Chapter Sixteen
Five Reasons a Mandrake Potion Has Different Results Than Intended
by Feraline Swift
It's easy to get a mandrake potion wrong. For the sake of this article, I'm not discussing the numerous ways to kill yourself by attempting a potion. Yes, Skills, we can do that article later. This focuses on when the aftermath of a potion is not what was anticipated. We'll start with the obvious.
1.You did not use Mandragora venenificii as opposed to any of the other species in the Mandragora genus. If you made this mistake and are still alive to read this, I want all your lucky stars.
2.The plant was drawn from the earth dead. You need a plant that was screaming bloody murder to the moon and back. Otherwise the magic has already been transferred to the seeds (if the plant was too old) or it seeped away into the soil (if the plant was maimed or removed too slowly). Should you get one of these plants from a vendor, do not return to that vendor. Ever.
3.You let the potion sit around after it was made. Mandrake potions age. Typically they get stronger with time. Sometimes, they interact with other ingredients to change the properties of the mandrake. Follow the times carefully. For instance if the recipe calls for 10 minutes in a copper kettle followed by 12 weeks in a brandywine barrel, remove the potion from the barrel exactly 12 weeks later.
4.You did not follow the instructions exactly perfectly. This is another good way to get yourself killed, by the way. But if you happen to have fudged the potion just a little bit, know that it may have changed the outcome of the potion. Keep record of these variations and what you notice. You never know when you'll want to repeat a mistake.
5.You substituted one plant for another without knowing all its active chemical compounds. Herbs have chemistry behind them. It is possible to find a chemical match, but you'll need a good book to list the properties of the plant in question in order to find the correct substitute.
6.You had false ideas of what the potion would do. Sometimes, names of potions are misleading. Look into the history of the potion to make sure that that word means what you think it means.
7.You're stressed. Stress releases cortisol and other stuff into your body. This influences how your body absorbs things like blood sugars. Prolonged stress also does other negative stuff that I frankly am not medically-minded enough to really know. In the short term, stress isn't that terrible. In the long term, not so great. And when your body isn't doing so great to start with, that makes it hard for it to accept potions. Cut out the stressors and see if the end results work out.
… and that's it. This is probably not what you wanted to hear, but it's true. You're in charge of how the potion turns out, except in the instance of receiving a dead plant. That is one thing you can't know until it's too late. Sort out what went wrong, and try again.
So, what went wrong with mine? That was the question I mulled over while I stared at the article and made a few minor revisions. Part of the advantage of being a novice was constantly checking everything. Part of the disadvantage of not being a novice was thinking you knew it all when you didn't. I didn't know if I'd been too cocky or what.
“Mordon, what do you think?” I asked, interrupting his cooking. Tonight was eggs, baked beans, buttered mushroom caps, and fat rounds of black pudding. It didn't necessarily look the best, but I was hungry and it smelled tasty. It was also the first meal in my new mint-green kitchen. Nothing made this house feel homey quite like its first meal.
“Hmm?” Mordon asked, brought out of his own thoughts.
I showed him the article.
He raised a brow at me. “You could elaborate more on the conclusion.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“Your potion worked.”
“I guess.”
“In my humble opinion? You were stressed about a healer's appointment, got yourself killed and brought back to life, tormented your neighbors on a day-and-night terror spree, won out against feral magic, had an attempt on your life, and have recently relocated into a new life and culture.”
I scoffed. “You think I'm stressed.”
“I smell it on you.”
Wait, what? Setting the book down, I considered him afresh. “You can smell stress?”
“Naturally.”
“No. Really?”
A smile tugged on one corner of his mouth. “It is a physical state. Many animals can scent it, too.”
“So … you can smell other emotions, too?”
“Euphoria, fear, excitement. And other things.”
“What other things?”
A full smile spread across his face. His eyes flickered down my body, a quick dart, fast enough to not be rude yet clear enough to bring the heat to my cheeks.
“Uhhh, I … umm.” I felt like I'd gotten my hand caught in the cookie jar.
Mordon plated the food without spilling anything anywhere. Since we didn't have a place to sit still, we stood with the plates on the counter and the stove between us. He said, “It is considered polite to not mention moods unless a person's behavior is out of line.”
While that eased a bit of my tension, I still felt a bit rankled.
The black pudding was different. Sort of spongy. I simultaneously didn't like it and craved it.
Mordon said, “I did not intend to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“It's not exactly that.”
“I would appreciate understanding why you are withdrawn.”
Rubbing the back of my neck, I thought about what I felt and why. It wasn't that he knew I liked him in that way, it was that I didn't know if he returned the affection or merely tolerated mine. How I stated my predicament was like this, “I don't have the same advantage you do. With the smelling thing.”
“That would be inconvenient.”
Predicament wrongly worded. How did I get my answer without sacrificing all my pride? I dove back into my food instead of trying again. We finished the rest of our meal in silence.
I did the dishes. He lingered near at hand, drying everything, putting it away into incredibly barren cabinets. I realized: he'd never stopped smiling.
“You're toying with me!”
“Am I?”
I crossed my arms, propping my foot against the wall in defiance. “Yes. If you aren't interested in me, say so. It's fine.”
He placed his arm on the wall beside my head, leaning so close I could smell the faint scent of old books and dust on his clothes. My breath caught. Slowly, he took a blonde strand of my loose hair and let his fingers slide down it. It tickled my scalp. I shivered.
He spoke in a low voice, taking his time to form each word, punctuating it like poetry. “I find you very interesting. Ever since you accused me of putting a sleep spell on you, I have been wondering how that mind of yours works. What you would think of my favorite books. Your opinion on offspring. What your dreams are. What you want your average day to be in ten years. In short, I have spent days wondering if your life goals work with or against mine.”
“And men are supposed to be the sex that thinks below the belt,” I said, blushing harder than I'd ever blushed before.
“I have have too many responsibilities to afford that luxury. Do you have answers for me or am I to be kept guessing?”
“You asked it all at once.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Your life dream then.”
“Not worrying about a roof overhead and keeping food in the house would be a great start.”
Mordon laughed, warming me from the inside out. “Let's take this from another angle. Say you're old and dying. If your life doesn't change from now on, what would you regret?”
A list of things sprung to mind, surprising me. “Not settling down and having a family, not going out and exploring the world, not passing on all the potions Mother taught me. Not doing a vegetable garden every summer. Not finding a place I belong and people to share it with.” I licked my lips, my heart beating wildly at the soft lines around his mouth. Barely bre
athing, I asked, “Does that work?”
“Yes.” He was so close, that one word made all the tiny hairs on my neck stand up. “That works.”
“Does it work with you?”
His nose brushed against the lobe of my ear as he whispered, “It may.”
I tilted my head, not sure if we were going to kiss, thinking we might.
“Fera!”
I jumped. Mordon did, too.
Lilly barged into the house, clattering the sliding glass doors in her enthusiasm. She stopped at the door, quieting the noise, still shouting, “I saw Griff meet with Gregor Cole!”
And she had to tell me now?
Mordon burst out laughing and stepped away, the merriness in his eyes clearly saying, you should see the look on your face.
I did not find it so amusing.
She continued, still excited but not as loud, “The others are showing up in a few minutes. I just had to tell you first.” Lilly saw my scowl and glanced at Mordon. “I wasn't interrupting?”
Mordon shook his head. “We just finished talking.”
“Oh, good. I hate it when you're in the middle of something important and someone else barges in.”
Feral Magic: An Urban Fantasy Romance-Thriller Page 24