thicker stone of the workshop wall.
Delgar, it must be said, did very good work.
Fox rose to his feet as the herbalist entered theroom, humming tunelessly.
Once, perhaps, she had been beautiful. The passage offorty hard years had left deep tracks on her face. Her eyes hadfaded to the same pale gray as her kirtle and shift, and she was asthin and pale as any tunnel-dwelling beggar. She would be ascolorless as rainwater, except for a thick braid of rich darkauburn draped over one shoulder.
The woman caught sight of him. Her eyes glazed withterror and the pottery in her hands clattered to the floor.
Too late, Fox remembered his disguise. Chagrin sweptthrough him like a winter blast. This woman had more reason thanmost to fear gatherers.
He ripped off the blue bandana, revealing hair as redas hers.
No flicker of recognition lit her eyes.
Fox cleared his throat. “I’ve come for arestorative.”
Her face cleared. “For whom?”
He held out his palm. In it lay a tiny gray pebble,barely larger than a grain of sand.
Most people wouldn’t understand the significance. Butthen, most people believed that dwarves were long extinct.
The woman closed her eyes and listened for the musicFox had never been able to hear. After a moment she nodded and ledthe way into her back garden.
A hundred familiar scents swept over Fox. He brushedhis fingers over the lacy fronds of a fennel stalk as if greetingan old friend.
The herbalist moved among the terraced beds, pickinga sprig here, a blossom there. When her apron was well laden, shereturned to the shop and set to work.
He watched as she ground herbs and mixed them withoils and decoctions from a dozen tiny bottles. Her hands moved withthe deft skill of long practice.
It was a phrase his friend Avidan used often, and oneof the few things the alchemist said that made sense to Fox. Itcertainly described the way the herbalist worked.
From time to time, she cocked her head as iflistening. According to Avidan, that was precisely what washappening.
There is no silence, Avidan claimed, only sounds onecannot hear. If he was to be believed, every metal, every liquid,even every scent had a sound, as precise as a well-tuned harpstring. Avidan said that everything, living and inanimate, vibratedat its own unique pitch. Hearing these sounds and blending them innew harmonies was not magic-at least not as most people understoodmagic-but art assisted by keenly honed senses.
Of course, Avidan was as crazy as three cagedsquirrels.
Fox banished the young alchemist from his thoughtsand watched as the herbalist poured the medicine into a vial,stoppered it firmly. She set it aside. Without even a moment’shesitation she reached for another mortar and pestle and began togrind dried feverfew and mint.
She’d already forgotten it, Fox realized. He pickedup the vial and took the ducks from his bag. He offered them with aslight bow.
Her face lit up with pleasure, which quickly dimmed.“I can’t afford those.”
Fox held up the vial. “A fair trade.”
Panic flared in her eyes. Fox gave himself a swiftmental kick. In some part of her mind, she remembered what happenedto green witches.
“I found this bottle in your yard,” he liedsmoothly.
She looked relieved. “Oh, that’s all right, there.But I should pay you for taking it away. Such things aredangerous.”
“I know.”
“Don’t hold onto it long.”
“I won’t,” he said, mimicking the singsong tone of achild told not to muddy his new boots.
The woman smiled at that. She reached out andstraightened the collar of his tunic, a maternal gesture as naturalas breathing.
For a moment hope burned bright in Fox’s heart. Hesearched the herbalist’s face but found no spark of light.
Fox dropped his gaze, unable to meet that emptystare. His attention fixed for a moment on a small, familiarobject-an old silver locket, tarnished with age and neglect. Thechain was gone, but she’d tied it to her belt with a bit of ribbon.The locket gaped open. Fox squinted and noticed that the clasp wasmissing.
“Your locket is broken,” he said. “Do you want me tohave it repaired for you?”
To his astonishment, she untied the ribbon from herbelt and handed the locket to him.
Just like that.
The possession she most treasured, the only thingshe’d carried away from the ruin of her home and life. The thing soprecious and personal that she’d never once permitted Fox to handleit, much less look inside.
Fox thrust it into his pocket. “Someone’s at thedoor,” he said gruffly.
She nodded and wandered off, though no knock or callbeckoned. Fox slipped through his hidden door and slumped to theground.
Avidan had repeated those words more times than Foxcould count. One of these days, he’d likely come around to thealchemist’s way of thinking on this matter.
But not today. Not when there was still a chance forDelgar.
Fox pushed himself to his feet and set a course forRhendish Manor.
Chapter Three: Curiosities
“What kept you so long?” Vishni demanded.
Fox held up the herbalist’s vial. The girl took aninvoluntary step back.
Her caution was probably unnecessary, but fairies hadstrange and sometimes dangerous reactions to an odd list of things.Iron, of course, but several plants and fruits could have oddeffects. In times past, certain green witches knew the secret ofherbs that could ward against the fey, bind them to a promise,render them helpless through fits of giggles, or simply make themsneeze. Fairies believed, with some justification, that elves hadtaught witches these things.
Elves belonged in this world. Fairies did not. Noneof the fair folk forgot this for a moment.
Vishni flicked one hand toward the waulking bowl asif she could ward off the stench.
“You couldn’t have picked a better place tomeet?”
The waulking bowl was actually a barrel, broad as acottage and nearly as tall as Fox. It provided a place for servantsto empty night water, which, in sufficient quantity, could stripthe grease from sheep fleeces. As useful as the waulking bowl mightbe, Fox could see why it had been located downwind of the workshopsand cottages.
What interested Fox, however, was a second, tallerbarrel.He took a bundle of carefully carved sticks from his packand fitted them together until he had a long-handled spoon. Foxscampered up the ladder secured to one side of the barrel andtwitched off the canvas covering. A cloud of flies arose, alongwith a barnyard stench.
Inside was a mound of dung, surrounded by a mulch ofrotting potato leaves. A neat pile of buckets stood on the groundnearby. Judging from the smell, they were used to carry thelant-stale cow urine-that was poured on the pile three or fourtimes each moon cycle.
Vishni’s face brightened. “Saltpeter! We’re makinggunpowder! How wonderful! You didn’t tell me there would beexplosions.”
“Only as a last resort.”
