Excerpt from Crimson Bloom:

I turn to Henry. “What are we working on?”

He is silent for a long minute. I’m considering reminding him of Antony’s instructions when he finally speaks, still not looking up from his work. “It’s a potion.”

My words are slow, carefully chosen. “A magic potion?”

He nods once, acting like this is perfectly normal. I guess for someone studying magic, it would be.

“What does it do?”

“Currently, nothing.” His tone is flat.

“What is it meant to do?”

He gestures at the pink liquid resting inside the glass container. “It’s a cure. Well, a treatment. The first step to a cure. Should be, anyway.”

A cure? My heart stutters, my stomach clenches. I’m careful to keep my voice calm and as neutral as I can. “A cure…for what?” It’s a ridiculous question, but after years without answers surrounded by people who don’t believe, such casual acknowledgment of the magic plague feels unreal.

He does look at me now. One thin, dark eyebrow rises over unimpressed, dark eyes. “What exactly do you think we’re researching?”

I stumble to find words that sound like I know what I’m talking about. “There’s a lot of elements to occult research.”

His attention returns to the glass bottle. He uncorks the lid to the pink stuff and reaches for another small vial of murky blue-black fluid. “Only one that matters anymore. Even this solution is just theoretical.”

“What’s in it?”

“I cannot carry a conversation and focus at the same time. These measurements must be precise.”

“Right! Sorry. I’ll just watch.”

I do watch as Henry lifts the smaller vial of dark fluid over the bottle of pink potion. With a remarkably steady hand, he tilts it just enough for a drop to accumulate on the rim. He lets one, two, three drops fall into the pink stuff before returning both glasses to the work table. He replaces the lid on the small vial before picking up the pink potion and examining it closely through the glass. It doesn’t appear to have changed or reacted at all.

I look over Henry’s shoulder at the book on the desk. “Was it supposed to do something?”

“What do you think?” he snaps.

I step back and lift my hands up in a peace gesture. “I’m just trying to get involved. I am here to help, after all. I’m an approved researcher, have the papers and everything.”

“Yes,” he says, inserting the full measure of his derision in the single word.

“Why do you hate me so much?” I blurt out. My voice sounds more pitiful than I intended, but I can only put up with this blatant hatred for so long. It’s unproductive, and plainly unpleasant.

He looks up, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. “You’re an observant human. That’s something, at least.”

Observant human? “What does that mean?”

He doesn’t answer, instead watching me for several moments. My skin crawls as he continues to stare, like he’s stripping away layers of me through my eyes to find out what’s inside. I want to look away, but his eyes have me pinned to the floor. These Vyrkolas are very strange men.

Finally, he speaks. “Can you read this?” He steps back to make room for me to look at the book on the table.

I wonder why the sudden change of heart, but I’m not going to waste this opportunity. Instead I quickly take the place he’s offered me and pick up the book.

“Careful, that’s—oh.” He pauses, watching how I support the book’s spine and balance the aging cover in my hands. “Do you have experience working with old texts?”

I nod, not looking up from the pages. “Yes, I’ve been to the library’s back rooms. This is in Furihon, isn’t it? I recognize the characters.” The language of the country to the east is visually appealing in ancient books, with artistic brush strokes adding up to carefully composed words.

“So you can read it.”

My insides tingle at the clearly impressed tone in his voice, but the joy is short-lived. I have to be honest.

“No. I know the basic characters of one alphabet and can recognize the other, but putting them together in words is farther than my studies ever went. Even if I could read it, it looks old enough that I’d struggle to decipher it.”

“Yes. Most have that trouble.” He steps closer and leans over the book to point out an illustration. “See, there—”

I turn my head to face him, not realizing how close he stands. A lock of his hair brushes faintly over my cheek. I catch the scent of old leather and herbs…rosemary? The scent reminds me of one of my mother’s old recipes, filling our home with the smell of the healing herb.

Henry stands frozen, not even blinking, his sentence broken off when I turned. I study his eyes. “Are you okay?”

Faster than I could ever expect, he steps—flees—back from me, pressing his back against the wall. His eyes squeeze shut and his fists clench.

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