometimes unfinished ones, though she was still listening as if the whole world depended on these little stories.

She kept asking him about his characters and what will happen next but her questions were not always answered, some of these character's lives stayed a mystery for her.

Even now, when she's grown up, she still sometimes thinks about heroes from her childhood.

A lot has changed since then. They had always been close, but since her father fell sick, everything turned gray – in their house and in their lives.

Everything felt pallid to Violette, even if she never showed it.

She couldn't let him know how worried she was and how painful it was to see him like this – once vibrant and lively, now missing his usual spark.

He was the heart of this house which she couldn't call home if he will…

if he will leave her like her mother did.

Violette still remembers how the colors drained after her death but her father…

he made everything easier; he was always there for her.

She knew he was mourning; she knew he suffered after her mother's death.

He loved her. But he also loved his daughter and wanted to save the light his wife once brought to this house for her.

His laugh made Violette believe life didn't end with her mother's last breath; the moment the doctor said it was over.

The moment she knew she would never hear her voice or touch her hand. Life didn't end then. But it could now.

She didn't step forward, instead turned around to go upstairs.

“Violette?” A raspy voice brushed her ear.

“Dad, hi…” She entered the living room. An awkward wistful smile appeared on her face. He knew this smile, like she was scared to look upset .

“How was your day? Have you already made a great discovery in the potion world?” He asked and rose heavily from his chair.

Violette quickly ran up to help him.

“It's not necessary, honey. I can walk by myself.”

“Yes, I know. Of course you can.” She smiled again, though he wouldn't fool her.

“So, how are your days in the shop?”

“Everything like always, nothing interesting.” She waved jauntily.

“Oh, I don't believe you. You probably saw and heard a lot there,” his lips curled in an amused half-smile, “Such wonderful stories flying around, aren't they?”

“Not better than yours.”

He laughed. “I think you're kind of prejudiced.”

“I don't think so.” The corner of her eyes finally matched her smile.

Perhaps she was biased, after all, these stories were written by her father. And she wondered if he had any work in mind. She believed he was still writing some time after he had fallen ill; when he still had some energy and his face wasn't that pale… and he was more himself than now.

She closed the door of her room as she stepped in.

A deep exhale left her lungs. She leaned on the door, slowly sliding down, followed by a quiet sob and then another one.

One more. And again until the tears started streaming down her face like a waterfall.

She cried so quietly, almost muted. Even the walls of the room barely heard her pain.

Her head bowed as her hand covered her face.

She couldn't let her father see her tears but it didn't mean she didn't want to cry most of the time she was looking at him and thinking when the day would come.

She hated to make it about herself but what would she do without him?

Who was she supposed to talk to? Who was she supposed to laugh with?

Whose story was she supposed to listen to?

She cried with a thought of how everything could be different.

And she wanted to believe that soon he would get better but the truth is…

the hope was leaving her with each day. She was still trying, she was still believing, but sometimes in the darkest moments like this, when nobody sees, behind the closed door, she could lower all her walls.

Her mother told her to be strong. She had to. If she wasn't strong, who would be? She didn't have anybody else, only herself. And nobody will help her father, except her.

The tears were heavy, the breathing suffocating.

There's no more agony than shedding tears in silence.

Violette took a deep breath and lifted her head.

She couldn't do this anymore. She couldn't live in the fear that any day would be the last day with her father. She didn't have such a luxury as time.

Her fingers groped the little bottle in her pocket.

It was risky, it was stupid. But did she have a choice?

She had only two options – keep searching in endless books about magic, about cures, and waiting for when her father's light faded, or she would take a risk, and maybe, it would resolve all her problems.

She stood up and went to a wooden dressing table replete with a small number of other vials with colorful liquids.

Violette rarely worked in her room; all the time that she devoted to potions was spent in the shop, where she was more accustomed to experimenting.

Though she brought some of her 'achievements' home and kept them gathered on a table near the mirror.

She took out a deep transparent bowl from the last drawer and poured an alluring warm liquid in, then a little gold powder, mixing it all with a silver spoon.

The sound of the vial opening cut through the silence.

Violette sighed and held her breath as she tilted the bottle of purple potion the stranger had given her over the bowl.

The drop fell into the golden liquid and dissolved in it, leaving not a trace behind – a sign that the potion was harmless.

Forging a potion was a difficult task, especially if you weren't a wizard.

If the golden potion changed color, then the liquid was actually an unhealthy infusion.

Red meant it could cause harm to health, whereas purple meant it could change the appearance, and the most terrifying, black, meant death.

The stranger with somber eyes didn't deceive her – the potion was indeed safe.

It was not a poison, nor a toxin, but it also could be just a regular decoction for a cold.

However, Violette was haunted by the feeling that had visited her back in the shop, when she first saw the bottle – soft emanating light and the feeling of a real magic.

She had no doubt that the potion was genuine; she had spent time among the magical bubbles since birth, after all, her mother was a skilled potionist. Just one glance was enough to confirm it was real, this kind of magic leaves traces.

But Violette couldn't just trust anyone, especially a rogue.

What if he bewitched her or it was something else?

What if she felt this magic for another reason?

For example, it could be an illusion. She seemed to be coming up with reasons not to give the magic drink to her father as the fear still constrained her.

Enough!

Enough doubt. It was decided.

Step by step, stair after stair, Violette found herself in the passage to the living room again. A deep sigh escaped her as she clutched the vial to her chest; a sigh of hope and fear at the same time.

Her father was settling down on the couch, drinking freshly brewed tea.

“Father,” she faltered and immediately fell silent, resisting the urge to retreat.

“Yes?” His lips came off the rim of the cup as he looked over his shoulder.

Violette quickly walked forward, the sooner she said this, the faster it would end.

“Do you trust me?” The words escaped her mouth before she could formulate what she was going to say.

“What kind of question is that, dear? ”

“Do you…do you trust me as a potionist?” Her lips pressed in a thin line as she sat opposite him.

“Honey, you are the daughter of your mother. I have no doubt in your talent.”

Good. She breathed.

“What if I say I found a potion which can help your health. But I am not sure about it completely?” she continued carefully.

Her father smiled. “When you doubt yourself, I'm always at your side,” he said softly.

The inner corners of her brows nervously angled up.

“If you think it will help me, I trust you. If I didn't trust you, what kind of father would I be?” The smile that hung on his face lit a new fire of hope in her heart and she tried to memorize this expression of pride and trust.

And that's how it was done. With trust. No lies. Well almost, as she didn't tell him how exactly she got the potion. It didn't matter, not in the moment, for sure.

Violette stared at the ceiling for a long time, not being able to bring herself to properly sleep tonight.

Always thinking about her father, about how weird yesterday evening was; a stranger named Dante, and most importantly – the potion he gave her.

She was worried about her father's well-being, but didn't want to bother him until he woke up.

She glanced at the window – the sky was painted with a pale orange and red hue, wiping the cloak of night away.

A burning yellow disc finally showed up on the horizon, the first rays of which began to creep across the sky announcing the coming of the new day.

The steps on the wooden stairs creaked as Violette tried to go down silently. The white fabric of her nightgown flashed around the corner as she slipped into the kitchen.

The surprise that shot through her as she found her father already awake, preparing breakfast, made her freeze in the doorway, watching him set the table and humming under his breath. She would stay there even longer if he wouldn't notice her.

“You woke up!” He raised his head and went right to the stove. “Was I too loud?”

Violette opened her mouth to say something but words just didn't come out. Her lashes fluttered and she just took two steps to the table and quietly sat. Her mind couldn't even function to offer him help. Only when she noticed his hands were shaking, she flew up from her place.

“Dad! What are you doing?” She grabbed his hands.

“It's okay. I'm fine, Violette,” he demanded as she was trying to put him in a chair. “I just woke up early and had this sudden burst of energy and thought it would be nice to make breakfast. It's been a while.”

Violette blinked. “And you feel okay? ”

“Not great but I haven’t felt so alive in months,” he replied and went back to the stove.

Violette was left standing on the same spot. She gasped.

The cure is working.

And it's working better than she even expected. She couldn't remember the time her father looked that fresh and active. He still was weakened and his hands were proof of it but it was already something. The stranger. Dante. Did not lie. Fascinating.