“And ‘cockatrice feathers, just plucked,’ ” she said. “There must be a way to preserve them.”
“Here’s hail,” said Ardent, who was standing on his hind legs at a shelf farther down. “ ‘Hailstones, mountaintop, one day old, one doz.’ and then there’s more, up to a week old.”
Anya went over to the dog and took down the appropriate jar. It was very cold to touch, the hailstones inside solid and unmelted. She examined the top of the jar, noting that there was some kind of spell woven into the red wax and greased paper that sealed the metal lid.
“One dozen,” she said. “Twice what we need.”
She wrapped the jar with the map handkerchief and put it in her belt purse. Ardent, meanwhile, had gone back to look earlier in the alphabet.
“ ‘C-c-ockatrice feathers, freshly plucked, half doz,’ ” he read. “They’re wrapped up well.”
Anya went over to look. The cockatrice feathers were wrapped up like a parcel between boards that were wound with linen bandages. The label, in addition to identifying what was inside, carried the instruction Do not open until immediately before use.
Anya took a packet and thrust it through her belt.
“Right, that’s it, let’s get out of here,” she said.
At that moment, her eye fell on Denholm’s cage on the floor.
The bars were bent aside, and the frog prince was no longer there.
Denholm!”
Anya’s cry made Ardent spin around from where he’d been eyeing a very long spiral bone labeled Narwhal horn. Instantly taking in the empty cage, he ran forward with his nose to the floor, sniffing madly. The door to the hallway was shut, so he circled back. Catching the frog’s scent, he ran along the shelves towards the back of the room. Anya ran after him, with Shrub and Smoothie close behind.
It was quite dark down the far end, away from the lamp, but there was just enough light to see a door. Ardent was scratching at the base of it, around a hole that was big enough to allow a rat to get through.
Or a frog.
“He’s gone through,” said Ardent.
“The transformation spell,” said Anya. She tried the door, pushing and pulling on the iron ring, but it wouldn’t budge. “Makes him resist anyone who can change him back. Now that I have all the ingredients, it must have got stronger. Why is this door locked?!”
“Use the skeleton key!” urged Shrub.
“Quickly,” Ardent barked. “His scent is fading. He’s moving away!”
Anya got out the key, almost fumbling in her haste. As she started to turn it, the lock groaned. Then, as it opened, it let out a shill scream, rather like one of Morven’s.
Everyone jumped.
“Alarm lock,” said Shrub with professional respect. “Very tricky.”
Anya didn’t respond. She threw the door fully open and they raced up the stair beyond.
Denholm was a dozen steps above them, hopping madly towards an open archway leading to the next floor. It clearly led to the inhabited, rebuilt part of the meetinghouse, because it was lit up.
Ardent raced ahead, leaping the steps four at a time.
“Be careful!” Anya called out as she ran after him, visions of Denholm crushed in Ardent’s jaws flashing through her mind. She knew the dog could retrieve things without hurting them, but wasn’t sure he would remember that in the excitement of the moment.
She burst through the archway and almost fell over Ardent, who had stopped and was sitting on his haunches. Anya didn’t need to ask why—she could see for herself.
The archway led into another large chamber like the alchemical storeroom below, but this was a much stranger place. It was lit up, but not with lanterns. There were glowing vines that trailed down from the beams of the roof high above, and glowing fungi that was trained to grow on certain bricks in the walls.
These unusual lights illuminated a steaming tropical garden. Ferns of all shapes and sizes and strange bushes with iridescent hanging fruit in red and yellow and green clustered in groups around cleverly sculpted ornamental pools. Tiled paths wound between the smaller pools, leading to a central square that was dominated by a single high-backed, throne-like chair of wrought iron that sat facing a much larger pool.
A pool entirely full of frogs.
Or not entirely full, because there was room for one more.
Denholm reached the pool with one last great leap and entered the water with a splash. Within a second Anya lost sight of him among all the other frogs that were lazing there on lily pads, swimming idly around, or gathered on the edges in quiet contemplation of their warm and comfortable home.
“I wonder how it stays so warm and clean,” said Smoothie.
“Sorcery,” said Shrub. He licked his eyes feverishly. “This is the Garden, the Grey Mist’s hangout! That’s her gloating chair, right there! We have to get out of here. Someone will have heard the lock alarm—”
“We have to collect all the frogs,” interrupted Anya. She thought for a second, then reached behind her, pulled the Wizard’s onion sack from her belt, and unfolded it. “We’ll put them in this, make it wet so they’re not too uncomfortable, take them away, and sort out Denholm later. Let’s go!”
The others weren’t listening. They were looking at a sudden gathering of steam or mist at the far side of the garden. It had just appeared, a cloud of thick fog that had coalesced out of nowhere and was now rolling along one of the tiled paths.
Straight towards them.
“The Grey Mist!” shrieked Shrub, and ran to the left.
Smoothie slid into the closest pool, paws searching for stones to throw.
Ardent barked once and ran forward, straight at the sorcerer.