Garith didn’t want him here. Raffa grunted as that knowledge took hold, not in pain but as if his insides were being emptied out. His first thought was to leave Gilden: He wouldn’t stay where he wasn’t wanted.
But then the emptiness filled with indignation, which in turn became belligerence. It wasn’t up to Garith whether he stayed or not! He had just as much right to be working here as Garith did. His family had been invited, too!
He didn’t know what to do. Should he go after his cousin? Leave him alone? Ignore the outburst, or try to talk about it?
No, Garith clearly didn’t want Raffa anywhere near him. He turned back to the table and began cleaning up, thinking of one of his mother’s favorite sayings. “Work helps keep worry at bay.”
She was right, too; he was able to push the unpleasantness with Garith to the back of his mind as he concentrated on figuring out how to dose a bird.
Now all he needed was a crow.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AS Raffa finished his preparations, the door opened and Ansel entered. He was followed by Garith—and the Chancellor. Surprised, Raffa bowed over his joined hands.
“Steady morning, young Santana,” the Chancellor said. “Senior Vale has informed me of your experiment. I hope you don’t mind my presence here.”
“N-n-no, of course not,” Raffa stammered in reply.
In truth, he was dismayed to have an audience, especially one that included the Chancellor. He would much have preferred to test the infusion privately. But there was no help for it now, and he tried to reassure himself that it would be good for the Chancellor to see firsthand the extent of his skills.
Garith had a crow perched on his arm and was busy stroking its feathers. He did not look at Raffa, but Raffa couldn’t tell if it was deliberate avoidance or not.
“Nephew, this is one of the trained crows,” Ansel said. “For testing your infusion. Are you ready?”
Raffa nodded. He measured a spoonful of the ruby-hued solution into a saucer, then took a crust of bread and crumbled it into the liquid. He waited a moment before tilting the saucer to make sure that all of the liquid had been absorbed by the bread. It was the best way he could think of to get the bird to take the infusion.
“I’ve been using a dropper,” Garith said loudly. “It’s worked fine.”
He set the crow down on the tabletop. It promptly spotted the saucer in front of Raffa and let out an interested “Cra-a-aw.”
It was a handsome bird, its glossy feathers so black that in places they gleamed blue. Like all of its breed, it didn’t hop as other birds did: It walked across the table, looking almost human.
Then it cocked its head to look at the saucer. Raffa saw its purple eyes, which immediately reminded him of Echo.
Echo, who was no longer just a bat, but a friend and companion.
In that moment, Raffa felt a wrongness from somewhere deep in his bones. Just as the crow stretched out its beak for a piece of the bread, he snatched up the saucer and held it away from the bird.
He couldn’t do it.
A healer, Mohan had called him. A healer would never use an infusion designed to cause harm. And if the infusion worked, that was exactly what it would do: It would make the bird hard of hearing, take away one of its basic faculties. Garble enough to cause such an affliction by accident, but to do it intentionally was yet another step on the road away from the true intent of apothecary.
“What are you doing?” Garith said, as the crow squawked angrily and beat its wings in frustration.
Unable to meet the eyes of anyone else in the room, Raffa looked from the bird to the saucer and back again. This was supposed to be his big opportunity to impress the Chancellor! She was standing not five paces away, along with Uncle Ansel, who had vouched for him. And Garith, who was already angry at him.
What would they think? Could he make them understand?
He made a quick decision rooted in desperation. “It’s not ready,” he said. “I just remembered that I—I left out one of the ingredients.”
Ansel stared at him, the skepticism in his eyes bordering on disbelief.
Raffa could almost hear his thoughts: Shakes and tremors, you haven’t forgotten an ingredient for a combination since you were five years old!
Garith snorted, then coughed to cover it. Was it Raffa’s imagination, or did he seem pleased by the failure?
The Chancellor shifted restlessly. “Add it, then. My schedule is as always a busy one. I cannot spare much more time here.”
Raffa forced himself to speak even as he shrank from her words. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I have to start over, with a new batch of solution.” He dared a quick peek at her expression. Her eyes were hooded in disappointment.
“That’s our Raffa,” Uncle Ansel said heartily in an obvious attempt to lighten the air in the room. “Such a perfectionist! I tell you, Chancellor, it is this kind of conscientiousness that makes for a good apothecary.”
Raffa wanted to hug his uncle right then and there. He could only hope that the Chancellor would see things in the same light.
She was silent for a moment, and Raffa feared the worst. Would she forbid him further work here? Or send him home?
“I’ll leave it with you, Senior Vale,” she said at last. “You know the boy and the project. If you think he will be of some assistance, he may continue to work, at least until his parents arrive. You will, of course, ensure that he does not delay our progress.”
Raffa felt his face grow warm with embarrassment and anger. He had to remind himself that he had done the right thing and that Uncle Ansel had at least gained him some more time.
The Chancellor departed, and Ansel suggested tactfully that they return to the apartment for lunch. “Garith, Raffa and I will go on ahead. Will you see to things here?” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “You can put the crow in its cage. Mannum Trubb will fetch it later. Come, Raffa.”
Raffa understood that his uncle meant to speak with him alone. As they walked back to the apartment, Ansel put an arm around Raffa’s shoulders.
“Nephew,” he said, his voice kind, “why don’t you tell me what really happened back there?”
Raffa was not about to heap another lie on top of the one he had already told. And it was just him and his uncle now; it seemed easier to tell the truth without Garith and the Chancellor there.
“I couldn’t do it, Uncle,” he said. “It’s not right, using apothecary to take away their hearing.”
Ansel’s expression grew thoughtful. “When it comes to our art, Raffa, you are always ahead of your years,” he said. “Let me ask you, do you also think it wrong that we are using the sedative infusion to make the animals easier to train?”
Raffa considered the question for several moments. Then he asked, “With the scarlet vine added, does it still wear off?”
Ansel nodded. “Yes. We have to dose them for each training session.”
Raffa spoke slowly. “Then I think it’s okay. As long as the trainers are kind to them . . . That infusion—it’s temporary, it isn’t meant to harm them. It’s different from one that would damage their hearing. Especially when we don’t know whether it would be permanent.”
Ansel nodded. “Apothecaries who dare to experiment often face difficult decisions,” he said.
Raffa said nothing. A troublesome thought had come to him. He believed everything he had said to Uncle Ansel, but was it also possible that he had lost his nerve? That he wasn’t brave enough to face the uncertainty of experimentation?
“Raffa, this project is of enormous importance,” Ansel continued. “The Chancellor believes it will change life here in Obsidia for the better. My interest goes beyond that—I want to extend the reach of apothecary art. I see this project as only the beginning.”
They had reached the apartment, and as they entered the courtyard, Ansel had a final word for him. “The infusion is your creation, Raffa. Think on what we have discussed. We will keep it safely stored, and you alone wil
l decide what to do with it.”
Raffa couldn’t speak for a moment, so great was his gratitude for his uncle’s understanding. Ansel had spoken to him almost as if he were an adult—as an apothecary, a colleague. “Thank you, Uncle,” he said solemnly. “And I will think on it, I promise.”
But he already knew that he could never use the infusion to deafen an animal. He would have to find some other way to prove himself to the Chancellor.
Once inside, Raffa hurried into Garith’s bedroom. He took his rucksack off the wall peg—and gaped in unhappy shock at the vacant perch.
He rushed to the window. It was still ajar; Echo should have been able to enter easily. Frantically he scanned the room—was the bat hanging from the ceiling or the walls?
No Echo.
Raffa stuck his head out the window; the bat wasn’t outside under the eaves. His throat tightened as he imagined the worst: Echo, kidnapped by someone who had discovered he could talk. They would put him in a cage, take him traveling “for profit,” just as his mother had warned, and Raffa would never see him again. . . .
He ran back into the main room, searching the walls and the furnishings. Ansel was putting a trencher on the table.
“What’s the matter, Raffa?”
Raffa banged on the door of the room where Kuma was staying. “Kuma!” he said in a low, urgent voice. “Wake up! Have you seen Echo?”
Ansel came into the hall and pushed open the door.
The bed was neatly made. Kuma wasn’t there.
Raffa felt like tearing his hair out. Garith angry at him, Echo missing, and now Kuma gone too!
Ansel frowned. “I should have made it clear to her that she was not to go anywhere without my permission. Does she not understand what it means to be sentenced?”
“I’m sure she’s gone to search for the bear,” Raffa said. “She seemed really worried about it.”
He ran back into Garith’s room to grab the perch and his rucksack, then helped Ansel gather up some food for lunch. They hurried back to the laboratory.
“She’s my responsibility for the term of her service,” Ansel muttered, speaking more to himself than to Raffa. “She’d better show up soon, and with a very good explanation.”
Preoccupied as he was, he didn’t notice Raffa anxiously scanning the sky and the buildings and every tree they passed. When they arrived at the laboratory, they found that Garith had tidied up after Raffa’s failed experiment and was busy unpacking the goods Trixin had brought from the kitchens.
“Where’s Trixin?” Ansel asked.
“Fetching a few more things,” Garith said. “She should be back any moment now.”
“Have something to eat quickly,” Ansel said, and explained about Kuma.
They ate where they stood, and even though Raffa’s mind was rife with worries, he sensed the tension in the air between himself and Garith. As if he weren’t feeling bad enough already . . .
He had never given serious consideration to how his own gift might affect his cousin. Garith’s words echoed in his head. You’ll just show me up all over again. Raffa recalled the tightness in his voice, so unlike his usual easy manner. Garith, good at everything . . . except the one thing that mattered most to his father.
Raffa was jerked out of his thoughts by a loud thumping at the door.
“Garith! It’s me, Trixin. Hurry!”
Garith threw open the door, and Trixin almost fell across the threshold. Breathless, her headscarf askew, she was holding a box about the size of a loaf of bread, covered with a cloth.
“An emergency,” she panted. “A servient stopped me—from Senior Jayney—he gave me this, and told me to hurry—to be careful but hurry, so I didn’t run, but I walked really fast.”
She set the box down on the countertop. With Raffa and Garith crowded around her, she lifted the cloth and cried out, “Oh, the poor things!”
Garith drew in a hard hiss of a breath through his teeth.
Raffa stared at the contents of the box, too shocked to make a sound.
Two baby raccoons lay curled on their sides, one at each end of the box. Their fur was caked and matted with blood; Raffa could not even see where they were injured. Their eyes were open, staring at nothing. They looked dead—but then Raffa saw the slightest movement of breathing in both their chests.
“He—the servient—he said that Senior Jayney needs you to try to heal them. Oh, but look at them. They’re hurt so badly!”
Ansel took a quick look in the box. “Ears, everyone,” he said. “Raffa and Garith, you will treat these raccoons. Trixin, you’ll assist them. I will search for Kuma, and if I cannot find her, I’ll have to alert the guards to keep an eye out for her. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Kuma’s missing?” Trixin said, and Garith explained quickly.
Ansel hurried off. Garith waited until the door had closed behind his father, then spoke to Raffa. “You treat one, and I’ll treat the other,” he said with what seemed to be a trace of wariness. “You take the lead. Whatever you do, I’ll do exactly the same.”
Was this Garith’s way of making up? Or was it sheer practicality, considering how often his own apothecaria came out amiss?
Raffa had no time to ponder further. With a final, fervent wish for Echo’s safety, he put aside his concern for the bat and turned his full attention to the injured little animals in front of him. He picked up one of them gently and put it into another box, which he handed to Garith.
Trixin hurried to stoke the fire in the stove and put on a kettle of water.
The first thing Raffa did was clean his raccoon’s fur. The wounds were horrifying. Three terrible lacerations striped the animal’s back, with two more on its head and neck. One ear was badly torn, and there was a deep ragged puncture on the left haunch. The little raccoon made a single feeble attempt to rouse itself and nip at Raffa’s hand, but it fell back immediately.
As had happened when he first saw Echo, the urgent desire to help a suffering creature surged through Raffa. It was an odd feeling—not purely sympathy but sympathy combined with the fascination of a challenge. Could he do it again? Could he heal such terrible injuries and return the raccoon to a worthwhile life?
And even as he knew it was a selfish thought, he realized that the raccoons were providing him with another, unexpected chance to prove his worth as an apothecary.
“The vine,” he said to Garith tersely. “We’ll need more of it. Enough to make both a poultice and an infusion.”
Garith took Trixin to the glasshouse and returned with two clippings. The boys set about preparing the same poultice that Raffa had used on Echo.
Raffa turned the pestle, and his paste began to quicken.
“Oh, look!” Trixin exclaimed. “How lovely!”
Garith glanced up and saw the scarlet sparkles in Raffa’s mortar. His face instantly closed in disappointment: His paste showed not a single trace of gleam or glimmer. Raffa felt torn between pity and a flash of ignoble pride. But more than either, he wanted to be on good terms with his cousin again.
“Trixin, will you bring me another clipping, please?” Raffa said. He gave his mortar to Garith. “Use this,” he said. “I’ll make some more.”
Garith’s expression was both sullen and pleading. “Don’t tell Da,” he muttered.
“Tell him what?” Raffa said, expressionless, and hoped he was not imagining the small sense of warmth from Garith.
He made a second batch of poultice and applied it to his raccoon’s wounds. Then Trixin and Garith bound the wounds of both raccoons while Raffa began work on the infusion. He found the combination for the strengthening tonic in the cabinet, made a solution, and added the vine pulp.
“Mine’s female,” Garith said, bent over one raccoon. “What’s yours?”
“Male,” Raffa replied. “They must be twins. They look to be the same age.”
Garith showed Raffa how to use a dropper to dose the raccoons. The dropper was a clever device consisting of a hollow tube cap
ped with a bulb made of rubber—yet another marvel of the laboratory. Garith squeezed the bulb, then released it to draw the infusion into the tube. While Raffa held the raccoon’s little jaws open, Garith placed the end of the tube far back in its mouth, then squeezed the bulb again. The infusion went right down the raccoon’s throat.
“That was easy,” Raffa said in admiration. “Way better than using a reed.”
Garith nodded; they repeated the routine for the second raccoon. Trixin made two soft beds of rags for the little beasts, and their boxes were put side by side on a shelf above the stove to help keep them warm. There was nothing more to do but wait until the raccoons regained consciousness.
Then Raffa was shaken by a sudden apprehension: What if the raccoons can speak when they wake? Surely Uncle Ansel or Garith would add two and two to make four and wonder about Echo, who had been given the exact same infusion.
Uncle Ansel knew him too well. He’d known that Raffa was lying about the treatment for the crow; there was no way he could expect to get away with another lie about Echo. Once his uncle found out, he might feel compelled to tell the Chancellor. A talking bat—such a wonder . . .
What would she do? Would she order Echo taken away from Raffa, to become part of the project?
He gulped down his panic and forced himself to think methodically. He had to find out if the raccoons could speak before anyone else did, which meant being alone with them when they first woke.
And he had to find Echo.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“GARITH,” Raffa said, his voice urgent. “Echo, the bat . . . I brought him with me to Gilden. But he’s gone missing, and I have to find him.”
“I didn’t know he was with you,” Garith said. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“It’s been really busy ever since I got here,” Raffa said. Which was true enough. In his mind he added, And you’ve been so angry at me that we’ve hardly spoken all day. “I want to check the apartment, in case he’s there now.”
“We shouldn’t leave the raccoons alone,” Garith said. “They’re too badly injured. I’ll stay here to watch over them.”
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