The Book of Fires

28
At last, Mary Spurren has left the house to get fish from the market at Billingsgate. She will be gone for half an hour or more, and Mrs. Blight is out. I do not have much time for what I need to do.
The sage has wilted and the leaves hang limply from the stalks. I have so little time. My heart is racing with the consequence of what I am doing.
If I boil it for too long, it will fail in its purpose. Perhaps the nature of its properties will be destroyed by overheating? Or will it be increased in strength? I do not know. I can only remember bits of what my grandmother told me about herbs. Why did I not listen to her with more attention ? Why does the kettle not reach the boil more rapidly! The fire is too low. I stoke the fire. I riddle the fire. I wait again. Then the water bubbles and my hands are shaking as I lift the heavy kettle away from the heat and pour. If the leaves sit for too short a time within the water, how can its qualities leak out into the brew?
I steep it for as long as I dare and pour it out hastily into a white cup. Much of the liquid spills and splashes on the table.
The water is a clouded greenish brown, like the water in ponds. Will it taste of nothing, or of all it is, boiled leaves? I begin to drink it down quickly in one gulping draft as I have so little time. It is too hot and burns my tongue and lips, which I am glad of. It is strongly bitter, acrid, unpleasant.
There is a noise at the door! I splutter and stop.
Already someone is back, turning the key, coming in down the corridor. It is a rarity for Mary Spurren to accomplish anything at speed, yet here she is, all out of breath with walking hastily, and her chest rises and falls at a pace. She sets her parcel of fish upon the kitchen table and glances about, as though the quickness of her blood beating round had made her more than usually alert.
“Mackerel, I got,” she says. “Made her gut it for me, but left the heads and tails on. I like a fish to seem a fish.” She trails off and sniffs. “What odd smell is that?” she asks. Her big head faces me.
I make myself look blank and busy. I look up from the sink, where I have tipped the infusion away. I dry the china cup and put it away in the back of the cupboard. “A downdraft of coal smoke?” I suggest, my heart beating. “The wind does eddy and bluster down the chimney when it comes from the northeasterly direction.”
I fold a linen cloth over the drying rack before the hob. “Or perhaps Mr. Blacklock has some strong tobacco. He went to the tobacco merchant only yesterday. Mind you”—I make myself look at her—“I can smell nothing.”
And Mary Spurren gives me a suspicious stare when I say this.