Aunt Linnia nodded, now twirling the stem of her glass between thumb and forefinger. “Sure. It should work like that. My husband and I can test it first and fine-tune the enchantment before we put the oil on the book.”
I breathed easier, surprised by how great of a relief I felt. Was I more worried about ruining Lyall's book, about failing with the enchantment, or about failing with Rossalinda's family? I wasn't sure.
“Do you think it's a good idea? I mean, I can't bring her back, obviously, but do you think this is a sensitive gift?”
Aunt Linnia smiled. “You are giving them a way to collect and share cherished memories during a time when they are supposed to be reflecting on a life well-lived. Of course it's a sweet keepsake.”
“Alright.”
“But we'd best get on to it. They will be ready for private services soon. Do you know what you need?”
I touched the book and recalled what Lyall and I had talked about. “Carrier oil, the book, and I don't know what else.”
Aunt Linnia sipped her margarita. “You'll also need a non-reactive pot, a little bit of gentle heat to help the enchantment sink in better, and something to spray the oil with.”
“Yes, I would.”
“I have all of that, naturally. There's a fondue pot which will work for the heating and I have one of those monstrous perfume bottles which was used as a display piece for a department store I used to work for back when you were this high,” Aunt Linnia said and motioned to her hip.
She got up and I followed, careful where I placed my feet so I wouldn't trip and embarrass myself. In no time we were in the greenhouse addition to her home. At the patio-like floors and twelve foot high tomato plants, I was struck by how similar it was to my own sun room. I didn't have long to think about it, though, before Linnia led me to a secretary desk which folded down to reveal cubbies filled to the brim with essential oils in green, brown, pink, and purple bottles. Each was labeled in Aunt Linnia's swirling scrawl.
One by one, Aunt Linnia found and placed the fondue pot, the perfume bottle, and a plastic jug of canola cooking oil on the desk. I stared at the canola oil in its crinkled container, then shrugged. Try as they might, the two worlds could hardly keep themselves isolated. The oil was a reminder of the conveniences of the modern technology world, and it was for the best that I accepted its boons along with the rest of the magical world.
I went over once more how Lyall had taught me to do the illusion, and demonstrated it on a fresh page. Unlike me, Aunt Linnia grasped the concept in a flash and had an illusion at the first try. Within ten seconds, actually. I tried not to be envious. I failed. This was what I got for getting too proud of my abilities among people who didn't have practice with illusions, I reminded myself.
Aunt Linnia nodded. “So,” she said, “how much oil do you think it would take to give each leaf a light spritz?”
“Less than a tablespoon. That would soak it through. A teaspoon? Less than that? And there's about what, a hundred and some leaves in the book?”
“A hundred and thirty by the feel of it. Let's say a half-teaspoon per leaf. That's…a little under five and a half cups of oil.”
I imagined putting five cups of oil on the book. It would be positively swimming in it. “That seems like a lot.”
“It does,” Aunt Linnia said. “Let's start out with two cups and be scarce with it. If we have spare oil, I'll keep some and you'll keep some.”
“Let's do it.”
Aunt Linnia's measuring cups happened to be nothing else than a glass beaker like I'd used in science class, except it measured out liquids, flour, sugar, and I didn't get to read the last label before Aunt Linnia was done measuring and dumped the oil into the fondue pot. She lit a candle with a short spell, and then stood there with her fingers near the heat.
“Now, you put your hand in the oil and do the spell Lyall told you, but don't complete it by putting a memory to it. Just repeat the spell over and over until the oil starts to feel uncomfortably hot. Stir it, too, to get a uniform heating.”
I'd hoped that she might be the one who would do the enchantment with me as an aide, but that wasn't going to happen. So I did as she said, and I put my hand in the oil, stirring it, repeating the spell over and over in my head while waiting what would be forever for the tiny flame to warm up the oil. It didn't end up taking forever, though. The oil, cool at first to my touch, absorbed into my skin and softened callouses thickened from my work writing an instruction book for Denise in the colony, and from writing in Skills of the Thaumaturge. Soon the steady repetition of the words droned through me. It was meditative, the easy slide of oil over my fingers, the slow stirring. Then came the gentle heat of the candle. Warmth spread throughout my body, the spell a chant building in strength, building upon itself. Then the oil became hot, but tolerable. At last my fingers were turning red and I felt the potency of the enchantment tingling in my palm.
Withdrawing my hand, I flicked the excess oil off my hand. It was still dribbling off my nails when Aunt Linnia removed the bowl to pour oil into her spritzer, and I stood there with my dripping hand, uncertain if I should rub in the spare oil or rub it off or what. I settled on snaring a convenient handkerchief and wiping my fingers clean on it. The bulge of embroidery caught my attention and I hoped I hadn't ruined one of Aunt Linnia's nice kerchiefs.
“Keep it,” she said. “Here, take the book. Go back into your trance and turn the pages for me. You've already contacted the oil.”
She didn't want to touch the oil, I realized, so I took the book off the desk and opened it. She sprayed the pages until she was satisfied, and I flipped to the next spread. It was truly mindless work, boring yet soothing. After forever and no time at all, we were on the last few pages, then were done.
Aunt Linnia put down a scrap of cave spider fabric, then wrapped the book up in it and tied it shut with a pink cactus flower on top.
“That will protect the enchantment while it sets up,” Aunt Linnia said. “I recommend you entrust the gift to your parents.”
“If you think that's for the best.” I didn't feel like talking with people at the moment, anyway, but her wariness made me wonder how little the village liked me now.
Aunt Linnia's husband brought out a bowl of water with rose petals and soap bubbles on the surface, and we both washed up in it. Following Aunt Linnia's example, I washed my hands, arms, face, and neck. We toweled off, and Aunt Linnia gave me a smile.
“You are developing into quite the young lady,” Aunt Linnia said. “It seems just yesterday you were going out into the world for the first time. You are most welcome in our home, no matter what happens. You have a good heart. We will help you however we may.”
I smiled at her reassurance and responded, “And I will help you however I may.”
Aunt Linnia's husband nodded at this. The words felt like more than an empty promise. It was interdependence the feys needed to survive the Wildwoods, and interdependence the Wildwoods needed to survive the world. If Father and Death were predictors of what I would face, then I would need all the protection I could gather.
“I will walk you home,” Aunt Linnia said. “You look crashed on your feet.”
Sheer willpower had kept me awake and moving this long. Now the force of the enchantment and the drain of the day as a whole sucked me down into fatigue. I remembered the short walk home, eating a hot bowl of sliced meat and rice, then curling up in my blankets and falling asleep.
Chapter Thirty-One
Nearly every inch of my ribcage and breasts were a dark purple when I unbound them the next day. The edges had a greenish tinge. I poked at them, marveling that they no longer hurt yet looked like they should. Such was the power of the potions—they couldn't take away the broken blood vessels which caused the discoloration, but they'd already fixed the underlying problem.
There was a sharp intake from behind me. I crossed my arms over my chest and turned to find Mordon coming to sit behind me. A tentative hand stroked down my spin
e.
“That looks horrible,” he said, his eyes meeting mine before going back to the bruises. “If you hadn't been tended to by a healer already, I'd be right back out there looking for one.”
“I feel a hundred times better than I did yesterday. Each breath is just a pinch now where before it felt stabbing, and the muscles which were stiff and locked yesterday are now loose.”
“We must be grateful for the small blessings.”
On the counter, Mordon had left two plates of Kentucky fried steak with hashbrowns and gravy and eggs. Father's favorite meal. I wondered if they were the ones who were cooking for us, and if our situation in the village had deteriorated to the point where Mordon didn't get our food from the main kitchens any longer.
“Did Aunt Linnia speak to Mother and Father last night?”
“Yes, and they are giving the book now. Communal activities are ceased for a brief mourning period,” Mordon said. “Your aunt told me this last night, between your snores.”
I laughed. “Whatever.”
“No wincing? You are feeling better.”
“Yeah. Here, I still need to wrap these up for another week or so, but I need help getting the back straight.”
Half-way through the wrapping, Mordon tapped my hands away and started over, exposing my torso. I stilled, conscious of my half-naked body with an awareness I hadn't felt earlier. This wasn't the first time Mordon had bandaged me, that had been when I'd had a large splinter in my arm, but I was struck again by the sure way he moved. I blushed despite that he had a professional way of avoiding skin to skin contact.
“You've done ribs before?”
“Often. I could show you how to tie it yourself, better than how you were doing it, but then I wouldn't have this pleasure.” With the last word he yanked the central row tight. I yelped, startled not hurt, and he kissed me behind the ear then stood up abruptly.
I couldn't take a full breath but the pinching sensation was gone. For a second I marveled at the perfect criss-cross pattern he'd done, no twists or odd gaps anywhere, then I pulled my dress up onto my torso. By the time I had my hair wrangled into a sloppy bun, Mordon was tucking into his food.
The brew today proved to be one of the village recipes, a slushy combination of mashed frozen watermelon, coconut shavings, and rosemary. What impressed me about it was how normal it was. A splash of rum and a cocktail glass, and it might have been sold at a fancy restaurant.
“Your parents said she had it once on a cruise and occasionally had a craving for it. It's become tradition during special events,” Mordon said.
“What do you think of it?”
He shrugged. “It's different. Same with the overcooked slab of meat, but, once again, her favorite, so everyone is having it.”
I paused. “I thought the kitchens were closed.”
“They are. It is up to the head of the families to prepare the menu.”
“Is there a way I can skip out on sleeping? Important things happen when I'm busy in dreamland not snoring.”
Mordon chuckled. “Afraid not. But they didn't speak of anything else.”
“So Rossalinda's family is getting the book?”
“They should have it by now. I doubt they'd deny your father, your aunt, and Lyall Limber. In truth I think they'd be hard-pressed to deny you, even with things as they are.”
With the pressure of the gift and the grieving village relieved, my mind wandered back to the Unwritten. What did this one do? When I'd come, I thought that the people who had wandered into the Wildwoods without belonging to them were few and far in-between, but what about whoever had put up the Unwritten? Either it was someone with more power than the entire Wildwoods and its clans combined, or it was someone from within. I could start by bringing Mordon into what I'd seen yesterday.
I explained the happenings of the day before, my meeting with Lyall and what he'd shown me, and finished up with, “So one Unwritten we can write off as freak accident. But two?”
“Yes, two implies a pattern. And not a good one.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I said. “Is it going to stop at two, or am I going to see another Unwritten, then another? It was a headache to get rid of the last one—”
“That's the understatement of the year.”
“—of course it had been active for a long time, for years. This one seems to be pretty new, but does that matter? I'm under the impression the Wildwoods is a powerful entity, yet this thing is killing it. Whatever or whoever is behind the Unwritten is a force to be reckoned with. I'm not looking forward to that, but I don't know how to undo the damage which has been done. And I don't know how to get rid of it, either.”
“You're thinking that the perpetrator is within the community.”
“How can I not? I've been able to get by, with your help and Lyall, but how would an outsider without help be able to do it?”
“Unless they came in unknown to the woods, like the Trojan horse.”
“Possible.” I groaned and rolled my shoulders, feeling stiff muscles from sleeping so long. “It makes sense. If you wanted to undermine this place, you'd need to sneak in. Otherwise you're toast. But why? What's the point? Conquest? There doesn't seem to be any political power in taking the Wildwoods. They're isolationist.”
“An excellent question, and not one that I can fathom an answer to. Take for example Kragdomen. The colony is under frequent attempts, but it has political power, as you've said. It's a capitol amongst the drakes. Now, the Wildwoods amongst the feys…it's sacred, yes, but they live in clans and villages and family units just as you've seen. They just exist. And sell some products, but no one would want to destroy the forest if they wanted its resources.”
“I wonder how long it's been infected.”
“You said 'recent'?”
I shrugged. “It's the feeling I get, that's all.”
“Where do you go from this point?”
It was a good question. Too good of one. I'd been asking myself that same question in the back of my mind ever since I saw the first tree. “How did I solve the last one?”
“You got drawn into purgatory and bargained your middle name to escape. I don't think that will be an option again.”
“I suppose not,” I said, mulling over the problem yet again. “If I had Skills with me, I'd see what information I can worm out of the book.”
“You could check the magic cupboard.”
I cocked my head at him. “Magic cupboard?”
“You kept calling it that, and it's catchy.”
I gave it a shot, but there was no book waiting for me inside the magic cupboard when I checked.
“I suspect that you have to ask for things which are available within the Wildwoods,” Mordon said.
“Right, so if I can't access my spell book, can I visit a library or an old folk's home or something? See if anyone knows anything?”
“I think the oldest one here is Lyall.”
“He knew nothing.”
Mordon stroked his nonexistent beard, falling back into the habit now that I'd stopped teasing him about it. “Everyone is kept to themselves for today. And I wouldn't go knocking down doors until the family spreads kind words about your gift.”
“So, what, am I stuck?”
“Maybe try talking with the forest.”
I gaped at him. He was either brilliant or downright looney. Whichever he was, I was the other.
“It does seem rather no-duh to ask the patient for information, doesn't it?” I admitted.
“Very no-duh.”
“Well,” I said, putting my dishes back onto the counter. “I guess I'll do that then. First, tell me how the squashing session went with my father.”
“It was a right and thorough squashing.” Mordon grinned.
“Until what?” I asked, suspicious.
“Until I brought out your tricks of duplicate illusion paired with the invisibility ring. It took four times before he knew what was going on.”
“Cheater.”
>
“As you say, 'Well, you know, life's not fair.'”
“I am charmed by your flattery.”
“I hope you're charmed by all of me.”
I laughed and went in search of the Wildwoods.
She was as near and as far as the other side of the path. It was the same clearing as the one I'd met her in before. This time, a solitary crow added to our party, and the Wildwoods woman was black-haired and wearing a black mourning dress, a silver bracelet about her wrist providing contrast to the otherwise all natural scene.
The crow blinked and took flight straight for me when my bare toes touched grass. It landed on my outstretched arm, one which had been held up in defense. It perched there and squawked.
Swift Magic (The Swift Codex Book 2) Page 20
