Page 25 of Night and Silence

“Forgiven,” I said, and stepped inside.

Bridget’s office was small. Not quite cramped, but more than halfway there, especially thanks to the imposing bookcases that lined the walls, each one loaded until the shelves began to sag in the middle. In case that wasn’t enough, piles of books and papers turned the floor into an obstacle course and the desk into a narrow strip of usable space. An avalanche seemed to be impending from all directions. I moved to the center of the room, trying to avoid touching anything. May, Quentin, and Madden all had the same idea. Madden even straightened up and returned to his quasi-human form, probably so his tail wouldn’t take out a pile of papers.

Bridget blinked as she closed the door behind herself. “No matter how many times I see that, it never gets less jarring. Hello, Master Seneschal.”

“Hi, Bess,” said Madden, somehow managing to give the impression that his tail was wagging even when he didn’t have one. “How’s your husband?”

“Well as ever. Stuck-up and hidebound, but who isn’t?” She smiled for a moment. Only for a moment. Smile fading, she said, “October, you had something you wanted to show me?”

“In a second.” I looked to May. “What did you find?”

“More of those sachets in her drawers and under her bed—about a dozen, all told. There was even one hanging in the closet. Iron shavings and salt along every threshold in the house, and rowan twigs above the windows.” May’s expression was grim. “It’s all low-grade stuff, charms and trinkets. The sort of thing someone could stumble across making by accident, almost. Not enough to actually keep fae out, but enough to make anyone with a measurable amount of fae blood uncomfortable in that house.”

“It’s the ‘almost’ that gets me,” I said. “Were there sachets in anyone’s drawers apart from Gillian’s?”

May shook her head. “No, and I checked. I almost got caught a couple of times, too. If they’d been there, I would have found them.”

“Right. Quentin?”

“On it.” He pulled the foil-wrapped sachet out of his coat pocket, grimacing at the weight of the thing. He offered it to Bridget.

“What’s this?” she asked, glancing to me before taking the sachet out of his hand. She peeled the foil carefully back and frowned as that sharp herbal smell wafted into the room.

I sneezed, my eyes already starting to water. Swell. Wiping them with the back of my hand, I said, “We found that in Gillian’s room. You’re the folklore professor. What can you tell us?”

“You’re sneezing, and your eyes are red.” Bridget looked at me sidelong. “First thing I can tell you is that you’re definitely allergic to the stuff. All of you. More than that is going to take me opening it up, and that’s going to release more of it into the air. Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

I looked at the others. Only Madden seemed to be as bad off as I was: Quentin’s eyes were red, and May was sniffling, but neither of them looked like they were going to be running for the Benadryl any time soon. Madden’s nose was running. That made sense. No matter what shape he was in, his nose was better than any of ours.

I looked back at Bridget. “Would it help to know what’s inside?”

“Yes, absolutely.” Bridget weighed the sachet in her hand. “This would be easy enough to make. You can buy these little mesh bags at any craft store. They’re used for making potpourri bundles, to put in with your clothes and keep them fresh.”

“Humans are weird,” muttered Quentin.

“No question about that,” I said. I took a shallow breath, trying to avoid inhaling more of the smell than absolutely necessary, and said, “Dill, gorse, St. John’s wort, fennel, kingcup—um, I think ‘marsh marigold’ is the more common name for that—and Scots kale.”

Bridget’s eyes grew huge. “Scots kale?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“All right. I . . . oh, you poor things, you’re all miserable. Hang on.” She crossed to her desk, opened a drawer, and dropped the sachet inside. The air seemed to clear as soon as the drawer was closed. Bridget watched us closely as we stopped sniffling, although my eyes continued to burn. I rubbed at them, trying to be unobtrusive. Bridget frowned. “Normally, taking an allergen away doesn’t change things that quickly. Something must have been done to the things.”

“If whoever made those for Gillian were trying to keep the fae away from her, there are ways to make herbs and simples more effective for short periods of time,” I said haltingly.

“How do you know she didn’t make the bundles herself?” asked Quentin. “Maybe the Luidaeg left some memories behind and Gillian got scared and tried to keep the bad dreams away.”

It ached to think I could be a bad dream for my own child. But he wasn’t wrong. If she remembered anything about what had happened while Rayseline had her, she wouldn’t be sleeping peacefully. Still, I shook my head. “It’s marshwater work. Even if she went to someone and asked for the sachets, she wouldn’t have been able to do the crafting. She wouldn’t know how.”

“Marshwater?” asked Bridget.

“Little magic. Hedge magic. It’s sort of like alchemy, sometimes, in that it’s as much about the ingredients as it is about the power behind them. And it’s nothing like alchemy at all, because it’s not about natural talent or being able to change what you’re working with. I’m not an alchemist. I was pretty good at marshwater charms, back when they were all I had.” I waved a hand, trying to encompass the scope of the differences. “If I tried to do most of them now, I’d burn them out. But there are things you could do, if someone walked you through the process of figuring out exactly how.”

“Magic? Me? I thought you needed to be a merlin to be human and do magic.” Bridget looked far too interested in the idea. Etienne’s kitchen was probably going to be a very exciting place for a while.

That was fine. He needed more excitement in his life. “Big magic, yes. Merlins can cast spells I can’t manage, and no matter what line of descent their fae ancestor claimed, they don’t seem to follow any of the normal divisions—a Tuatha merlin might be incredibly skilled at flower magic, or a Tylwyth merlin might be an incredible blood-worker. They don’t have the talents of their ancestors, but if they can put together a ritual for something, they can probably bully the universe into letting them have it. Marshwater work is . . . it’s different. Some of it isn’t magic at all, not in the inborn, automatic way that purebloods understand. But if you soak kingcup in moonlight for nine days, it lasts longer. That sort of . . . thing.”

Everyone was watching me. Bridget looked fascinated. Madden looked appalled. I managed, somehow, not to squirm.