Page 61 of Potion Sickness

Annabel is finally investigating the croak tonic, hoping to teach Addie to recognize a commercial potion, and she invited me along. She’d been putting it off, as she didn’t want to read it on a day she’d already read Damien or the goblets or anything else.

“It’s a palate thing,” she explained, when I asked. “You don’t do a wine tasting after a chili cook-off.”

She told me, for Addie’s benefit, to avoid any strong scents that may throw off the process, so I’ve showered with unscented soap and skipped my coffee. I’m now leaning against the end of the workbench and Addie is on her stool with her composition book open to a fresh page.

Bandit is on the window ledge outside, awake for once, watching through the glass.

“Is it poison?” he asks, through the gap.

“Sort of,” Addie says. “But not a deadly one.”

“Boring. Wake me if it’s deadly.”

Annabel holds the little bottle to the light. There’s a dried amber line at the bottom, and a label, printed in a swirly font:

CROAK NO MORE™

Glamoury. Look the Part.

“Look the part,” I read.

“Solid branding,” Annabel says. “The label’s the same on everything they sell, according to Tiffany.”

She uncorks it, closes her eyes, and brings it to her nose. Addie leans forward on the stool.

“Bitter. Resin. Horehound, maybe? And a synthetic aftertaste they’re using instead of blackthorn. Blackthorn is expensive.” She sets the bottle down. “And there it is. Underneath.”

“Underneath?”

“The base.” She turns the bottle slowly by the neck. “In the cup it was buried under wine and corn syrup and all the years of potions in there before that. Here it’s naked.”

“So what is it?”

“Glycerin, moonwater, and a preservative charm. It’s a base brewed to sit on a shelf.”

Addie’s pencil is going. Annabel waits for her to catch up, then picks the bottle back up and holds it out.

“This is a lesson, so both of you are going to learn. Every potion brewer has a base. It’s usually water, wine, or honey — that’s the tradition. Mine is honey. Every single thing I make starts from it, which means every single thing I make carries it, at the bottom, under everything else. A salve, a draught, a tincture, it doesn’t matter. They’ve all got different tops, but the same floor. If you know my honey, you can pick my work out of a crowded cup.”

“It’s like handwriting,” Addie says.

“Like handwriting, sort of. And even bulk brewers have handwriting.” She taps the label. “I would bet everything Glamoury sells shares this base. Learn it once and you’ll know their work anywhere you meet it. Addie. Go.”

Addie takes the bottle in both hands, closes her eyes, and breathes at the rim. “Bitter on top. That’s the tonic part. And under it...” She frowns. “It smells like the inside of a new plastic bag. But sweet. And a little bit like rain that’s been in a bucket too long.”

“That’s the moonwater.” Annabel takes the bottle back and holds it out to me. “Mari.”

I smell it, because refusing would set a poor example for the apprentice. I get the bitterness. Under the bitterness I get… nothing.

“It smells like a bottle.”

“The bottom note is right at the⁠—”

“It smells like a glass bottle that used to have something bitter in it.”

“Everybody’s instrument is different,” Annabel tells Addie, not unkindly.

Addie writes something in the composition book.