Potent Potions

by Ami Diane

  “I’m not sure. Do you have a minute?”

  Marge said she did and led Libby back to her office. Once seated, Libby found words escaped her. Should she just come right out and ask if Marge was a potionist?

  “Please don’t take this personally,” Marge said, “but why do you smell like a Boy Scout troop?”

  “Because I was, uh, cooking something, and there may have been a small fire.”

  “Cooking, huh?” Marge’s chair creaked as she leaned back, surveying Libby. Something like a cloud passed over her eyes.

  She knows.

  That was all the encouragement Libby needed. Still, she trod lightly. “You and Arlene were close, right? She shared all her secrets with you?”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  “Even what she has under the greenhouse?”

  “What’s in the greenhouse?”

  “Under the greenhouse.” Libby’s breath hitched, waiting.

  It was a long while before the older woman spoke. “You found it, didn’t you?”

  Libby leaned forward. “Yes.”

  “Did you find the book?” Marge’s eyes danced, and she seemed to be holding her breath, as well.

  Libby nodded.

  It was as if a fuse had been lit. Marge jumped, squealing, and pulled Libby into a tight hug.

  “I’d hoped you’d find it. ‘Course, I couldn’t help or tell you anything.” When she released Libby from the bone-shattering hug, her mouth turned down slightly. “Is that what this is? You tried your first potion?” She gestured at Libby’s scorched clothing.

  “Maybe.” She massaged her ribs, hoping there wouldn’t be bruising on her skin the next day. “It’s all true then?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The recipes, the potions, they work?”

  “You tell me. I gave you one to help you sleep last night.” Marge beamed, her smile wilting slightly when she saw Libby’s expression. “You didn’t try it?”

  “I was too enthralled with the book, and I forgot.”

  “Ah, got it. When I inherited my book, I locked myself in my room for several days, devouring the thing. Then I tried my first potion, and, well, let’s just say the fire department still refers to that incident as the night Oyster Bay lit up the west coast.”

  Libby winced, relating all too well. “You inherited the book?”

  “And so did you, in a way.”

  “But I know nothing about chemistry or cooking. My skills in the kitchen are limited to microwaving and—if I’m really feeling adventurous—microwaving on the popcorn setting.”

  “She who holds the book is the potionist.”

  “Did the inventor of potions say that?”

  “No. Gladys from the society. Went a little off the rails, if you know what I mean. She tried to make an anti-aging potion then ended up in a nursing home. But before that, she was pretty wise.”

  “I see.” Libby narrowed her eyes. “On a side note, my ivy has a mind of its own. Sorry, I wasn’t sure how to bring that up.”

  “Oh, that’s Ivy.”

  “Yeah, English ivy.”

  “No, silly. Arlene named the plant Ivy.” She gestured for them to sit again. “It needs a diluted potion otherwise the effects wear off.”

  “I noticed the magic has a decay time on all the recipes.”

  Marge settled back, wagging her finger. “Yes, it’s the time required for the potion to lose half its potency, but it’s not magic. We aren’t witches. This is science, medicine, and physics on a deeper level than what’s currently understood. But it’s not magic.”

  “That’s too bad.” Libby failed to hide the disappointment in her voice. She’d briefly entertained the idea of riding around on a broomstick, casting spells.

  “Get comfortable. I’ll explain everything.”

  Libby leaned back and closed her eyes. “Wait, no. Hold on.” She shifted in her seat, putting her hands behind her head. “Okay, now I’m ready.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep. Good to go.”

  Marge subtly rolled her eyes before taking a deep breath. She began at the beginning, and Libby listened intently.

  The field of potion making branched off alchemy sometime in the sixteenth century in Europe. With the rise of paranoia over witchcraft, potionists were forced to do their work in secret, forming secret societies in order to share their information and help advance the field. But the majority of their work was done in secret and alone.

  Because of this autonomy, each potionist wrote and kept their own book. Not one potion book is the same as the next, and only one person can be the keeper of a book.

  Potion making faded from history and became such fringe work that only those with a book know it is still practiced today.

  “And,” Marge added, holding up a finger, “a potionist never reveals their workspace or lab. No one has ever seen mine nor known its whereabouts, not even Arlene. And she never told me where hers was. Of course, I would’ve entrusted her with its location, but it was more a matter of tradition in our case.”

  Libby glanced up from where she’d been studying the map of scratches on Marge’s desk as she’d been soaking in the verbal history lesson. “That’s too bad. I was hoping you could help me.”

  “I’ll gladly help you, dear. We just won’t do it in a lab. And we’ll be limited on what we can do or use, in case someone sees us.”

  “But we don’t have to worry about someone seeing us in our own home, do we?”

  Marge’s tone dropped to a whisper. “You’d be surprised who’s watching and listening.”

  Libby’s skin prickled. “That’s not ominous sounding or anything.” She popped her lips together. “So, potion making… not magic.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re sure?”

  One of the corner’s of Marge’s mouth quirked up. “Positive. Sometimes, it seems like magic, especially the potions with really, really long decay times, as in the instance of your house. Or the ones that take a while for the body to metabolize the ingredients, in the instance of the ingestible ones.”

  “Sorry, can you go back to that bit about my house?”

  Marge waved it aside. “Arlene accidentally spilled an entire jar of potion meant to help move furniture, a potion intended to be used a few drops at a time. Why she made such a large batch in the first place, I’ll never know. Anyway, it seeped into the floorboards. She thought for sure it’d wear off after a couple of years. That was ten years ago.”

  “Well, that certainly explains a few things.” So, the bed had moved.

  A knock came at the door before Julie’s head popped in. “Do you mind?” She held up a skeleton key identical to the one Libby had seen Marge use. “I’ve got a headache.”

  “Sure, dear.”

  Julie sauntered in and jiggled the key in the cabinet. Libby glanced sideways at Marge who subtly shook her head. Julie wasn’t a potionist.

  She wondered what the assistant thought about all of the strange-looking vials, tinctures, and ingredients inside the cabinet. Something told Libby, the young gal didn’t think too hard on anything.

  Marge cleared her throat. “What do you say, Libby? Should I come over later and help you with that pie recipe? That way, I can pick up ginger root at the same time.”

  Libby stood. “Sounds great.” And now she was hungry for pie.

  Julie offered to walk her out. When the gal turned from the cabinet, her elbow knocked over several cat figurines. Oblivious, she smiled benignly at Libby, smacked a wad of gum, and strode through the doorway.

  As she left the office, Libby’s last glance back was of Marge righting the little kitties, muttering under her breath.

  Walking the narrow hallway, Libby chatted idly with Julie about the drizzly spring weather. Back in the shop, the clerk offered up a brochure for the town. She slid the drawer on the cashier desk open and dropped the cabinet key inside before fishing out the leaflet.

  “It’s got a list of upcoming events
for the town. Some are kind of lame, but—” she shrugged “some are pretty fun.”

  Libby thanked her and took the brochure. In less than twenty-four hours, she’d gone from considering selling her house to finding the secret she’d come for, becoming a potionist, and thinking the small bayside town held a bright future for her.

  CHAPTER 5

  LIBBY CAME DOWN the main staircase, still drying out her hair with a towel when she turned right to head into the living room—and bumped into a wall.

  “What the…” She threw off the towel, her hand groping the wall where a doorway had been only an hour before.

  Stifling a few choice words, she wound all the way around the ground floor, through the library, and discovered, with relief, that she still had access to the kitchen that way. If doorways could disappear, she’d have to consider putting axes in every bedroom in case she found herself inexplicably trapped.

  After pouring an afternoon cup of coffee, she alternated between it and a glass of water just to feel healthier, while she waited for Marge to arrive. She’d considered retrieving her potion book from the lab but thought she’d wait to see what Marge wanted to do. If potion making was so secretive, it might be best not to have the book out in the open.

  A half-hour later, hot water swished around in the sink as she did the dishes. She was on the last plate when a knock came at the front door.

  Libby swiped her hands down her jeans (the towel was currently missing) and hurried to get the door.

  Marge already stood in the foyer. “Sorry, I let myself in. Also, your doorbell’s gone MIA.”

  Libby hissed out a breath between her teeth. This was going to get old fast.

  Marge’s eyebrows drew together as she noticed the new wall blocking entrance to the living room, but she had the decency not to comment on it.

  As they wandered back to the kitchen via the long way, Libby asked over her shoulder, “What if I sanded the floor? Would that get rid of the mag—the effects?”

  “It’s possible. Unless it seeped into the rugs and studs. The molecules have probably been tracked all over the house by now. Also, I think she used a hybrid state potion.”

  “Hybrid state?”

  “It’s a two-step potion that requires two different states of matter to get the desired effect. In this case, liquid and gas. If I remember right, she spritzed a spray bottle all over the house before accidentally spilling the vial of the second stage.”

  “Fantastic. Side note, I’m not going to need to know much science, am I? Because I didn’t do so well in those classes.”

  “Aren’t they required for your line of work?”

  Libby felt her cheeks heat up as she leaned against the kitchen counter. “Well, yeah. But I’m more of the physical, applied science kind of gal and less of the lab-coat-wearing, blow stuff up kind—at least not intentionally. Unless you count that time I wrapped up a firecracker and threw it into Bobby Tibbs’s yard.”

  Marge blinked at her.

  “He tried to kiss me after eating sardines. Speaking of blowing stuff up, should I get the fire extinguisher? It’s currently in the lab.”

  “No, we should be okay….” Marge’s voice trailed off as she studied Libby, seeming to reconsider. She waved her hand as if she’d settled an inward battle and said more to herself, “Yeah, no. We’ll be fine.”

  She hefted her purse onto the counter where it landed with a thunk.

  “What do you have in there? A kitchen sink?” Libby laughed at her own joke before her smile faltered. “You don’t, do you? Because I’ve already got one sink too many.”

  “It’s just some stuff we’ll need.”

  “Did you bring your book?” Libby was curious to see what another potionist’s book looked like.

  “Huh-uh. A potionist is as protective over their recipes as a lion is over her cubs. Not that I don’t trust you, mind you.” She unzipped her purse and rummaged about inside. “But if you did try to steal one of my recipes, I’d slit your throat.”

  Libby waited for a smile that never came, and she swore under her breath.

  “Of course,” Marge continued, “at society meetings, we swap some of the more trivial recipes, like Evergreen Hair.”

  Libby made a face.

  “It’s a potion that makes hair color last longer.”

  “Well, that’s a misleading title. What kind of society?”

  Marge’s chest inflated slightly. “The Potion Masters Society. There’s a meeting tonight. I can’t wait to introduce you around.”

  “Sounds fun.” Libby gestured towards the Marry Poppins-size handbag. “Want help?”

  “Hm? No, I got it.” With quick movements, the older woman unpacked a slew of items that certainly shouldn’t have all fit inside.

  “You didn’t use a potion to pack everything in there, did you? Because if so, I need to know it.” It could revolutionize Libby’s vacations.

  “It’s called good packing and nothing more.” The apothecary set a dazzling, jewel-encrusted cat figurine on the counter. “I know you said you got enough, but this is a duplicate. You’re taking him.”

  Libby’s eyes went wide as she scooped it up. “Holy bling. Shopping channel?”

  Marge let out a sigh, nodding. Libby thanked her the appropriate amount, unsure of where to place the new acquisition. She finally decided on the kitchen window sill so that it could watch their shenanigans while also catching the daylight, scattering jewels around the room.

  After that, she helped spread out the tools, utensils, and ingredients on the counter. While she retrieved a cutting board and knife, she brought up something that had been nagging her since the discovery of the lab and book.

  “You don’t think Mr. Waters knew about Arlene’s… extracurricular activities, do you?”

  Marge paused amid zeroing a digital scale with a white ceramic dish on top. “No, I doubt it. Although, he is amongst only a handful of people who have been in this house.”

  “It’s just… I can’t help but think he was out there for a reason. Maybe he was wandering the property or had just returned from a walk on the beach. Who knows? But if he wasn’t out there for nefarious reasons, then it means…”

  “Someone else was,” Marge finished.

  Libby nodded. “Is it possible someone was searching for the book or lab?”

  Turning away, Marge rinsed out the dish then carefully laid strips of what looked like blades of grass on top of the ceramic ware. When she turned to return the dish to the scale, her lips were pressed together, and a deep crease ran between her brows.

  “I suppose it’s possible,” she said finally. “But you have to know, there are other people here who are after us for more than just our recipes.”

  Her expression, if possible, turned darker, a storm crossing it. Libby decided not to press the issue—for now.

  They worked in silence for a few minutes until Marge was satisfied with all of their preparations. As an added precaution, she shut the blinds for the windows and sliding door.

  Orchid watched from a dining chair, her orb-like eyes following Libby’s every move.

  “Alright,” Marge began, laying two veiny hands on the counter. “How much do you know about perfume making?”

  “Pardon? Perfume? Well, I know it smells nice. So, I guess you could say I’m an expert.”

  “Hilarious.” Marge rolled her eyes. “I think I’m getting the hang of talking to you.”

  “That’s more than my ex-fiancé ever said.”

  “Well, he already sounds like a douche. But that’s a topic for another day. We don’t have a lot of time before our meeting. Listen up.”

  Settling against the counter, the older potionist explained how the ingredients in a potion recipe were similar to perfume in that there were base notes, middle notes, and top notes.

  The base notes (or base ingredients) were what made the lasting impression, the backbone to the potion. It determined what the potion would be, the difference between, say, a falling
in love potion versus a falling out of love potion.

  Libby raised her hand. “Hold up. There’s a love potion? Is it called Number Nine?” Marge didn’t seem amused. “Can we make that? I mean as a ‘just in case’?”

  “In case of what? Do you foresee some sort of emergency where you need someone to fall in love with you?”

  “It couldn’t hurt.”

  Marge harrumphed and proceeded with her lesson. Apparently, many beginners made the mistake of carrying on into the middle ingredients without measuring the isolated base ingredients first. She stated this fact with a rather pointed look at Libby, who turned around to be sure she wasn’t looking at Orchid. She wasn’t.

  Next came the middle notes or middle ingredients. They lasted longer than the top ingredients but less than the base ones. They had the strongest influence over what determined the overall rate of decay of the potion.

  Also, in them was the requisite power and energy necessary for the effect to work, like the gas pedal in a car. They were the effect that showed up once the top ingredients evaporated, or in the case of an ingestible potion, metabolized.

  At this point, Libby struggled to maintain focus. With her eyes glazing over, she put a hand out and played with Orchid. This was not lost on Marge, however, who made her stand by the refrigerator, far away from the feline.

  “Lastly, there are the top ingredients. These are the lightest, most potent of the three, and, like baking soda in dry ingredients, you add the top ingredients last because they immediately begin activating the potion.

  “They are also the most sparing in quantity and the hardest ingredient to get right. If not measured precisely, if, say, the top ingredient is a clover picked at half-past midnight and not midnight proper, well then…” She waved her hand as if to say, why bother?

  “What happens?”

  “Well, it’s the difference between a snow potion meant to skip school and a blizzard the size of a state. They vary by only a few granules of bark.”

  Libby frowned. “Got it. So, the top ingredients in a potion are the most important to get right.”

  After that, they got to work, making the same recipe Libby had tried without success earlier. Marge knew it from memory and coached Libby every step of the way. When they reached the top ingredients, it became clear where Libby had gone wrong. She’d used one too many fish scales.