Page 22 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
“Whether you’re an apothecary, an un-Oathed alchemist, or you want to become an adept one day, it’s essential that you not onlyintuitthis process, but visualize it,feelit within your sensory magic. After all, your innate sensory magic is…” She spread her arms invitingly.
“…the thread from which all other magic is woven,” the class answered in unison.
Phina smiled, clearly pleased with her students’ retention. Then she dropped her nub of charcoal onto her desk and pointed a black-smudged fingertip toward our workbenches. “Today, we’re going to practice alchemizing a simple gardenia tincture into a love potion.”
Papers rustled and stools squeaked as apprentices began preparing their materials.
Though I’d read about alchemy extensively, I didn’t possess much hands-on practice. Proper ingredients were hard to come by in a small town like Waldron, and because I couldn’t legally charge for my offerings without a license, it was expensive to experiment. Even when I was a girl, and I’d had practicallyallthe resources in the kingdom at my fingertips, I hadn’t beenallowedto make potions.Nobility don’tbecomealchemists,my aunt had chided me on numerous occasions,theyemployalchemists.
Such limitations were why this was my favorite part of class.
Excitedly, I retrieved a glass pitcher and gathered the ingredients for the simple tincture that would serve as my base. The classroom fell away as I worked, becoming a soft blur in my periphery.
With a mortar and pestle, I ground dried gardenia petals into a fine powder. Next, I added a sassy dash of cinnamon, which wasn’t required, but would provide a spark of lust to the affectionate sweetness of the gardenia. I sprinkled a few drops of rose water for desire and longing, and worked the ingredients together into a paste, thinning it with clear distilled alcohol. Finally, I poured the slurry into my pitcher and used a quartz spoon to stir in more alcohol until the tincture was a thin, slightly viscous swirl of pale pink.
I watched it whirl in the glass for a few seconds, then dribbled a couple drops of the tincture onto my tongue. My taste magic immediately lit up. Botanical, bitter, with notes of a floral sweetness—almost creamy in quality. The balance was slightly off—too much rose water—but I didn’t want to waste ingredients,so I continued.
With my taste magic still sparking across my tongue, I gave the tincture another swirl. When it came to alchemy or arcane weaving, it didn’t matter where one’s magic originated—sight, smell, taste, touch, hearing—it was one’sintentthat made the difference.
I closed my eyes, practicing channeling my magic into the tincture. When it reached the liquid, the floral flavor hit the back of my palate—no tasting required—and a tingly sensation traveled over my skin.
It was exhilarating.Distracting.
I clenched my teeth, trying to concentrate. Weaving magical threads was kind of like mental crochet—it was tough to keep track of all the loops. Using the quartz spoon like a crochet hook, I stirred the liquid in precise circles. There were hundreds of alchemical knots to master, but today, I practiced the most basic weave: a square knot.
When I felt my work was done, I relaxed my magic with dizzying relief, and opened my eyes to see…
A pleased, joyful smile stretched across my lips.
The liquid in the pitcher was no longer a dull pink, but vibrant and shimmery, as if I’d imbued it with moonlight. Though I’d made plenty of simple potions like this over the years, none were so finely tuned. A deep sense of pride unfurled in me like an opening blossom.
Last autumn, when I’d gazed into the Mirror of Fortune at Waldron’s Fate Ceremony, it had shown me a workbench similar to this one. My hands—deft and without hesitation—alchemizing a potion of some kind. The Mirror of Death had depicted my usual vague but peaceful end by old age. While I’d hoped for a more romantic future—a sign,anysign that I wouldn’t die alone—my visions in the Mirrors made sense.
This blend of knowledge and magic and skill—thisalchemy—didbring me a sense of Fortune. Of profound purpose. Unmatched by even the love that the potion I’d just created could induce. As I stared into the pitcher of swirling liquid, I had the overwhelming sense that this was what I was meant to be doing.
I glanced around the rest of class.
Phina was walking slowly between the rows of students, assessing potions, asking questions, offering suggestions. There would be no avoiding her when she reached my station, but for now, I refocused on my work, jotting down notes on areas I could improve: less rose water, perhaps grinding the petals into a finer powder for a better consistency, and was the viscosity too thin?
Of course, what mattered most was that the potion was effective.
Lifting my spoon, I tasted a couple drops, seeing if I could judge its efficacy. Love potions weren’t strong enough to sway justanyoneinto loving another—they worked best on individuals who already harbored a faint attraction or interest. Among arranged marriages, couples were traditionally given love potions to spark affection in otherwise reluctant hearts.
I’d been forced to take one for my own arranged marriage, and it’d had no effect; the mayor of Poe-on-Wend, Corvin, had been a vile man from the start, and with nothing but fear and disgust in my heart, the potion had nothing to latch onto. Next year, my beloved cousin Raina—with whom I’d been raised—would take her own love potion on her wedding day. I wondered how she felt about the prospect if it would prove effective. For the sake of her happiness, I hoped it did.
I flattened my tongue against the roof of my mouth, coating my taste buds with the familiar flavors. A potion like this was meant to be mild. Almost imperceptible, when taken in the scant quantity I’d just ingested.
But what I tasted was…not mild.
The liquid was floral and bitter, just as the original tincture had been, but more complex now that I’d imbued it with power. I was reminded of not just gardenias, but an entire garden: sun-warmed flagstones, bees buzzing, the welcoming humidity of morning dew evaporating off greenery.
A warming sensation followed, traveling down my throat and pooling in the bowl of my belly. It felt like molten honey dribbling through my core, deliciously sticky. I closed my eyes, and through a haze of sunlit fog, Isawsomeone else in the garden behind my eyelids.
He faced away from me, a white shirt clinging to the hard ridges of his back. When he glanced over his shoulder at me, green eyes appraised me, sparking with an unspoken dare. His jaw was sharp enough to cut me open, and for him, I’d happily bleed. Suddenly, my dress felt too tight across my chest; I had the immediate urge to tear it off and offer myself to him like an unwrapped gift.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
My eyes snapped open.
