Chimes at Midnight

“It’s not here,” said Tybalt.

“Keep looking.” I reached the vases and began moving them one by one, trying to reach the back of the pile. Something this important wouldn’t be right out in the open. “Mags says it was confiscated from Silences. That would mean she took it, what, about five years after King Gilad died? Dig deeper.”

He didn’t say anything, but I heard things clatter behind me as he kept looking. I moved vase after vase, and was on the verge of giving up and looking somewhere else when I pulled the last vase away and revealed the base of what looked like a bookcase. It was covered by a gray silk sheet that had seemed somehow beneath notice until I actually focused on it. “Poor man’s cloak of invisibility,” I muttered, and pulled the sheet aside. Then I stared. “Holy . . .”

The bookcase the sheet had been concealing was the sort of thing that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a royal bedroom. It was made of redwood, carved with a pattern of blackberry vines. “It matches Arden’s wardrobe,” I said, mostly to myself, and stepped closer to study the assortment of small, strange items piled on its shelves. There were gleaming jewels and jars of oddly-colored liquids . . . and on the third shelf from the bottom, there was a gray earthenware jug that I was willing to call a flagon, with a smaller, vase-like jug next to it. “Tybalt! Over here!”

I picked up the cruet with shaking hands, locking my fingers tight to keep from dropping it, and peered inside. It was empty. In Faerie, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Leaning forward, I tipped the cruet onto its side over the flagon. Thick green liquid the color of radioactive wheatgrass poured out. It smelled like a mixture of maple syrup and overcooked broccoli. I wrinkled my nose and kept pouring. Tybalt stepped up next to me.

“Is that it?”

“I sure hope so,” I replied, continuing to pour. “We’re supposed to drink it.”

Tybalt wrinkled his nose. “Delightful.”

“It’s better than dying.” The flagon was full almost to the top. I righted the cruet, setting it back on the shelf before picking up the flagon with both hands. “Here goes nothing,” I said, and raised it to my lips.

The liquid tasted worse than it smelled, adding library paste and overripe banana to the mix. I gagged but forced myself to keep drinking . . . and as I did, I felt my hands stop shaking. The throbbing, bruised feeling that filled my body faded, taking my headache with it. I kept drinking. The taste of the liquid changed, becoming sweeter. As the throbbing stopped, I swallowed a mouthful of what tasted like sugared raspberries and champagne.

I lowered the flagon, holding it out to Tybalt. “When it starts tasting good, you know it’s working. I think. It feels like it worked.”

“It worked,” he said, and touched my cheek, smiling. “Your color is better, and you’re breathing normally. It worked.”

“Good.” I held the flagon out more emphatically. “Now drink. I’m going to check on Nolan.”

Tybalt nodded, finally taking the flagon. I stayed where I was long enough to see him start to drink—and to see the color start coming back into his cheeks—before walking back across the blood-splattered floor to Nolan. He was only half-lying in the pool of blood, I noticed, which wasn’t going to stop Arden from freaking out when she saw him. I crouched, checking for a pulse. He still had one. That was something, anyway. He also had a vicious case of iron poisoning, if the taste I’d gotten of his blood was anything to go by.

“Bring that over when you’re done,” I said, shifting to maneuver Nolan into a sitting position. “We need to pour some of it down this guy’s throat before he dies on us.”