“You’re what?” I backed up when Mom shooed me out of her way. She tied an apron around her waist and got to work with a couple of small vials of colored liquid.
“I’m so glad the apothecary had a fresh shaved spikenard root. I do so hate to have to make dominator oil with lesser materials. What was that, Gwenny?”
“You said something about learning from trees.” I rubbed my forehead. I could feel a headache starting, and I had a feeling it was going to grow with every second that my mothers fought my reasonable request.
“Yes, we are. We’ve always wanted to learn field magic, and who better to learn it from than trees and shrubs?” Mom Two answered for her.
“Yup, headache definitely getting worse.” I considered just sitting down and giving up, but the thought of remaining in Anwyn forever because we couldn’t find the bird gave me enough of the willies to keep me on my feet. “Are you talking about someone who’s teaching you field lore, or are you going out and learning from the trees themselves? Because if it’s the latter, I’d like to remind you that there are plenty of trees outside of Anwyn to learn from.”
“It’s both, actually,” Mom answered, her finger tracing a line of text in her recipe book. “The trees here in camp have many things to teach us. Especially that spruce. What was his name, dear? Denver?”
“Colorado,” Mom Two answered.
I sat down. It was a moment or two before I could speak. “Are you trying to tell me that Colorado, the warrior who looks like a young Hugh Laurie, is a tree?”
“Yes, of course he is. All of Ethan’s warriors are trees. Alice, oil of hyssop or oil of angelica?”
“For dominator oil? Myrrh and sweet flag.”
“Oh, that’s right, how silly of me. I was thinking of the uncrossing oil. What was that, Gwenny?”
“Nothing.” I stood up again, figuring if I stayed there to find out why Ethan’s warriors were really trees, I’d never get anything done. “Where’s this history book that has a picture of the bird?”
Mrs. Vanilla chirruped in her strange, wordless way and waggled her hands so that the massive spread of crocheted horse jacket wobbled across her lap.
“Hmm? Yes, dear, that’s right, the nice book is next to you, isn’t it? It’s in the chest there, Gwenny. The one to the left of Mrs. Vanilla.”
I smiled at the old lady and, moving a few bound bundles of dried herbs, uncovered a small wooden chest. Inside it were three books, two of which appeared to be grimoires. The bottom one smelled of mildew and long-dead moths. Its binding was wispy, but held together enough for me to leaf through its pages. I have a profound love for old books, and was sorely tempted to sit there and read this one, but other than pausing for a few minutes on a page that had me exclaiming, “Well, I’ll be damned. They are trees,” I ignored everything until I turned another page and found myself looking at a tiny sketch of a bird. “Hmm. White and black head, white belly, and greeny-black wings. I can’t say I’ve seen a bird like it around Anwyn, but at least now I know what to look for. Er . . . Mom, is she OK?”
Mrs. Vanilla’s hands had gone into overtime while I knelt next to her, and she continued to make high-pitched squeaky noises that increased in volume until I worried that the old lady was having some sort of fit.
Mom bustled over to us. “Are you all right, dear? Need to use the loo? No? Hungry? Do you want some soup? Are you tired? Nap time?”
I put the books away and stood next to the old woman, feeling helpless. “Should I get her something? Does she take any medicine?”
“I don’t think so. What is it, dear? Can we get you anything?”
The old woman’s hands alternated between plucking at the blanket and making odd little fluttering motions, but after a few minutes she settled back down with her knitting.
“Mom.” I pulled my mother to the other side of the tent. “When you kidnapped Mrs. Vanilla from the nursing home—”
“Rescued her. We rescued her. She begged us to do so. She saw an ad advertising our school, and knew that we were the only people who would be able to rescue her from the mortals.”
“Did she have any medicine in her room? I don’t think she’s . . . right. I mean, that thing with the hands, and making those noises but not actually talking. That’s beyond odd.”
Mom brushed off that thought. “She’s just a bit eccentric, dear. You would be too if you were as old as her.”
I looked across the tent. Mrs. Vanilla’s crumpled little figure was almost swallowed up by the massive coat she was making. “I’m concerned that she needs medicine for a condition that we don’t know about. And if she doesn’t get it, she might get seriously sick. We have to take her back, Mom.”
“Oh, no, dear. She’s quite happy here. Happier than she would be back in the mortal world.”
“She is mortal.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course she isn’t. Now, you go look for your bird, and your mother and I will finish up this latest batch of potions while Mrs. Vanilla rests. Alice, dear heart, do you think we should make another potion for Death?”
“No!” I shouted, making all three women look at me with varying expressions of surprise. “No more potions for Death.”
“Very well, dear.”
“I’m off to look for the bird, and then I should check in with my warrior trainer before it’s my shift time. He said something about me learning how to lop off heads today, and I wouldn’t want to miss that, now would I?”
My voice had a tinge of hysteria to it that both my mothers failed to notice.
“When I’m done,” I said loudly at the entrance to their tent, “I expect to find both of you and Mrs. Vanilla ready to move over to my tent.”
I departed hastily, followed by stereo objections and exclamations that I had turned horribly bossy ever since I hit a hundred years, all of which I ignored. I had plenty of reason to worry about my mothers’ well-being, and they were just going to have to accept that.
The next hour or so was spent trying to pin down anyone who’d stand still about the missing lapwing, but no one seemed to know anything about it. It wasn’t until I was ready to give up and go find Master Hamo for my daily lesson that I ran across the apothecary my mothers had raved so much about. I explained that I was looking for information about the bird, fully expecting to get an answer similar to the others I’d had thus far. But I was more than a little surprised to have the middle-aged, bespectacled bald man look up from a wooden crock of dried herbs and say, “Oh, she left quite some time ago. Couldn’t take the separation.”
“Separation . . . from Aaron?” I guessed.
He nodded. “Very devoted pair they were. You’d never see the king without his lapwing. Went everywhere together. Until, of course, the day that she-cat got an eyeful of him.”
“What she-cat?”
“The queen, naturally.” The look he gave me was a mixture of slyness and amusement. “She took one look at the king and decided she fancied being the queen of the Underworld.”
“Are you saying that she got rid of Aaron’s beloved lapwing?”
The man winked and turned back to his task. “I’m not saying that, but I’m not not saying it, if you ken.”
I mulled that over for a few seconds. The implication that Constance might well be behind Ethan’s actions in stealing Aaron’s beloved bird—and dog and deer—was unavoidable. I couldn’t wait to talk about that theory with Gregory, but for now . . . “And you don’t know what happened to the bird after she was . . . er . . . parted from Aaron?”
“Spirited away would be my guess.” He peered at me over the thick lenses of his glasses for a moment. “If you were the queen and you wanted to get rid of the rival for your husband’s love, what would you do?”