Page 23 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
I was back in the classroom. Phina stood in front of my workbench, frowning.
“I…”
“Did you sample your potion?”
I swayed on my feet. Swallowed thickly. My cheeks were aflame, but that was nothing compared to the heat still radiating through my core.
“Hattie.” Phina’s tone was sharp.
“Just a few drops,” I answered quickly, “to assess the quality.”
Brown eyes narrowed, then dropped to my pitcher. Phina dipped her ornate quartz spoon into the liquid and gave it a swirl. When she looked at me again, a hint of amusement sparkled in her otherwise scolding expression.
“What did you find in your assessment?” she asked slowly—wryly.
I cleared my throat, unable to get Noble out of my mind. “Effective.”
A singlehaescaped Phina’s lips—seeming to surprise even her. “Elaborate, please.”
With the magical effects of the potion fading, I slid my tongue into the pockets of my mouth, tasting the remnants of the ingredients with moreacuity. “For a client seeking to spark lust, this would be…” My face wasflaming. “I think I added too much cinnamon.”
Another laugh. “Indeed, you did. Also, too much rose water, but I suspect you already tasted that?”
“Not enough gardenia?” I guessed.
“Your ratios are certainly off, but better to lessen the complimentary ingredients than to create more volume,” Phina said. “Tell me what else you noticed. What of the magic?”
I lifted the spoon to try another taste—suss out the elements with lessdistraction—but Phina tutted.
“Do not use your sense of taste as a crutch, Hattie.” She lifted her chin encouragingly. “Use yourmind.”
“Ugh,” I groaned, pinching my eyes shut tosenseinstead oftaste.
I was back in the garden, but this time, I wasn’tfeelingthe emotions butwitnessingthem. It was the difference between beingina garden versus viewing a painting of it. And what I saw…
I dropped concentration before I gave myself a headache. “There’s too much longing,” I said to Phina. “A sense of distance and sorrow mixed in with the lust and affection.” My forehead scrunched. “Could that be the cinnamon?”
Phina lifted a finger and tapped the air as if I were onto something.
Returning to the head of the class, she raised her voice to address the group. “Hattie has reminded me of an important component of alchemy that I’d like everyone to hear.”
Glasses clinked, notebook papers rustled, and stools groaned as students set down their tools and gave their professor their full attention.
“Magic comes fromyou,” Phina emphasized. “Your desires, fears, intentions, unmet needs. All of these can alter the nature of the threads you weave into a material. Which means if you’ve just had your heart broken, or you’re experiencing unrequited love,” Phina’s eyes flicked—mortifyingly—right to me, “it’s possible for you to inject some of that emotionalsignature into what you create. Contamination is not entirely avoidable; it’s a symptom of being your own primary source of power: a flawed human being. It’s important for you to meter your emotions when you weave, lest you imbue your potions with your own emotional residue.”
If my face had been aflame before, it was ashen now. Had I really imbued my own heartache into a love potion? Had Phina trulyfeltit?
Howhumiliating.
Sani raised her hand. “How does one limit one’s emotions while weaving? Are there practical tactics we can employ?”
As Phina described meditative practices and deep breathing techniques, I winced with shame. Since girlhood, I’d alwaysfeltdeeply. Pining when I should’ve been coy. Flaring with anger when I should’ve been demure. Aching with longing when I should’ve moved on.
Anya pinned me as a romantic because I rooted for budding attraction, swooned at sappy stories of professed love, and encouraged my neighbors tojust go for it(even when I, myself, never had any luck with grand gestures). She found my romanticism charming, but I mostly found it painful.
When Noble had arrived in Waldron, I’d tried to ignore him as he ignored me. Then he came to the Possum with Richold, and it was impossible not to give into my emotions—to ogle and flirt andtaunthim with my affection. By the time he and Richold had paid for their drinks and left, a permanent teasing grin had affixed itself to Anya’s face.
“Fates, Hattie, I’ve never seen you like this,” she’d said, bumping me with her hip.
