Revenge and the Wild(35)
Isabelle worked alone most mornings before school. She was busy crushing herbs in a mortar with a pestle, humming a beautiful tune, when Westie walked in.
As soon as she smelled the coffee, Isabelle looked up, mouth falling open. “Is that what I think it is?” she said, leaving her medicines to examine the canteen in Westie’s hand.
“It is,” Westie said, pouring some into a tin cup, “and cross buns to go with it.”
Isabelle started to reach for the cup, then paused, eyeing Westie suspiciously. “What do you want?”
Westie leaned against a barrel full of medicines wrapped in paper and tied with twine. “Can’t a girl just do a nice thing for her friend?”
“Yes, if that girl was anyone other than you.”
“Hey.” Westie’s brow furrowed. “I do nice things.”
Isabelle took the coffee and the sack of buns from Westie’s hands. “No, you don’t.”
“Okay, fine. I need a favor.”
Isabelle sat down with her gifts. She took a drink, eyes rolling around in her head as she savored the taste. Westie cringed.
“What kind of favor?”
“A tiny one.” Westie picked up one of the packets of medicine in the barrel labeled Pants on Fire.
Seeing the perplexed look on Westie’s face, Isabelle laughed, spitting crumbs from the bite of cross bun she’d just taken. “Father let me name it,” Isabelle said. “It’s a powder for burning, itching sensations—it’s very popular in brothels around the valley.”
Westie crinkled her face and tossed it back into the barrel. “Speaking of brothels,” she said, trying to ease her way into the subject. “What do you know about the medicinal qualities of vampire blood?”
Isabelle shrugged. “It cures anything from mosquito bites to old age. Why do you ask?”
Not wanting Isabelle to know she’d been drinking again, Westie said, “I’m concerned about Alistair’s head injury. I thought it might help.”
Isabelle coughed, then hit her chest with her fist. “Have you gone mad? You’ll go to jail if you’re caught with even a drop of vampire blood. Besides, we don’t keep it here in fear of bandits trying to break in and steal it.”
“I know, and I would never ask you for it if you did. I just need to look at your father’s medicine journal to see the dosage it would take to heal him. I don’t want to accidentally turn Alistair into the Undying.”
Isabelle took a bite of her bun, covering her mouth as she talked with her mouth full. “My father doesn’t let anyone read his medicine journal. You’ll need a lot more than a cup of coffee and a bun for me to go against my father’s wishes.”
“I know.” Westie reached into the leather satchel at her hip and pulled out a burlap pouch full of the rare coffee beans, handing it to Isabelle. If Nigel found out it was missing, he’d be livid, but luckily, he didn’t drink it too often.
Isabelle’s eyes gaped when she looked at the tag. “Is this the price?”
Westie grinned, knowing she had Isabelle by the look on her face. “Sure is.”
“I don’t know whether to make coffee with these beans or wear them as jewelry.”
“It would be better than some of the jewelry I’ve seen you wear.”
Isabelle scowled at her. “You’re supposed to be buttering me up, not insulting me.”
“Sorry.”
Sighing, Isabelle said, “You have five minutes.” She reached behind the counter and pulled out a leather-bound journal.
While Westie flipped through the pages, Isabelle kept an eye out the window for her father. Westie barely listened as her friend went on and on about the ball.
“It’s coming up soon and I have yet to find a dress. Can you believe it?”
“Uh-huh,” Westie mumbled. She felt a surge of elation upon finding the page on vampire blood.
She moved her finger down the page until she found the diagnosis of alcoholism. Beside it was the dosage: five drops.
Five drops. That wasn’t so bad. It shouldn’t be too hard to get. Her stomach clenched with anticipation, and she had to fight the excitement she felt spreading across her face.
“Thank you for this,” Westie said, handing the journal to Isabelle to put back. “Maybe we’ll go out later and shop for dresses together.”
Hope turned Isabelle’s voice shrill. “Really?”
Westie smirked. “No,” she said, and walked out the door.
Eighteen
After everyone had gone to their rooms for the night, Westie grabbed a lamp and went to the main sitting room, where the walls were lined with shelves of books. Next to the fireplace was a light sconce. She pushed it toward the ground. The oil lamp in her hand shed watery light on a panel of books that slid without sound on rails and disappeared behind the fireplace. The hidden room was no bigger than a closet and was stacked to the ceiling with shelves of poisons in dainty glass bottles. Oil of oleander, doll’s eyes, and angel’s trumpet. Such pretty names. There was also strychnine and other exotic poisons Nigel brought home from his travels. And of course the local specialty, cyanide, which came from mining the iron hills. Nigel preferred the classics: castor plant, mushrooms, nightshade, belladonna, hemlock, wolfsbane, and the rosary pea. The bottom shelf belonged to the tricky poisons that came from the venom of reptiles such as the copperhead, rattlesnake, and cobra. So many poisons, each with their own different way of killing, though killing was what they did all the same.