Page 80 of Crossroads Magic
Ghaliya shook her head. “No. Curry. I smell curry. Thick and…” Her eyes widened and her throat worked. The cracker fell from nerveless fingers. She turned her head quickly. I lunged for the bucket, but it was too late.
Ghaliya emptied her stomach upon the floor. Then she continued to retch, her back and her throat working with each wave. I wrung my hands, wishing I could take that discomfort away from her.
When she was done, she fell back on the pillow and cried, in soft, weak, helpless sobs. Her hand crept down to her belly and pressed.
I went down to the second floor and retrieved Frida’s mop and bucket and cleaning supplies from the hall closet and took them up to Ghaliya’s room and cleaned up. Ghaliya remained where she was, her breathing shallow.
I was just finished when she felt weakly for the bucket once more. I put it in her hands, and she bent over it and heaved, but there was nothing more to come up. Her body was taut with the power of the retching that went on and on.
This time, when she fell back, she grabbed at her throat. “Hurts…” she croaked.
“I know, honey.” I got a cloth from the bathroom, and wiped her forehead. “I’m going to go and get some more help. Can you cope for a while?”
“Leave the bucket right there,” she said, pointing with her finger at the floor next to the bed. Her voice was painfully hoarse.
I put the bucket where she had indicated, finished the cleaning up and returned Frida’s equipment to the closet. Then I took the notebook, crossed the road, and knocked on Trevalyan’s door.
He didn’t smile when he opened it. “What’s happened?”
“Can you tell me what the fuck a pinch of cow’s horn is?”
“Fenugreek,” he said instantly. He glanced at the notebook in my hand, then at me. “You’d better come in.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The chopping block on wheels in the middle of Trevalyan’s kitchen had hollowed sides from years of blades nicking the edges. But it was big and held all the ingredientsandmy mother’s notebook. Grimoire.
I dropped the last of the garlic into the bowl in the middle of the block and rubbed my fingertips clean. “That’s it,” I said. Earlier, I had raced back to the inn and cut a lock of Ghaliya’s hair, which Trevalyan had said was an essential ingredient. “This should smell good, at least.” The ancient ingredients, in their modern-day names, were extremely common. Rosemary, fenugreek, garlic, basil and other bits and pieces.
“The herbs are not the active ingredients,” Trevalyan said. He was leaning against an old wood stove, his arms crossed, directing me. His whole kitchen was a spell laboratory, and the cupboards were full of common spell ingredients, which explained why he ate at the inn. “They’re accelerators.”
“Then what is the active ingredient? What makes this work?”
“You,” Trevalyan said. “The words you speak, and your power drives the spell.”
I swallowed. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Light the match,” he said calmly. “Speak the words, and drop it into the bowl.”
I re-read the incantation one more time. I was allowed to read it out, if I couldn’t remember it, but I couldn’t misspeak any of the words, or hesitate.
I picked up the box of matches, got out a match and paused with the head against the sandpaper side.
“Breathe,” Trevalyan told me.
I nodded and breathed.On the third breath, I told myself firmly, or I would stand here breathing until sunrise.
…two…three.
I struck the match and spoke the words, following the incantation in the notebook. When the match flared a second time I nearly halted in surprise. I managed to keep going, and finish the incantation. I had no idea what I was saying. The words weren’t Latin, or any language I recognized.
I dropped the flaring match into the bowl.
The ingredients caught fire, which surprised me, for some of them, like the fresh garlic, were moist. There was no flash and very little smoke.
“Well done,” Trevalyan said, squeezing my arm. “You’ve just cast your first spell.”
“Did it work?” I asked.
