The Potion Diaries 2

by Amy Alward

  Zain and I look up from the diary at the same time.

  ‘Wow,’ he says.

  ‘And now we have our first location,’ I say, a smile creeping across my face. ‘We need to get to Runustan. Fast.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Samantha

  ‘I THOUGHT I SAW YOU signed in here, Zain. Aren’t you supposed to be down in R & D?’ Zol, Zain’s dad, steps out of the lift, his tall figure – immaculate in a tailored blue suit – casting a long shadow into the library. He stops short when he sees me. I steel myself to get yelled at and thrown out of the building.

  What I’m not prepared for is for him to break out into a wide smile. ‘Miss Kemi! How nice to see you here!’

  I jump out of my chair. ‘I was just leaving.’

  ‘Nonsense! Come now. I’ve not had a chance to congratulate your family on the success of the Wilde Hunt – no hard feelings, of course. Now that we’re not rivals on the Hunt – only in business! – you’re welcome here any time. I hope my boy has been treating you well . . .’ Then, disturbingly, Zol winks at me. I have to stop myself from shuddering.

  ‘Dad!’ Zain looks as panicked as I feel, his eyes darting from his dad to me and back again.

  I just feel mega-awkward. ‘Err . . .’

  ‘What? Can’t a father check up on his son? In fact, Miss Kemi . . .’

  ‘Samisfine,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Sam, then, it’s a good thing you’re here. I heard the terrible news about your grandad . . .’

  ‘Dad!’ Zain says again, but this time as a warning. Zol ignores it.

  ‘. . . and I really think that ZA can help.’ Before I know it, he has one arm around my shoulder.

  All I can think is: What. Is. Happening. I didn’t realise Zol was so chatty.

  ‘Zain didn’t want me to tell you about it because I know your grandad has a no-synth rule on his medical charts – very old-fashioned in my opinion – but I’m sure you would want to know if there was synth medication out there that could help your grandad get better.’

  Zol’s jumping from topic to topic leaves me bewildered – is this how CEOs run a business, by thinking about a million different things at once? – but eventually his words sink in. ‘You have a cure for my grandad?’ I blink several times, not willing to let myself feel any hope.

  To my immense relief, he removes his arm, then looks me dead in the eyes. ‘Why, yes, Sam. I think we might.’

  My heart flutters. Then reality hits. I shake my head. ‘No, he would never allow it.’

  ‘Ah! It appears my son knows you well after all. It’s a shame, because although the synth is brand new it is very promising. Our tests have come back showing 98.9 per cent effectiveness in reversing memory loss and returning the patient to active health. It passed the Novaen Synth Trials with flying colours. We’re going to put it on the market within the month, we’re so confident in it. But I’m sure you’ll find another way.’

  I nod, but his words are registering. 98.9 per cent effectiveness. That’s high for a synth. Passed the trials. Even if it wasn’t a total cure, it might stabilise Grandad and give me more time to search. But it’s a synth, my sensible Kemi voice tells me.

  The other voice speaks up again. So what?

  ‘Have you shown her yet?’ Zol asks Zain.

  Zain lets out a groan. ‘No, Dad, honestly – we don’t have time. Sam doesn’t want to see.’

  Now, I’m curious. ‘Show me what?’

  Zol’s face lights up, and for a split second I see Zain in his father. It’s kind of disturbing, because before this, I went out of my way to avoid Zol. I thought I hated him. But then again, the last time we met, we were competing in the Hunt. Is he actually okay in normal life? ‘Come, Sam, you’ll love this.’

  We crowd back into the lift, and I’m sandwiched awkwardly between Zain and his dad. Thankfully it’s only a couple of floors.

  The doors slide to reveal a large open plan office, where hundreds of ZA staff sitting in cubicles are working away on their computers. ‘This is our main sales floor,’ says Zol, striding out in front of us. I fall in step behind him. Zain is behind me, but he’s dragging his heels. He keeps trying to get my attention, but now I really want to see what Zol wants to show me.

  Curious eyes flick up at me from behind the low cubicle walls. My skin crawls with the sensation of so many eyes on my back. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. A small click makes me snap my head around. Did someone take a picture of me on their phone?

  This is not good. Not good at all.

  Thankfully, we leave the crowded office and head down a hallway. We pass a few unmarked doors until Zol comes to a stop. ‘Ta-da,’ he says. He points to the door. Etched into a little brass plaque is the name Zain Aster. Underneath it reads: Head of Synth-Natural Potions Studies.

  Zol opens the door.

  I look up at Zain and he shrugs, looking miserable. ‘Not my idea,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Your own office? But that’s so cool!’ I say. Zain shrugs again.

  The office itself is huge. There’s a bank of computers on one side (‘These are all connected to the library, so Zain won’t have to leave the room to access our archives,’ says Zol.) and a bookcase with actual, paper books on the other (‘For those works that just haven’t made it to the digital age,’ he says with a laugh.). In between, there are three desks. One of them has Zain’s name on it.

  ‘So who are the other two for?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, now this is the really good part. As you’ve already seen, one of the desks is reserved for Zain when he’s finished his studies. He’s the one who inspired this whole division – Synth-Natural Potions Studies.’ Zol claps his son on the back. ‘One of these desks is for Arthur Menoaz. You know him, don’t you?’

  I do. He’s another well-known alchemist in Nova, although he’s not based in Kingstown. He was a staunch anti-synth activist for a while, so I wonder what has happened for him to change his mind. Then again, he didn’t win the Wilde Hunt, so he didn’t have the influx of cash and fame that we had. I still remember the times before. They were tough.

  ‘And the other is reserved for our new fellowship student. Don’t think ZA as a company didn’t learn from losing the Wilde Hunt! The loss was not great for our image, as our head of PR was quick to point out, but I knew how to turn it around. We’re not a proud company – we’re about innovation. If learning more from natural potions is the way to go, then so be it! Let’s open a department dedicated to it. So ZA has sponsored a fellowship for any student wanting to break ground in this new area. We’ll cover the full costs of the course and guarantee a full-time job at the end. It’s been highly competitive already. Of course, it would be even better if someone like you were interested.’

  I almost laugh then. So that’s why Zol brought me here. And under any other circumstances, maybe it would be tempting. But right now?

  ‘Thank you for showing this to me, Mr Aster, it is really fascinating.’ I hold out my hand.

  He shakes it, a small frown flitting across his face. But it’s gone almost as soon as it appears. ‘No problem at all, Sam. And like I said, you are always welcome. Oh, and Zelda will be furious with me if I don’t ask you to dinner with us. She cooks a smashing roast.’

  ‘Uh . . . maybe after the Royal Tour?’

  ‘It’s done! We’ll have to break out the baby pictures, won’t we, son?’

  As Zol laughs, Zain lowers his voice. ‘Can we please get out of here now?’

  I nod. We back away towards the door.

  ‘Oh, and Sam?’

  Reluctantly, I stop. I look up at Zol, whose expression has changed from jolly to the deadly serious, tight-lipped frown I am much more familiar with. ‘Don’t forget what I said about your grandad. We can cure him. Don’t let your family pride get in the way.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  www.WildeHuntTheories.com/forums/THEKEMIFAMILY

  [MOST RECENT POSTS]

  ValleeGurl says: *BREAKING NEWS* O
STANES KEMI admitted to Kingstown General this afternoon at 4:46 p.m. Looking for a source inside the hospital to confirm diagnosis. Anyone? **ETA** Sam seen arriving at ZA headquarters. POSSIBLE SYNTH CURE FOR OSTANES???

  OrdinaryRelicHunter says: Nurse inside Kingstown General says he’s in for treatment of rapid onset memory loss. Does this seem to fit with what we know of OK? History with CK of alchemy skill disappearing overnight. Could be a chronic disease? As for SK curing OK with a synth . . . Any proof for that statement? More likely that SK is being offered the Zol Aster Synth-Natural Potions Studies Fellowship and has arrived for an interview.

  ValleeGurl says: That scholarship theory is nonsense. I can confirm 100% that it went to Arthur Menoaz.

  Vitaminas3 says: Sam can’t be going on the Royal Tour now, right? She would never leave her grandad alone.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Samantha

  THE DETOUR WITH ZOL MEANS Zain and I only have a few minutes until I’m due to be picked up by the Royals to meet Evelyn for shopping.

  ‘Your dad is quite . . . something,’ I say, as we head out through the ZA lobby doors to wait for the car.

  ‘Yeah. He’s been on my back so much lately, but I don’t wanna talk about it now. Hey, what are you going to do about getting to Runustan?’

  I make a mental note to talk to him about his dad later. Clearly there’s something on his mind, but I’ve been so wrapped up in my grandad and the diary that I haven’t noticed. Bad girlfriend. ‘Get in touch with Kirsty and see what she has to say. Actually . . .’

  I dig in my bag for my phone, but by the time I find it, a car pulls up to the entrance. The window slides down. ‘Samantha Kemi?’

  ‘That’s me,’ I say. I lean to give Zain a kiss goodbye on the cheek, but he pulls me into a full-on kiss, right in front of his office. I don’t complain.

  I slide into the back seat, my knees weak. Ordinarily I would be awed by the rich, dark leather seats and the tiny lights embedded into the ceiling, but I hardly notice any of it. I watch Zain through the darkened windows until he disappears inside the lobby and we turn the corner, out of sight.

  I take a deep breath, then I text Kirsty: What do you know about centaurs near a place called Lake Karst in Runustan?

  While I wait for her reply, I think about what I know about centaurs. Not a lot.

  Centaurs – nomadic creatures that roam around the Great Steppe. They travel in small herds, and their population has been in rapid decline. Once one of the closer creatures to human civilisations, the centaurs became more and more isolated as humans modernised. Use of their body parts has been phased out of potions but their eyes are said to be key ingredients in potions to aid seizures (especially those with accompanying visions) or to help find things that are lost.

  A few taps on my phone brings up a map of the Great Steppe. It’s a vast swathe of grassland interspersed with mountain and desert that stretches from the eastern edge of Gergon, right the way through to the western border of Zhonguo. It would take years to search it all for a herd of centaurs. I hope they still live near this Lake Karst. The map shows a huge lake in the middle of the Steppe that’s as good a place to start as any.

  I finally lift my head and look out of the window. I hardly ever venture into this part of town. Here, huge mansions cost millions of crowns – even a parking space is worth more than the average Kingstown home. Although they are all beneath the castle, the buildings lean up towards it, as if they can gain even more riches by bowing to the Royals. It’s also home to Morray Street – or Money Street, as Anita and I nicknamed it. My family never comes here. Mum would rather sew her own skirt out of old curtains than drop a thousand crowns on a designer version.

  The one time I did head down to Money Street was just after my fifteenth birthday. I’d seen a newscast detailing how Lieb & Jacobson were harvesting dragonskin from a distant part of Zhonguo to create their latest designer handbags. The skin made the bags shimmer and sparkle in the light, and was virtually indestructible – a bag built to last a hundred lifetimes. An heirloom piece. At real heirloom prices . . . among the Talenteds, it was a real statement of wealth to own one. There were even rumours that money or gold kept within a dragonskin bag would be impossible to steal. Potential robbers would be burned by the scales, the dragonskin sensing that they were not the rightful owner.

  Still, as beautiful as the bags were, it was highly unethical to use skin from an endangered species. I happily held a picket sign: DRAGONS BELONG IN THE SKY, NOT ON YOUR ARM, and hundreds of people chanted and campaigned until the Lieb & Jacobson store had to stop selling the bags.

  The names above the shop doors speak of luxury, class and expense. But the one we stop outside makes my heart stop. It’s the most luxurious shop of all. House of Perrod.

  ‘Okay, Miss – here you go. The Princess told me to let you know she’s already inside.’

  ‘Thank you!’ I practically skip out of the car. Never in a million years did I think I would own anything from House of Perrod.

  To my surprise, there’s the flash of camera bulbs. I instinctively lift my hands to my eyes to shield them.

  ‘Sam, Sam, are you working on a potion for the Princess?’ asks one of the photographers, still snapping away.

  ‘No comment,’ is all I manage, before running through the doors.

  Once I’m inside, I slow down and take it all in. The shop is designed to emulate a grand Palace ballroom. A huge chandelier hangs from the ceiling, each lightbulb surrounded by a delicate gold filigree casing that looks like the wings of a butterfly. The floor itself is aged white marble, inlaid with streaks of dark amber. As I walk over them, tracing my toe along the lines, I realise they are spelling out Perrod in sweeping, curved letters. In a far corner, two mannequins are glamoured to waltz together, the twirls and spins of the dance showing off the flow of the fabric. These dresses are made for being swept around a ballroom. I watch them, mesmerised by their beauty. One-two-three, one-two-three.

  ‘Well, at least I won’t have to teach you how to dance,’ Evelyn says with a laugh. I’ve been swaying in time to the dancers without realising it. She crosses the sweeping foyer to see me, surrounded by assistants. I spot Renel – Evelyn’s stern, beak-nosed advisor – in the far corner, and her bodyguards melting into the dark edges of the room.

  I blush and stop moving. ‘Oops . . . yeah, we learned some ballroom dancing in gym class this year. Our teacher was a bit obsessed with that show Dancing with the Talent.’

  ‘They asked me to be on that this year. Well, they ask me every year. I wouldn’t be surprised if they ask you, being a big celebrity now and all.’

  Now I really feel my face turn red. ‘Oh no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘How’s your grandad?’

  I sigh. ‘No change. But,’ I lower my voice. ‘I think Zain and I have found a lead . . .’

  Evelyn shakes her head, her eyes wide. I get the message: not here. ‘Well, great news! They’ve closed the store just for us – I can’t wait for you to try on your ball dress!’

  ‘Do I get to see yours too?’

  Evelyn rolls her eyes at my ignorance, but it’s playful rather than mean. ‘My dear, my outfit has been designed and ready for months. I have to make one last-minute adjustment since I believe it’s in ivory – a colour for a newlywed, not someone who isn’t even engaged.’ Apart from a slight lift of her eyebrows, she doesn’t betray any hint of emotion, even though it must pain her – both to know most of Nova thinks she’s failing her duty, and that unless something drastic changes, she’s still going to have to marry someone she doesn’t love.

  I put my hand on her arm. ‘I haven’t forgotten, you know.’

  She gives me a small smile, but I spot a crack in her perfect foundation. Her eyes dart behind me, and I catch wistful longing in her gaze. I spin around but I’m too late: all I see is the trailing coat tails of a guard’s uniform disappearing into the shadows.

  Before I can think about it any more, she takes me
by the arm and together we stroll across the foyer.

  ‘Of course, the designer’s not going to like it if I change the colour,’ she continues, as if nothing has happened. ‘But what can you do?’

  She walks through the place as if she owns it (she probably could, if she wanted to) and leads me into one of the back rooms where, hanging on a polished brass rail in front of me, are a selection of the most beautiful dresses I have ever seen in my life. My eye is drawn to a floor-length dress that’s a waterfall of molten silver. I reach out and touch the fabric, expecting it to be heavy – but it’s as light as air.

  ‘I sent your measurements across to Jacques – the head designer – before we came.’

  As if on cue, Jacques steps into the room and performs a small half-bow for the Princess. Then he turns to me. ‘I’m sorry, these were all we could find at the last minute. We are dressing many of the Novaen guests for the Laville Ball, and we cannot have any two people wearing the same style.’ He eyes me up and down critically, and suddenly I don’t feel like a human being – more like a blank canvas he’s about to turn into a masterpiece.

  ‘She may be too tall even for some of these longer dresses.’ To my distress, he pushes the silver dress away, banishing it to the far end of the rail. ‘She is also so young, she needs something . . .’

  ‘More fun,’ finishes Evelyn.

  ‘Yes, exactly.’

  He dances his fingers along the rail and eventually stops at a shorter dress, made of the same silver waterfall-like fabric, but overlaid with beaded strands that swing and tumble like an old dress from the forties. It’s stunning, and far younger and cooler than the long one. Right now I can tell that Jacques is a genius.

  Evelyn clasps her hands together and squeals with delight. I don’t often squeal, but I know what she’s feeling. I don’t think I’ve ever had something so beautiful to wear in my entire life. I think I’m squealing on the inside.

  I take the dress from his hands, holding it by the curve of the hanger as if one wrong move might vanish it away.