Page 148 of A Heart of Bluestone

A sigh huffs from me.

He wouldn’t have heard it under the violent bubbling of the cauldron, the murmurs of the other partners slaving over their potions, or even the high whistle of the winds at the peak of the mountain.

But he sees it in the cloud of air at my mouth and the slump of my shoulders before I stalk to the table.

I set the chopping board down, then fish out a large knife from the wooden box of utensils. Next up, the eel.

My face puckers before I reach for the mason jar.

I peel off the cloth lid, then—teeth bared—reach into the pickle juice and lift the ghastly black eel out.

A sickly sound chokes me and I stick out my tongue like I’m going to be sick. I shudder and let the eel slap to the chopping board.

Dray stirs the potion methodically, and I think he’s counting seconds that pass before he turns the stir counterclockwise.

I drag the measuring tape over the eel’s preserved corpse and keep it in place before I bring the knife down.

I chop, one-centimetre slices, from head to tail.

Dray is quick to snatch three slices then drop them in a heap straight into the potion.

I watch as it bubbles more and more—until a white frothy foam has layered the surface. It settles, slow, before it starts to clear.

Dray digs the spoon into the cauldron, then drags it back to himself, bringing a filmy substance with him. He discards it on the table.

“When it’s black, you spit twice, I spit once,” he says, dull and bored, just as bored as the look he lands on me. “In a minute or two.”

I nod.

I understand he’s telling me not to bother returning to my stool, to stay right where I am.

So I do.

And my cheeks puff as I blow out a tired breath.

Dray’s gaze hasn’t left me.

The table is tucked snug between us, but if I think for a moment that it is a sufficient barrier between us, I must have inhaled too much of the fumes. It’s too thin, and so he towers over me as though there’s nothing between us at all.

I lift my glower up at him. “What?”

Dray lifts his hand for my face.

Before I can do much more than blink, he steals a strand of my hair. He watches it twirl in his hand, turning it around and around, then—with a flick of his thumb—a piece of eel flesh goes flying from my hair and lands on the table.

“You haven’t thanked me,” he says.

He lures my gaze back to his. Still, he holds that strand of hair in his fingers.

“For what?”

“For saving you that night.”

“Saving me?”

“Who knows what would have happened to you if I hadn’t gotten you out of the maze.”

I pull on my best frown. A mask. A lie.

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