Tareca puffed her chest out proudly, “Of course!”
Areil stood straight, looking down her crooked nose. “And you made sure to add the nullifier?”
The small witch-in-training blanched, “Wait. No! I forgot the powdered…salamander…tail…” She trailed off. A weak laugh puttered out of her throat. “Ha haha. The little things we forget, huh?”
Areil massaged her temple. “Where is it now?”
“In the stockroom. It’s already stewing. Darin is set to pick it up by mid-sun.”
“Leave it there.” Areil rolled up her sleeves. “You know what to get?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure it can be fixed at this point.” Tareca practically melted to the floor in shame as she spoke to her mistress.
“It’s time to lean another nifty little trick. This time don’t let your socks fly off.”
“Yes mistress.” Tareca turned to the other side of the closet-sized kitchen and swept an entire shelf’s contents into her skirt. She mumbled under her breath, “It was an accident.”
Across the room, Areil’s long fingers hovered over an open chest, debating which jar or vial should do the trick. In the end a tiny pot of viscous green fluid and a tube of flaky powder were selected and the chest’s lid slammed shut with a bang. “Come Tareca.”
Two black dresses and two spindly hats made their way down a flight of steps, identical boots with identical curled toes scraping against the stone. Two twin puffs of air emerged from two sets of lips as the temperature dropped alarmingly. Then when both witches had vanished from sight, the thick oaken door swung carefully shut, all on its own.
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The air churned by some invisible force and fog rolled across the floor. Tareca tried her best not to breathe but eventually had to take one short puff of air. It was enough. Her stomach flipped nauseatingly with the stench, only made stronger by the humid heat.
Below the cottage it was frigid but even farther down lay the stockroom. Heat was necessary to brew all manner of potions and so a room had to be provided for that purpose singularly. Delicate and boorishly carved runes alike littered the walls, raising the temperature with tenuously strung spells. Various cauldrons were shoved into corners, stewing for years on end. Their scents did not mingle pleasantly.
A bronze pot (Who said all potions had to brew in cauldrons?) bubbled slowly off to one side. Ariel motioned for Tareca to come closer. “I take it you know what a dragon is?” Without waiting for her apprentice’s reply Areil continued on. “They are very magical and so consequently are extraordinarily useful. The problem is, they are also extremely mean. Elegant maybe, but nastiest of the nasty. They take pride in all of their kills, and witches are no favorites of theirs either.” From the train of her sleeves, Areil produced the tube she had taken from the chest. “Some ingredients are only necessary in the rarest of occasions but you will need to have some just in case. Shaved dragon claw is a prime example. Now since you will have to do this someday, take a single shaving out.”
Tareca accepted the glass tube and shook out a single ebony curl. “What now?”
Areil nodded towards the cauldron. “Put it in. And all the rest.”
Tareca dropped the shaving in but the potion reacted no more than letting off an unusually large coil of steam. She went to work over the pot, shaking in this amount from a bottle or that amount from a jar. Nutmeg for restoration, fresh foxglove for her mistake, crushed bluebell for mending.
Areil watched with interest. After a few minutes she drew out the pot from her other sleeve and dropped it into Tareca’s open palms. “Troll snot.”
Tareca grimaced and let the electric green slime slowly drip out into her potion. Finally she added the forgotten ingredient that had caused so much trouble and the potion burst into color. Vibrant violets and blues swirled in the pot, now the consistency of water.
Areil smiled proudly. “I do believe you won’t be an apprentice for much longer.”
Tareca mock-curtsied. “It’s been nearly two years. I’d say it’s about time.”
“But not yet. Don’t get cocky.”
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Darin rapped on the door for the third time, rather impatiently. He was a good-looking fellow but his permanent scowl made the whole package a great deal less attractive.
With no warning, Tareca flung open the door, catching Darin’s foot and sending him stumbling back. She sucked in breath after breath, desperate for air having just run up both flights of stairs. Areil followed at a more leisurely pace with a large jar tucked beneath one arm. She held it out to Darin before he snatched it up with a larger than usual scowl.
Areil glared at his disrespect and barked, “Tell Lord Loew that if he takes too much a day it won’t do anything remotely like what he wants. Although he should know from last time.”
Darin bowed (still scowling) and cinched the jar filled with freshly brewed potion to the side of his horse’s saddle. “Any particular instructions?”
“No.” Her response was snippy.
Darin nodded and swung himself up onto the saddle. He dug his heels into the gelding’s side and made as if to trot off into the forest.
Tareca gasped, remembering a forgotten warning suddenly. She opened her mouth to deliver the words but a booted foot crushed her own and she snapped her mouth shut, breathless from the sudden pain. Areil glanced sideways casually but her eyes delivered a warning to stay silent or else.
After Darin had disappeared into the trees, Tareca whirled on her mistress. “Why didn’t you let me tell him?” The accusation felt wrong, aimed as it was at her mentor, but it still had to be said.
“They both deserve what’s coming to them. The only reason that Loew had allowed us to stay on his land is because we supply him all the magic he wants!”
“But Darin? He’s Gertrue’s son.”
“He began siding with his lord years ago. He has no alliance with any witch these days.” Ariel turned back to the cottage and held open the door. “You had better get to writing up your lists for the Mothers or you’ll never become a witch before the snow sets in.”