Page 8 of Wicked Prince of Frost

I use my power to distinguish the traces of the woman I seek, and call up a shimmering blue thread, visible only to those with fae blood in their veins or who were given the giftof fairy sight. It leads me past several humble homes and further into the city center.

The end of the glowing blue thread is wrapped around a woman as she enters a building across the street. She disappears inside and does not emerge again.

The force of my full ire rises to the surface. I wait. She cannot remain in there forever.

I will break my promise to Imugi before I leave this place.

CHAPTER THREE

VIOLET

Tiny bubbles formon the bottom of the pot. The grandfather clock in the other room ticks away. I watch closely, waiting for the first large bubble before I remove it from the heat.

Years of studying have led me to this point—watching water boil so I can make tea from a rare plant that could cure me, do absolutely nothing, or just as likely kill me.

A teacup holding the crushed flower paste sits patiently on the table for the next step.

I run my finger over the directions one more time to make sure I have followed them to the letter… as much as possible, anyway. They are not quite as clear as I would prefer.

Using a stone mortar and pestle that has been purified by fire, then cleansed with melted snow.

It’s unclear if that means to do these through ritual or simply by placing it in fire and then washing it with melted snow to clean away any lingering ash. I interpreted it as the latter, but now doubt gnaws at my insides.

The fae are known for their powers of glamour and compulsion and deception, among other things, but not rituals, or anything in that vein. However, that means very little when they keep most of their abilities secret from humans.

Crush the fresh leaves and petals of the frost bloom. Take care never to let the white petals come in contact with skin.

The entry goes on to explain that they would turn as transparent as ice and rot the delicate magic within. As fascinating as it would be to see, it isn’t worth giving up my last chance to grow another year older.

Place the mashed poultice in a cup. Boil the water, removing it from the heat when the first large bubble forms, then pour the water. Stir until the contents dissolve, then let the mixture steep for ten minutes before drinking.

I hadn’t written the warning down. I didn’t need to. Such things as “under-steeping will cause the plant to retain its poisonous properties, and over-steeping will cause the magic to rot and speed the curse to its ultimate end,”tend to stick with a person.

Giving the page a curt nod, I bite down on my bottom lip and turn back to the pot. My anticipation grows.

Not much longer.

I barely allow myself to blink until I see what I’ve been waiting for. Gripping the pot with a folded hand towel, I take it to the table and carefully fill the teacup, then flip over the minute glass to time it.

The paste dissolves with a few stirs. Instantly, the water becomes a deep blue with a beautiful floral aroma rising on white curls of steam.

The sand slips through the narrow glass neck. Gradually, the tea lightens to a bright blue—more vibrant than anysummer sky or paint pigment I have ever seen. It’s hard to believe that small, white flower holds magical properties capable of affecting curses—and that it would be such a simple thing to prepare.

I don’t know if I am cursed, but after so long without a single answer or cure, it feels like one.

As the final grains of sand fall, I bring the teacup to my mouth and whisper a desperate plea, “Please work. Please work. Please work.” My breath sweeps the tendrils of steam from the surface of the water.

Then I drink until all that remains are glass-clear crushed petals that haven’t dissolved after all.

Warmth spreads through me, but it’s no different than with any other tea. A tingle so slight sweeps over my skin, though it’s impossible to tell if it is working or if it’s nothing more than anticipation and nerves fueling my imagination.

The grandfather clock chimes the hour. It’s later than I realized.

Demon shit.

Before heading upstairs to get ready for work, I do a quick clean.

I place the final pin to secure my hair into a simple, albeit slightly messy, twist at the nape of my neck. With that, I don my jacket and hat and grab my satchel. A little over half an hour after my little experiment, I’m on my way out the door.