“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I ran past her and rummaged through the cardinal’s collection of teas. I found the tins of white willow and ginger. That had worked well before, but this time he was much worse. I’d have to make it super strong. I found the cardinal’s old brass teapot on his desk. It was full. That could save some time. I took off the lid and sniffed. Gag. Definitely not.
I opened the window and dumped the pot out. “Aoife, if you made that tea, you should be smacked repeatedly. What the heck was in that? Rotting goat with a side of yuck?”
Aoife flopped over and continued to snore on her face. Nice.
I rinsed out the teapot, filled it with the fresh water I’d brought in early that morning, and dropped in a generous amount of willow and ginger. I glanced at Aoife before sticking my finger in and giving it a swirl. I heated it to a full boil and steam billowed out. I needed a better poem for the cardinal. Nothing generic would do it.
Think, Matilda, think.
I thought, dozens of poems flitting through my mind in an instant. One kept coming back and repeating, though I pushed it away and tried again. It couldn’t be right. Mom used to recite that one to me at bedtime. She said it was a love poem meant for the love of one’s life, but a mother felt the same way about her children. I hadn’t thought about that poem in forever. She stopped saying it to me about the time I got my fire. She didn’t know it at the time, so I didn’t think that had anything to do with it or maybe it did. It couldn’t be the right poem for the cardinal. If I used it, wouldn’t it be about me, not the cardinal?
I tried again, thinking of Gerald’s favorites and Iris’s, but that first one kept intruding.
“That’s it, Aoife,” I said to her snoring form. “Please let it be right.”
I stuck my finger in the still boiling water, grateful that heat didn’t trouble me and spoke with the passion I’d heard all those years ago in my mother’s voice.
“Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy Protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free
As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I’ll give to thee.”
I recited the whole thing, all six parts, from memory. Mom would be so happy that I remembered. More and more steam billowed out. The scent was incredible, stronger than any tea I’d brewed before. I said the last line, “To live and die for thee,” and the cardinal appeared in the steam. I expected to see the burdens, the pain that I was trying to take away, but it wasn’t that kind of image. The cardinal was fully-formed, so solid I felt like I could touch him. He was smiling, beaming actually, and his arms were open wide and welcoming. Tears slipped down my cheeks. It was him, the soul of him and it was beautiful.
It took longer for the cardinal’s spell to break up than any other spell I’d ever done. It was that strong and I hoped the real cardinal would be just as strong when he drank it. When the final wisp of his face drifted away, I put the lid on the teapot. What else to use? Healer Bauer had given him onion, garlic, and beets for detoxification, but I’d have to go to the kitchens for that. I picked up the pot and stepped over Aoife. That’s when I saw the cardinal’s breakfast tray on his side table. Aoife couldn’t resist feeding the cardinal even if he was going to the palace for breakfast. But it looked like the cardinal did resist. There was a barely touched bowl of porridge with some dried fruit next to a full glass of purple liquid. Beet juice! Yes!
I put my finger in and recited Robert Herrick’s poem one more time. It worked just as well, but the cardinal’s image was in purple steam that time. He would’ve laughed if he’d seen himself with a purple face. Once the image faded, I carried my remedies out to the carriage. Steam was still spewing from the containers when I climbed inside. Mr. Munt came over and sniffed. “What have you got there? Smells like my grandmother’s cottage.”
“The cardinal’s cook’s best tea and Healer Bauer’s beet juice,” I said.
“Healer Bauer’s beet juice?” Volotora snorted again.
“Yes,” I said in a warning voice. “Healer Bauer’s.”
I pulled a cup out of my pocket and first poured the tea. It was way too hot, so I held the cup and sucked the excess heat into my hands. Being a kindler really comes in handy sometimes. When it was cool enough, Mr. Munt held the cardinal’s head and I poured a small amount down his throat. He sputtered but managed to swallow. Little by little I got the full cup down him and then moved on to the beet juice. The poem had changed it so much that it was now solid and came out of the glass in gelatinous chunks.
“I hope this helps him, because that looks rather bad,” said Mr. Munt.
“Healer Bauer says it detoxifies his liver,” said Volotora.
I smiled. So glad he backed me up on the whole Healer Bauer thing.
“My liver would have to be pretty toxic before I’d consider eating that,” said Mr. Munt.
I dropped in a big chunk and closed the cardinal’s mouth. He gagged, but eventually swallowed. A shudder went through his body and his eyes slowly opened. “Mattie,” he whispered between purple teeth.
“Yes, it’s me. How do you feel?”
He took a deep breath and his eyes focused. I took his pulse and it became steady as I felt it.
“Better. Much better. Thank you.”
“You’ll have to thank Aoife and Healer Bauer. I’m just the delivery girl,” I said.
He patted my hand. “You deliver very well, but if you don’t mind my saying that purple stuff tastes terrible. I need to brush my teeth at least twenty times.” He looked around. “I’m in the carriage.”
“We couldn’t get you out, Your Grace,” said Volotora.
“You couldn’t? I’m not that big.” The cardinal looked out the carriage window. “Where’s my master secretary?”
“He’s…indisposed,” I said, moving away from the door so he could see the formerly dignified master secretary snoring on the floor surrounded by tourists.
“Is he drunk? No, it can’t be. He won’t share a drop with me,” he said.
I poured another cup of tea and insisted he drink it. “I don’t know what he is, but looks like the whole staff has the same thing.”
“You have to help them.”
My eyes went wide and I froze.
The cardinal nodded slightly. “With Aoife’s restorative tea.” He looked past me and noticed Mr. Munt for the first time. “Sir, have we met?”
Mr. Munt sputtered and blushed. “No, no, Your Grace. I’m just a tourist.”
“No one is a just.” The cardinal took Mr. Munt’s trembling hand and stroked it. “You helped me today, didn’t you?”
Mr. Munt managed to squeeze out a yes before he teared up and began blubbering. My cue to leave. I’d heard about people meeting the cardinal and getting all emotional, but I’d never seen it. I really could’ve done without it. It was like seeing my dad cry. Totally wrong.
I went back to the cardinal’s apartment with the teapot and went through the teas again. Grandma’s quick reference was back in my room, but I thought I remembered a simple remedy for drunkenness in there. I didn’t ever remember her using it. Whipplethorns aren’t known for over-indulging, but the cardinal did like his wine and he had what I needed. Simple enough. I found a bottle of what I called dirt tea. Grandma Vi called it Kombucha, which made it sound more appetizing. I thought it smelled and tasted like dirt. Grandma Vi used it when my friend Ursula’s little sister drank her mother’s vanilla. She’d passed out and everything. Dirt tea fixed her right up so she could be properly grounded for a month.
I poured some of the dirt tea into the teapot, added water, and then Earl Grey tea, because it was good for energy and focus. I swirled my finger in the stinky brew and said Grandma Vi’s generic spell. There were no images and I poured a cup for Aoife, who had woken up, sort of. She was babbling about cake and couldn’t roll he
rself over. I knelt beside her and pushed her on her back. A huge plume of her glitter dust puffed out and made me cough as I poured the tea down her throat. She tried the bat the cup away, but she was too out of it to really do anything. I got the cup down her and she slowly relaxed.
“Mattie?”
“Yes.”
“Did I make the cake?” she asked, slurring her words.
“What cake?”
“The cake for the archduke. He’s coming for tea and he likes lemon cake. Did I make it?”
“Yeah, I don’t think you need to worry about the archduke or anyone else coming to tea,” I said, heaving her up into a sitting position.
“But I’m sure he’s coming,” she said.
“I’m sure he’s not. There was a riot at the palace. The archduke will have his hands full.”
“Good god. Where’s His Grace? He was at the palace.” Her green brow furrowed. “I think he was.”
“He’s okay.”
Mostly.
“You’re sure?” Aoife clutched my arm.
“He had some trouble getting out, but it’s alright now.” I helped her to the cardinal’s bed and leaned her against the footboard. “You stay here until you feel better.”
She shook her head. “What happened? Why am I on the floor?”
“No idea. Were you drinking?” I asked.
“Drinking?”
“Alcohol.”
She puffed up and let off plenty of dust. “Certainly not. It’s the middle of the morning.”
“Afternoon now. What do you remember?” I asked.
“I had some tea and then came to get His Grace’s tray. When I got here, I started feeling funny and then you were pouring that swill down my throat.” She made a face.
“Who made the tea?” I asked.
“I did, of course.”
Aoife knew her ingredients. She wouldn’t make a mistake and drug herself. So strange.
I left her there and went to the master secretary who was now drooling as well as snoring. His pointed beard was damp with bristly hairs pointing every which way. Mrs. Munt helped drain a cup of dirt tea down his throat and after a minute or two he looked at me.
“You,” he said. “I knew it had to be you.”
“I don’t know what happened, sir, but it wasn’t me,” I said, filling up his cup again.
He grumbled and drank until he noticed that he was surrounded by curious tourists. He struggled to his feet and tried to look dignified. There was no hope. He was a rumpled, weaving mess and the beard didn’t help.
“Where is the cardinal?” The master secretary glared at me. “We must discuss this situation.”
The cardinal climbed out of the carriage. “Right here, Killian. All is well.”
The master secretary gasped when he saw the cardinal and he did look pretty bad if you didn’t consider how he looked before I treated him.
“Your Grace, I…”
“There was a riot at the palace. Mattie and I were lucky to escape with our lives. If she hadn’t been there, I believe the outcome would’ve been quite different,” said the cardinal.
“Mattie did what exactly?”
The cardinal looked past him at Volotora. “I believe we have lost a great friend today. She will be mourned with all my heart.”
Volotora bowed his head. “She died in your service. She had no greater gift to give.”
“It shouldn’t have happened and I’m sorry for your pain.”
The master secretary looked at the front of the carriage where the rest of the damumoto stood still in harness. “Murcia? What happened to her?” His normally stern face changed and I saw something there that I didn’t imagine existed. Compassion.
Volotora turned away, unable to speak, so I did. “She was killed during our escape. A vase exploded. I don’t know who did it.”
“Where is her body?” asked the master secretary. “She must be burned according to damumoto tradition.”
“The palace.” I met his eyes. “I cut the harness.”
“You cut the harness,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was upset or amazed.
Volotora shook his head and said, “We wouldn’t have made it out, if she hadn’t.”
I put my hand over the pocket with the master secretary’s blade and gave it a tiny pat.
“I see,” he said, pausing for a moment before continuing. “Mattie, give that tea to the rest of the household and find out what happened.”
“I wonder,” said the cardinal, “if this is connected to the palace riots. My guard would’ve gone to help, but I assume they are indisposed, too.”
“I have no doubt, Your Grace.” The master secretary stroked his tangled beard. “Go, Mattie.”
“Yes, sir.” I took my tea into the residence and found all the other secretaries babbling or passed out in their apartments. One cup of dirt tea was all it took to fix them up. I brewed more and then went through the cathedral, giving everyone a dose. No one seemed to have any effects afterward. Everyone had eaten and drank different things. I had no idea what caused it. Maybe the cardinal was right. He was right about his guard. They were sprawled around the cathedral, completely useless. Once I had them up, they secured the building and half of them went to the palace to help and retrieve Murcia’s body.
I saved the tomb for last, knowing that Miss Penrose and Delphine were probably having their first good sleep in months. And I was right. They were snoring on their beds as were Gerald and Iris. Victory was sprawled on my bed with the door open. Anyone could’ve seen him. Thank goodness the entire staff was drunk. Percy and Penelope took turns looking through the window with their giant eyes as I poured the tea. Fidelé and Rufus sat in their spots on the window sill. They preened and were the only ones that weren’t worried or ill.
Iris drank the first cup and woke up instantly, full of questions that I had no answer for. She gave Gerald his dose while I went to Miss Penrose and Delphine. They drank their cups without complaint, which was more than I could say for the rest of the staff and sat up yawning.
“I feel so much better,” said Delphine, stretching.
“What happened?” asked Miss Penrose.
I tucked her hair behind her ear. “I don’t know yet. There was a riot at the palace. This might have something to do with that.”
“I’m starving.”
“Seriously?”
Miss Penrose nodded. “I’ve never been so hungry. I think I could even eat meat.”
“I guess it does have some after-effects.” I went and got some cheese and bread for her and poured a cup of water while she fell on the food like she hadn’t eaten in a month. Then she looked at me and a piece of chèvre fell out of her mouth. Her eyelids sagged and she wavered side-to-side.
I grabbed her before she fell off the bed and laid her back on her pillow. Delphine held up a bit of the chèvre. “Do you think this is it?”
“You just ate some. How do you feel?” I asked.
“Fine.”
“What did she eat that you didn’t?”
“It can’t be the bread,” said Delphine. “We had it last night and nothing happened.”
“Something’s different.”
“What could be different? It’s the same bread and cheese.”
I looked at the platter, my eyes settling on the pitcher. I picked it up and sniffed. What was that smell? I knew it. I definitely knew it. I sniffed again.
“Oh, no!”
“What?” asked Delphine.
I held the pitcher under her nose and she took several sniffs before a puzzled look came over her face. “I think…I think it smells like…”
“Pork,” I said. “It smells like flipping pork.”
“Eww.”
I couldn’t believe it. The whole cathedral staff had been drugged and it was my fault. Unbelievable. Even when I didn’t do anything, I did something. I gave Miss Penrose more of the tea and she sat up. “Was I out again?”
“Yes. I can’t believe it. I just can’
t.” I wanted to scream. This was just what Rickard was waiting for. If the master secretary found out, we’d be gone. Even the cardinal couldn’t justify keeping me without revealing who I was.
“What can’t you believe?” asked Miss Penrose.
“It’s Lrag’s rejuvenation spell. It’s in the water.”
“How’d it get in there?”
Before I could speculate, Iris ran in. “I can’t wake up Victory. Come quick.”
I ran back to my room. Victory was now on my pillow, still sprawled out with his mouth open wide.
“Is he snoring?” I asked Gerald, who sat next to him poking him in the hip.
“Yep and he’s pretty loud considering. Did you figure it out?” he asked.
“It’s Lrag’s spell. Somehow it got into the drinking water.”
“That’s not good for us. If they figure out the connection—”
“I know. I know.” I picked up Victory and looked him over. He was perfectly clean and didn’t smell like the pink goo at all. “Iris, where did you wash him?”
“I didn’t. Penelope brought him back clean.”
“Penelope!” I yelled and she switched out with Percy. “What did you do?”
She blinked.
“Iris, ask her what she did.”
“I can’t talk to her,” said Iris, sipping her tea and blinking innocently.
“You communicate with them.”
“That’s love, not talking.”
“Well, love some information out of them.”
“Love doesn’t work that way.”
“What good is it then?” I yelled.
She fluffed her curls and began lecturing me on the importance of love. Whatever. I didn’t need love. I needed information.
“Gerald, use that big brain of yours and tell me what Penelope did.”
He tilted his head, thought for a second, and said, “She gave him a bath.”
“I know that. But where would she—” I slapped my forehead. “The holy water font.” I pointed at her eye. “Bad dragon!”
Wicked Chill (Away From Whipplethorn Book Four) Page 28
