Chapter 91: The Blue Potion
“I see,” Sebastian said, a flicker of understanding in his sharp eyes. “Thank you for the information, miss.” He leaned down and, to my surprise, pressed a single silver coin into my hand. Then, with a brilliant smile that was all performance, he turned and strode towards the peelers, recounting the very same information I had just given him, presenting it as if it were the fruit of his own brilliant investigation. He even offered them my conclusion: that the victim was an assassin, likely silenced by the very person who had hired him. I was speechless. The sheer audacity of the man, to use my information, my deduction, as his own! Of course, in his telling, the information came from one of his "confidential sources." The peelers were suitably impressed. To have a lead so quickly, to connect this bizarre murder to the high-profile killing of the factory owner… they praised Sebastian as a master detective and immediately invited him to assist in their official investigation.
Well, at least he hadn't mentioned Jared or me. We wanted nothing more to do with the peelers. I turned to leave. Just then, Sebastian’s voice, a low and confidential murmur, reached my ears, though he never turned his head. “You two should be careful,” he said. “Especially the young lad. If I recall correctly, the murder weapon was missing from the first scene. Word is, a young boy snatched it in the chaos. If the man behind all this wants to tie up every loose end, he won't let that stand.”
Jared and I both froze. I glanced back, but the detective was still chatting amiably with the peelers, his back to us. In such a short time, he had pieced it all together. The motive, the connection between the two murders… and he had guessed that Jared was the one who had the knife. The man’s mind was a terrifyingly sharp instrument. But for some reason, he hadn't exposed us. He was still there, calmly discussing the impossible physics of how the body had gotten onto the grille.
As I saw it, there was scarcely any other possibility, save that he'd tried to phase through the wall and failed halfway, getting himself impaled on the iron grille. But then again, what concern was that of mine?
Jared and I fled the scene, our hearts pounding. We didn't stop until we were several streets away.
“How did he do that?” Jared whispered, his voice tight with awe and fear. “Make his voice appear in our ears like that?”
“Never mind that,” I said, my own mind racing. “How did he guess you had the knife?” Sebastian must have questioned the witnesses at the first murder scene, gotten a description of the boy who had snatched the weapon. But since then, we had new clothes, we had washed. We looked like different people. He had seen us at the bathhouse, yes, but could he really have connected the two? Damn it. The man's intellect was almost monstrous.
“Brother Jared,” I said, my voice firm. “You have to get rid of that dagger. The peelers are looking for it. And as the detective said, the man behind all this will be looking for it too.”
“No,” Jared said, shaking his head stubbornly. “I’m not listening to that fancy man’s ramblings. It’s just a knife. Why would a killer come back for the murder weapon? That would just expose him. And besides, I’ll keep it hidden on my body. No one will find it.”
I wanted to argue, to tell him that if the detective could figure it out, so could the killer. But I knew it was useless. He had formed a strange, possessive attachment to the beautiful, deadly object. And his distrust of the detective was a wall I couldn't break through.
Defeated, I let him lead me back to our hovel in the sewer. The city felt more dangerous than ever, the walls closing in. The only way to survive, I knew, was to master the magic in the witch’s grimoire. I spent the rest of the day and into the night studying. With the quill and paper we had bought, my progress was much faster. First, I used the English dictionary to learn the Castilian alphabet. I knew how the words should sound from Parula’s memories, but I couldn't connect the sounds to the written letters. I devised a system: I would find a simple English word I knew, say it aloud in Castilian, and then find the corresponding word in the Castilian dictionary. By comparing the two, I could deduce the phonetic value of each letter. Then, I began to sound out the Castilian words themselves, checking my pronunciation against the English translations. By the end of the afternoon, I had cracked it. My reading was slow and halting, but I could now understand the text in the newspapers. Through a combination of guesswork and piecing together the context, I deciphered it. It seemed to be a report describing how a navigator, sponsored by the Queen, had claimed another colony for the Empire.
Brilliant. I could finally, officially, declare myself no longer illiterate. All that remained was practice. With time, I could even learn to write this strange Castilian tongue. After all, it only had twenty-nine letters.
The Old Latin, however, was another matter. Translating it through two linguistic barriers was a slow, arduous process. For now, I decided to focus on the original text of the grimoire, the parts I could now understand directly.
That evening, Jared returned with food and a large, thick quilt. “What’s this?” I asked, surprised.
“A blanket,” he said with a shy smile. “You’re always shivering when I hold you at night. And I know you like clean things. I saw it hanging out to dry, so I… borrowed it.” Stolen, of course. But the thoughtfulness of the gesture, the fact that he had noticed such a small detail, touched me deeply.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice soft. “I’ll put it on the bed.”
As I spread the new, clean quilt over our pile of rags, Jared asked, “Have you learned any magic yet, Parula?”
“No, it’s not that easy,” I said with a sigh. “But I have made some progress. I’ve translated the alchemy section. I know the names of the potions now, and what they do.”
“There are three on that page,” I explained. “A Spirit Cat Potion, to increase agility and grant night vision. A Potion of Fortitude, to enhance physical strength. And this one…” I pointed to the last entry. “A Mana Elixir. To replenish one’s magic.” A blue potion, I thought, a familiar concept from a world away.
An idea, brilliant and dangerous, sparked in my mind. If this elixir replenished magic, then drinking it should give me magic, shouldn't it? And the best part was, the recipe didn't require any magic to brew. You just had to boil the ingredients in a crucible. There was no barrier to entry. There was only one problem. The ingredients. Mandrake root tendrils. Pollen of the Heartless Flower. Powdered Wagreah Ore. Where in this godforsaken city was I supposed to find those? Some of the names were completely alien. But then I saw it. The witch, bleesed that woman, in her meticulous, obsessive way, had not only written down the names, but had also drawn detailed, accurate pictures of each ingredient.
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