need all her courage, all her skill.
What she didn’t need was Aric Paramon going with her. Not a man who reminded her of her own failure. But he was her “liaison.” A disgusted sound escaped her.
She inhaled the scent of the coffee, then handed the mug back to Hartha, looked the small brownie in her big brown eyes, which were tinted with gold flecks. The tips of her ears were curled inward, defensively. “I’ll set my hand to paper giving you and Pred house-rights to stay here while I’m gone.” Jenni sucked in a breath and added, “Currently the house goes to my brother if I die. If we both perish you might as well have it. Those who live here in Mystic Circle will make it so. My next-door neighbor, Amber Sarga, will file the right papers with the human world, and the halfling Harmony Windrose will keep a sworn document for the Lightfolk.”
Hartha tipped her head back and stared at Jenni. “We might have this wonderful house in the cul-de-sac where all four elements are present and balanced!” The mug floated as she squeaked and fell to the ground to roll around in excitement, clapping her hands.
Pred joined her. “We can extend the basement tunnel and make a common room for the whole cul-de-sac!” They tumbled in brownie-joy-dance together.
A tingle along Jenni’s spine told her that the brownies had already done stuff to the basement. Not that she—or anyone in Mystic Circle—would or could have stopped them.
She kept her eyes on the blurred brownies. How much would they know of the problems and changes in the Lightfolk world? Changes so extreme to break with the many traditions that they actually were following mortal rules—the Eight had a mortal corporation. Changes that pure-blooded Folk would make a half blood like Jenni a Lightfolk Princess?
Hartha wouldn’t be in the confidence of the highest circles of the Eight, which, apparently, Aric was. A flash of anger-heat slipped through Jenni.
No reason to interrogate the brownies, not with all that must be done right now.
She had to verify Aric’s statements, look for her brother in the interdimension, a half step away from true reality. She prayed that she would be able to sense him there. Taking off her coat, she hung it on a hook by the door.
The brownies had stopped and stood before her, curtsying and bowing. “We thank you, we thank you, we thank you.”
They flicked their fingers at her and she felt herself coated with dust that sunk through her skin. Hartha said, “We bless you on your journeys and may you return safely. You gave us sanctuary and did not indenture us. We like taking care of you and this house. We are loyal.”
Pred added, “Blessings and return safely. It is not good to inherit from nonrelatives who are cut down in the midst of life and meet an untimely death.”
Jenni winced, shrugged off renewed dread and addressed Hartha. “I must use the kitchen.” She’d barely stepped into it since the brownies had come. Hartha considered it her domain. But Jenni needed the herbs that would help her transition from the reality of Earth to the gray mist of the interdimension.
If she’d practiced her craft—entered the interdimension every day—she would’ve needed very little tea, but she hadn’t. She went to the small pantry area between the kitchen and the basement stairs and reached for the red tin on the highest of the built-in shelves. The shelves were spotless, of course, and the contents had been moved around, but the tin was still there.
Ignoring Hartha, Jenni lifted the top of the tin and inhaled deeply, let the scent waft and spiral through her. Potent. Good. Despite the fact that she’d rarely used her magical gift in the last fifteen years, she was dedicated to keeping the special mixture of herbal tea for her talent ready, as her mother had emphasized.
“Do you want me to make the tea?” Hartha stood next to her, twisting her hands in the frilly bright yellow skirt of her apron she now wore over work clothes of a brown blouse and skirt.
Jenni looked down at the brownie. Of course the woman had noticed the tea, probably discerned the ingredients and the quantities of the herbs. “No, thank you, family secret.” The brownie flinched, the tops of her ears rolled tight down to the cartilage near her head.
Jenni tried a smile, the corners of her lips curved, and that was enough. “I’m the last uninjured person with Mistweaver magic, so the secret will be archived with the Lightfolk if I die, but until then I prefer it to be secret.”
Hartha vanished.
With a sigh, Jenni spooned out a teaspoon of the special mixture: the finely ground black Ceylon tea, long, thin and twisted leaves of tringle and green shoono herbs, three minuscule rare moon-crescent blossoms. She dropped the spoonful into a pottery mug made with a special clay that enhanced the power of the herbs. Then she placed the tea tin back onto the top shelf, not shoving it deep this time. She’d need it in the future.
Why had she figured she could ignore or outwit the great Lightfolk, the Eight? If she’d been practicing her craft…if she’d been practicing, surely she’d have sensed Rothly caught in the interdimension? Maybe, maybe not…but if she’d been practicing and he was there she might have been able to pull him out…if she knew where he’d stepped into the mist.
Right now, even if he were here in Denver instead of Northumberland, England, she wouldn’t have the strength to get him out, would barely have the strength to enter and leave herself. She’d let her natural magic ability to step into the gray mist atrophy. The skills it took to call up the interdimension, go in, stay in for a time, leave—those were all rusty.
She’d have to use the tea, all the mind-body-emotion preparation rituals her family had developed to successfully enter the gray mist. And that was here—in her own home, in Mystic Circle that she’d balanced. She’d be lucky to last fifteen minutes, enough to orientate herself and find him. She should be able to find him…but hadn’t searched for him for fifteen years.
He had disowned her, cut ties to her. Yet he was her brother. She should still have at least one small bond to him. She hoped.
She didn’t dare attempt to save Rothly without more practice…at least three times in the mist, balancing elements—and she’d have to rest in between times. A day would be good.
But the pressure of inner dread made her think that she wouldn’t have a day to rest between attempts.
If she didn’t get it right, have the skill and strength to pull him from the mist, she’d kill them both.
Her stomach sank as she frowned at the tea. For a quest to save her brother in the interdimension and a mission after that, she should make a fresh mixture. She gritted her teeth. A process of two weeks that couldn’t be hurried or even started when the moon was waxing instead of waning.
Unless Rothly had made a fresh batch before going on his mission. Which meant returning to her family home in Northumberland to find out.
She poured water into the mug, then set her hands around it and let the heat of her turbulent emotions bring the water to a roiling boil, counting down the necessary seconds, then stopped. As she walked to her bedroom she kept track of the time needed for the infusion. Finally, she whispered a small spell and the leaves whisked up and disintegrated, leaving a tang on the air.
She could grab a ten-minute shower using the proper soap while the tea cooled. It was always better to go to the interdimension cleansed and with clear mind and intentions.
Usually
