Page 20 of Blood & Ash

She had done it three nights each week for two years.

The coven had voted. Rosalind’s hand went up first. Seven hands followed. Del’s no sat on the table like a stone nobody picked up. She had ground the components anyway because the coven voted and she lost, and somewhere underneath that loss was the knowledge that the ratios were wrong. Warding stones used layered preparation, yes, but never in these proportions, with iron filings at half the valerian and birch bark at a quarter. She had known that and kept grinding.

Elise’s tremor ran through the counter. Her fingernails were pale against the wood.

“I can’t shift,” Elise said. “Tried this morning and nothing happened. It’s like something’s sitting on my chest.”

Del’s fingers moved away from the valerian jar. She closed the lid. The sound was soft in the quiet shop.

“I’ll have something ready by morning.” Her voice was flat. “Go home. Rest. Come back at eight.”

Elise stared at her. The flush across her cheekbones had deepened. “You don’t have anything now?”

“Not that will help.” Del stood. The stool scraped against the floor. “The fever-break tincture won’t touch this. The compression wrap won’t help the rib pain. You need blood work. You need Marcus.”

“I can’t wait until eight.”

“Then go to the carriage house. He’s always there.”

Elise’s jaw tightened. She pushed off from the counter and steadied herself against the doorframe. The tremor ran through her whole arm now. She looked at Del once more, her eyes holding the fear and anger that sick people get when they’ve been told no.

“I’ll come back at eight.” She left. The door closed behind her. The bell rang once and went silent.

Del stood at the worktable with the jars in front of her. The valerian, oak gall, iron filings, and birch bark sat labeled in her handwriting, arranged in the order Arrow had written them two years ago on a piece of paper with precise, separate letters.

She pressed her hands together at her sternum. Her knuckles went white. She didn’t move. The oil lamp flickered. The shadows jumped across the jars and settled.

She had ground the valerian root. She had measured the oak gall. She had folded the iron filings into packets and sealed them with wax. She had done it believing it was for warding stones, and she had known, somewhere underneath that belief, that it wasn’t.

Elise Alcott was nineteen years old. She had a tremor in her right hand and a flush across her cheeks, and she couldn’t shift, and Del had sent her out the door with nothing because there was nothing in this shop that fixed what she helped make.

The lamp guttered. Del’s hands stayed clasped at her sternum while the lamp burned lower.

Del locked the front door and turned the sign to CLOSED. The hook by the back door held her cloak, wool and heavy, and she pulled it down. The latch caught the fabric and she yanked it free with a sound that tore through the quiet shop.

She put the cloak on. The wool settled across her shoulders, cold from hanging. She went out the back door and locked it behind her. The key turned stiff in the old lock.

The streets of Ashton Grove were empty. Frost had settled on the cobblestones, white and thin, catching what little light came from the clouded moon. No windows were lit. The bakery was dark. Heller’s Hardware was dark. The pharmacy at the corner had its blinds drawn. Del walked fast. Her boots struck the cobblestones and the sound carried between the buildings and died. Her breath came white in front of her face.

The carriage house sat at the end of Harrow Lane. A single lamp burned in the front window, brass and steady, throwing yellow light across the gravel parking area. Del didn’t knock. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The clinic was warm. The stone floor held the cold at its edges, but the center of the room was lit by the lamp on the shelf above the exam table. Reagent bottles lined the far wall, glass and labeled. The new autoclave stood against the east wall, its digital display dark. The diagnostic unit sat on the shelf beside Marcus’s old microscope. Everything Arrow had brought gleamed under the lamplight.

Marcus stood at the worktable with a logbook open in front of him. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. A pen was clipped to his collar. He looked up when the door opened. His hazel eyes took her in without changing.

Del stood just inside the door. Her cloak was still on. Her hands hung at her sides. She talked before he could ask her anything.

“I ground the valerian root.” Her voice was flat and clipped, the register she used when she was keeping something contained. “I measured the oak gall. Three nights each week for two years.”

Marcus closed the logbook. He set his pen beside it.

“Valerian root, dried and powdered. Oak gall, three grams per batch. Iron filings, fine grade, four grams. Birch bark, inner layer only, scraped and measured by weight.” She stopped. Her jaw tightened. She had expected him to cut in. He didn’t. “The binding agent came from a supplier in Baton Rouge. Woman named Chen. She doesn’t ask questions. I told her it was for barrier work.”

Marcus’s hands rested on the surface of the exam table. He didn’t move them.

“The ratios were three parts valerian to one part oak gall. Iron at half the valerian. Birch at a quarter.” Del’s voice caught. She forced it level. “I was told it was for warding stones. Arrow’s list. Precise handwriting. Each letter separate from the next. I knew the quantities were wrong for warding. The iron proportion was too high. The birch was too low. I knew that. I kept going.”

She stopped again. The lamp on the shelf burned steadily. Marcus’s expression didn’t change. He stilled like he’d already heard worse and was only waiting for the rest.