Page 49

I’ve only prolonged it.

Unless…I pick the book back up, scrawl Leaf of Moly and stare at the long, multi step and highly complicated recipe I have no business attempting.

I have to at least…try, don’t I? There are no other options. Unless Div magically appears between now and then and can summon someone to help? Even then…I don’t know if they’d be able to get past Sitri’s magical barrier. And it might be too late.

I read over the potion recipe three times before I wash the dried blood from my hands, faltering for a moment as I slip back into the living area. It truly is a scene of nightmares with blood soaking Sitri’s pants and puddling underneath his body, ugly stitches decorating his side. It’s not natural to see him indisposed like this. He’s always so…formidable. My heart stutters, but I will my feet to move forward and begin pulling ingredients from the shelves.

I have to make haste. I’m not even sure how long it’s been since he’s acquired this injury. Seeing as this is my first time brewing anything at all…it might take me several attempts…if it works at all. I banish that thought. No, this is going to work. I set my jaw determinedly.

When Sitri’s brewing he spends a lot of time adjusting the heat of the flames and now looking at the recipe I see why. Boil under a broiling fire for ten minutes and then a low fire for three.

But he has magic and I have none. It’s going to take me ages to try and get the right amount of heat.

I use the metal contraption Sitri bought me to light fires. Gathering the tinder between my hands, I light it, blowing carefully until a small flame begins to devour the logs. Between the flame lighter, the sewing supplies, and the grimoire it’s like he’s given me exactly what I need to save him.

That thought spurs me forward. I collect the necessary ingredients and lay them across the table. I’m familiar with them, at least. I know what they are, and I know what their uses are. Luckily for me, the first step is simple. Bring spittle of moon, wolfsbane and rue to a boil. Once boiling add saffron, wormwood and dittany and stir vigorously until potion turns a murky green and immediately remove from heat and allow potion to cool.

I add the ingredients and kneel over the cauldron, looking for signs of a boil. As soon as the flames are as close as I’m going to get, I pour the ingredients into the cauldron and stir. I don’t take my eyes off the cauldron for a second, don’t stop stirring until the liquid begins to boil, a murky green.

Stupidly, I haven’t prepared anything to grab the cauldron handle with, and it’s already hot from the simmering flames. I’m not going to risk screwing it up by running to get a towel.

I yelp as the handle burns into my palms. Settling the cauldron on a hook, I flick my hands back and forth. A singed line appears across both palms and my fingers, but I push forward.

My confidence wanes with the next several steps of the potion. Dice stems of elderflower into sizable chunks with the intention of maiming to disinhibit the more volatile effects of the plant.

Sizable chunks? Intention of maiming? And the step after is: Add three drops of Lye and stir until potion reaches luminescence and then Invoke essence of the Goddess for maximum potency of the yarrow.

I don’t know how to do any of that! I look down at Sitri, his face is relaxed, peaceful though the color seems to be leeching from his pores again. I have to try .

I wing it, following each step of the potion as closely as I’m able. When the recipe instructs me to switch directly from a roaring fire to low heat, I use my blanket to snuff out the flames. Too afraid if I use water I’ll put the fire out completely. The last instruction is to let the potion sit for two hours before use. Paranoid, I check Sitri’s breathing again, satisfied to find his warm breaths consistent.

Perhaps….it’d be safer if I made the potion again, in case I messed something up. I repeat the entire process over again and again until I have three cauldrons cooling on their hooks. I don’t know if I’m relieved or dismayed they’re all exactly the same shade of murky green. I suppose if something is wrong…then they’re all wrong.

In a daze, I stagger off to the bathroom to find clean towels, wetting them with warm water, and dropping down to mop up the puddle below his body before I begin cleaning him of blood. I carefully wash his abdomen and arms, then his hand before cleaning around my sloppy stitching.

By the time I’m done, all that’s left are his blood-soaked pants. I unlace his boots and tug them off. My face flushes vibrantly as I kneel between his legs to unclasp his belt and work at the buttons. It takes a fair amount of effort to get the pants out from underneath him. With some heaving, I succeed. His braies are soaked in blood, too, and I falter. I can’t leave him covered in blood.

I grab a fresh pair of braies from his drawer and drag his blanket from his bed. I cover him before sliding the fabric down over his hips. Getting the clean braies on him proves more difficult and I end up glimpsing parts of him I shouldn’t be privy to. “I am so sorry,” I mutter out before pulling the blanket up to cover his chest.

There’s no way I’m getting him off the floor. I drag a pillow off the couch and stuff it under his head before retreating to the bathroom to change out of my soiled clothes and wash away any smudges of blood I missed while I wait for the potions to cool. The balm is cold as I smooth it over my fingers, bandaging them individually so I can keep my dexterity to apply the poultice to Sitri’s wounds.

When the two-hour mark finally hits I eye the finished result. The potion turned more paste-like as it cooled. The grimoire hadn’t detailed any illustrations of what the potion should look like, so I’m still blind as to whether it will actually work or not. It states the potion can be ingested or applied externally so I decide on both. Applying a generous amount over the stitched wound, I re-wrap the bandages over his abdomen. Strenuous as it is, I have to shove at his large body somewhat forcefully to get them around his back. He still doesn’t stir.

Once satisfied, I pry his mouth open and dab the thick paste across his tongue, praying I’m not poisoning him by accident. The act feels incredibly invasive and I mutter out apologies.

When it’s done, I blow out a breath that’s been permanently lodged in my chest. I’ve done all I can do, short of screaming and banging on the walls to see if someone will inevitably show up.

The only thing left…is to wait. I clean up my mess, tossing all of the bloody towels and clothes into the tub, and slump down on the floor beside him.

Now, with nothing left to tend to, it’s only then that I realize his scar's exposed. I’d been so panicked I hadn’t even noticed the difference in him. I trail my fingers over the raised edges from his brow to his jaw.

Setting my blanket and pillow on the floor, I camp out beside him. I could do with a hot bath, but I can’t bring myself to move away from him in case his condition changes.

Now, with nothing left to distract my mind, I succumb and cry quietly into my knees. He’s probably been doing something nefarious to receive such a wound in the first place.

He can’t die . Who knows what they’ll do with me then? But I’m only lying to myself, pretending that concern over my own well-being is the reason for my tears. We didn’t even…I haven’t even gotten to…we didn’t get any time. He doesn’t even know that I like him . Like him? I let out a sunken snort. No, liking him isn’t causing this grievous, daunting feeling in my chest.