“Fetch my grimoire from beneath the hearthstone,” Hannah Strong called. “Bring it to me. There may be answers within.”
Yes! The grimoire! Likely the book of chants and spells and rituals, passed from mother to daughter to daughter to daughter over generations—nay, over centuries—would reveal some way to undo the magic rooting her mother in the ground. Grayling could only hope it would. She had never seen inside the book. Her mother guarded it carefully.
Grayling picked her way through the debris to the fireplace. With some effort, she lifted the stone, then dropped it down again. There was no grimoire there, just a dank and dirty hole.
“Your pharmika is in shambles, lady,” Grayling said when she had stumbled back to her mother, “and the grimoire is gone.”
“Toads, rats, and dragons,” Grayling’s mother muttered. “Belike that is what it came for, the demon or force or whatever it was.”
Grayling gestured to the ruins of their home. “Why would someone who could do this need your book of spells?”
“I do not know, but we must discover the how and the how not afore I leaf out to my fingertips. Since I am at the moment confined to this place, you must go. Find the others, if it is not too late. Tell them what has happened here, seek their counsel, discover some way to release me. And find my grimoire.”
Grayling’s heart thumped. “I cannot. You know the world out there be strange and dangerous, and I have no magic and very little courage.” She pulled at her mother’s sleeve. “Bethink you on it. There must be something you can do. Folk who come to you for remedies and spells always leave contented.”
The wise woman frowned at her daughter. “I can do nothing, go nowhere, rooted to the ground as I am. You will have my philters and potions, my charms and my songs, the wisdom of the others, and your own wits.”
Grayling shook her head no and no again. “Your philters and potions are burned and scrambled, the charms and songs are yours and not mine, I do not know of any others, and my wits? You have often called them weak and fragile things.”
“Although it appears your tongue works exceedingly well. Now hush and let us tackle the impediments one by one.” Grayling’s mother sighed. “How I wish I could sit down. My knees pain me with the standing.” Her eyes filled with dark sadness, and Grayling’s heart grew sore with sorrow and fear. “Bring me the witch hazel and comfrey ointment.”
Grayling gestured toward the ruins of the cottage. “Everything is tumbled and broken, spilled and charred and ruined. I don’t know what is what or for which.”
“Go and fetch what jars survive. We can know the contents by their smell.”
Grayling went back into the remains of the cottage. With her hazel stick, she poked through the debris again and lifted the pots that were most whole. She wrapped them in her skirt, carried them back to her mother, and laid them at the woman’s feet . . . roots . . . feet. One by one, the girl lifted the vessels and took a deep sniff of the contents. Some burned her nose, some comforted it, some made her belly turn over in distress, but they all smelled alike to Grayling—“Like smoke and loss,” she told her mother.
The comfrey ointment could not be found, but Hannah Strong could identify the rest. “The one with a faint scent of roses and lovage is the binding potion to compel faithfulness,” she said, and, “Achoo! That is sneezewort to repel insects.” She named them all. Grayling ripped pieces from her shift, covered each pot with a scrap, and tied it on with twine. Then, at her mother’s instruction, she marked its name with a piece of charred wood, for Hannah Strong thought a wise woman’s daughter should know the way of words. The pots went into Grayling’s basket: potions and salves and oils for protection, for sleeping and healing, for binding, shape shifting, and truth telling.
“With these you will not be defenseless. Now go,” her mother said. “You needn’t fight any demons or dragons. Just find the others, if others there still be.”
“Who or what are these others?”
Hannah Strong waved a hand about. “Hedge witches, hags, charmers and spellbinders, conjurers, wizards, and soothsayers. You do not think I am the only cunning woman in the world? We be solitary folk, but they will come when you call.”
Grayling backed away, shaking her head. “Such a task calls for a brave and skillful person, someone bold, with cunning and magic. Call on one like that.”
“Daughter, you say enough no for a town full of faint hearts,” said Hannah Strong. She would have stamped her foot in irritation if foot she’d had. “Would I had a spell to compel you, but I must rely on your care for me.” Hannah leaned over and rubbed her right knee. She was bark to her shins.