care not to remove my gloves until their shiny foliage was safely tamped down. Now came the part I loved.
Stoppering the retort, I connected it on one side to a flask in which water was already boiling, and on the other to a coiled glass condensing tube whose open end hung suspended over an empty beaker. With the water bubbling furiously, I watched as the steam found its way through the tubing and escaped into the flask among the leaves. Already they were beginning to curl and soften as the hot vapor opened the tiny pockets between their cells, releasing the oils that were the essence of the living plant.
This was the way the ancient alchemists had practiced their art: fire and steam, steam and fire. Distillation.
How I loved this work.
Distillation. I said it aloud. “Dis-till-ation!”
I looked on in awe as the steam cooled and condensed in the coil, and wrung my hands in ecstasy as the first limpid drop of liquid hung suspended, then dropped with an audible
When the water had boiled away and the operation was complete, I turned off the flame and cupped my chin in my palms to watch with fascination as the fluid in the beaker settled out into two distinct layers: the clear distilled water on the bottom, a liquid of a light yellow hue floating on top. This was the essential oil of the leaves. It was called urushiol and had been used, among other things, in the manufacture of lacquer.
Digging into the pocket of my sweater, I pulled out a shiny gold tube. I removed its cap, and couldn't help smiling as a red tip was revealed. Ophelia's lipstick, purloined from the drawer of her dressing table, along with the pearls and the Mint Imperials. And Feely—Miss Snotrag—hadn't even noticed it was gone.
Remembering the mints, I popped one into my mouth, crushing the sweet noisily between my molars.
The core of lipstick came out easily enough, and I relit the spirit lamp. Only a gentle heat was required to reduce the waxy stuff to a sticky mass. If Feely only knew that lipstick was made of fish scales, I thought, she might be a little less eager to slather the stuff all over her mouth. I must remember to tell her. I grinned. Later.
With a pipette I drew off a few millimeters of the distilled oil that floated in the beaker and then, drop by drop, dripped it gently into the ooze of the melted lipstick, giving the mixture a vigorous stir with a wooden tongue depressor.
Too thin, I thought. I fetched down a jar and added a dollop of beeswax to restore it to its former consistency.
Time for the gloves again—and for the iron bullet mold I had pinched from Buckshaw's really quite decent firearm museum.
Odd, isn't it, that a charge of lipstick is precisely the size of a .45 caliber slug. A useful bit of information, really. I'd have to remember to think of its wider ramifications tonight when I was tucked safely into my bed. Right now, I was far too busy.
Teased from its mold and cooled under running water, the reformulated red core fitted neatly back inside its golden dispenser.
I screwed it up and down several times to make sure that it was working. Then I replaced the cap. Feely was a late sleeper and would still be dawdling over breakfast.
'WHERE'S MY LIPSTICK, you little swine? What have you done with it?”
'It's in your drawer,' I said. 'I noticed it when I purloined your pearls.'
In my short life, bracketed by two sisters, I had of necessity become master of the forked tongue.
'It's not in my drawer. I've just looked, and it isn't there.'
'Did you put on your specs?' I asked with a smirk.
Although Father had had all of us fitted with spectacles, Feely refused to wear hers and mine contained little more than window glass. I wore them only in the laboratory to protect my eyes, or to solicit sympathy.
Feely slammed down the heels of her hands on the table and stormed from the room.
I went back to plumbing the depths of my second bowl of Weetabix.
Later, I wrote in my notebook:
I could wait.
MRS. MULLET, WHO WAS short and gray and round as a millstone and who, I'm quite sure, thought of herself as a character in a poem by A. A. Milne, was in the kitchen formulating one of her pus-like custard pies. As usual, she was struggling with the large Aga cooker that dominated the small, cramped kitchen.
'Oh, Miss Flavia! Here, help me with the oven, dear.'
But before I could think of a suitable response, Father was behind me.
'Flavia, a word.' His voice was as heavy as the lead weights on a deep-sea diver's boots.
I glanced at Mrs. Mullet to see how she was taking it. She always fled at the slightest whiff of unpleasantness, and once when Father raised his voice, she had rolled herself up in a carpet and refused to come out until her husband was sent for.
She eased the oven door shut as if it were made of Waterford crystal.
'I must be off,' she said. 'Lunch is in the warming oven.'
'Thank you, Mrs. Mullet,' Father said. 'We'll manage.' We were always managing.
She opened the kitchen door—and let out a sudden shriek like a cornered badger. “Oh, good Lord! Beggin' your
