Then why was he suddenly so afraid?
Meanwhile, Trixin was staring at him. “Faults and fissures!” she said. “At least one of us needs to think steady here. I can see it’ll have to be me!”
She looked around, found a sturdy plank, and dragged it over. “Sit,” she ordered.
Raffa was surprised to discover that it was a relief for someone else to be telling him what to do. So he sat. She plopped down next to him and began unwrapping the rag on his hand.
“This will never do,” she said critically. “It looks like Camma did it, with Cassa’s help.”
She rewrapped and retied the binding. It looked and felt much better when she was done, although he could still feel the pinch of the glass sliver. “Thanks,” he said.
“Now, then,” she said. “It’s plain as day that you should at least wait for the verdict. What if he’s found innocent? Then you’d have turned yourself in for nothing!”
“But what if they say he’s guilty? If I wait, it might be too late—”
“There’s more to tell, so just listen, will you? When I got to the laboratory this morning, I saw Garith. He said your parents had arrived at the apartment at daybirth, from . . . from wherever they were. He told them you were back in Gilden, and that he thought you were headed for the shed compound last night.”
She glared at him. “Now I’ve told you that part, I’m going to forget I ever heard it. Anyway, your parents started out straightaway to search for you. But right when they were leaving, the guards came and took your da.”
Da and Mam know I’m here! Raffa had to stifle his impulse to run outside and yell for them at the top of his lungs. “My mam—where is she now?”
Trixin shook her head. “I don’t know. She wasn’t at the laboratory when I left. But I’m sure she’ll be at the hearing this afternoon.”
“Okay. Okay.” Raffa had finally accepted that Trixin was right about one thing: He was dazed upon flummoxed about everything, including what to do next. “What do you think I should do?”
“I told you already. You should wait for the verdict. If your parents weren’t in Gilden last night, maybe someone saw them and could testify that it couldn’t have been your da. Then it wouldn’t have to be you sticking your neck out to get your head chopped off.”
She stood up, offered her hand, and pulled him to his feet. She examined him critically.
“Pull up your hood,” she said, “and walk like your rucksack is really heavy. I’m going to take you straight through the Commons, to a place I know. . . . You’re a servient carrying a load for me—got that? Keep your head down.”
Raffa summoned Echo to the perch. They followed Trixin down the road and into the Commons through the back gate. It was midmorning, and people were going about their day. Whenever they passed anyone, Trixin would berate Raffa to maintain the guise of his being a servient.
“Keep up, you lazybones.”
“Careful, clumsy lummox!”
“Must you jostle it so?”
For the time being, Raffa was still grateful that she had taken charge. But it did occur to him that she didn’t have to enjoy it quite so much.
Trixin led Raffa to a small storeroom in the kitchens area. They stepped inside; she pulled the door closed behind them. A single window in dire need of washing struggled to let in a little light. The room contained shelves holding stacks of beakers, nests of basins, an assortment of odd-sized pots and pans.
“Senior Vale keeps the laboratory in perfect order, he doesn’t like any mess about,” she said. “We were given this space to store extra equipment. I’m the only one who ever comes here. You’ll be safe enough for now.”
During their walk, Raffa had made up his mind to follow her advice and wait for the verdict—which meant that he would need to sneak into the hearing. If his father were somehow found guilty, Raffa had to be there on the spot so he could confess the truth.
But how much of the truth? “Has there been talk about—about any animals?” he asked cautiously.
She scowled, the frown-furrow between her eyebrows deepening. “No,” she said. “Just a fire, that’s all I heard.”
Raffa suspected that the Chancellor still wanted to keep the animal project secret. Perhaps there would be no charges against his father regarding the release of the foxes and stoats.
“What can you tell me about hearings?”
“They used to be open. Anyone could go and sit in the gallery,” Trixin said. “I was there once, for my da’s hearing.”
A brief silence. Raffa remembered that Trixin’s da had served time in the Garrison, unfairly accused of stealing food from a wealthy household.
Trixin tossed her head as if shaking off that memory. “But they changed the rules this winter. Almost all the hearings are closed now. No audience allowed.”
“Are there guards?”
“Two, at the entrance.”
How many times would he have to get into a place that was guarded? Raffa wanted to pound the wall in aggravation; he restrained himself only because someone outside might hear.
“I have to go to work,” Trixin was saying. “But I’ll send Jimble here later.”
“With the dragon?” Raffa asked unthinkingly. He meant the little ones—the twins and baby Brid. They were sweet and cute and funny . . . and the last thing he needed today.
Trixin looked startled. “The what?”
Raffa explained.
“That Jimble!” she said. “He’s forever giving them daft ideas.” She shook her head, but he could see the fondness in her eyes. “No, I’ll tell him to get a couple of his chummers to look after them for a bit.” A sly grin. “The twins are crazy about Davvis.”
Raffa recalled feeling alone and abandoned in the underground passage. He’d been wrong to feel that way: Ever since he’d arrived in Gilden, Trixin and Jimble had been helping him. He looked at her, unable to find the right words.
“What are you looking at me like that for?” Trixin snapped. “Just remember, whatever it is Jimble does with you, if you get him into any real trouble, I’ll skin the both of you alive.”
She marched off without saying good-bye. Raffa raised his hand in salute until she disappeared from view.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BY the time Jimble arrived, Raffa had come up with a plan and made a mental list of the botanica he would need. For the first task, Jimble would have to go to the apothecary quarter and speak with Garith, who could supply various items from the stocks in the laboratory.
The list was a long one, and they had no chalk, so Jimble had to memorize it. Together they made it into a rhyming chant to make it easier to remember.
“Rubus berries, brassy blooms, beetroot juice, and mica plumes . . .”
Raffa was impressed by how quickly Jimble mastered the list.
Then Jimble frowned. “This is your cousin who’s deaf, right? He won’t hear me sayin’ it to him.”
“Say it to him normal, like you did just now. He’ll be able to read your lips. He might have to ask you to repeat some things, but he’ll figure it out.”
Jimble looked skeptical but said nothing. Raffa rattled on with more instructions. “Easiest is to wait until Garith goes into the glasshouse, and then show yourself. Make sure he’s alone, and don’t let my uncle see you. And remember, he won’t hear you if you call out and you oughtn’t to anyway.”
“’Course I won’t!” Jimble said, indignant. “But I never met him before, so how’ll he know that I’m doing for you?”
Raffa stared, his mouth open. Jimble had made an obvious point—one that Raffa had missed entirely.
He closed his mouth and thought for a moment. Then he untied a section of his leather rope, the part that had been damaged by the glass shards.
“Hold this up when he first sees you,” Raffa said. “He’ll know it’s mine.”
Jimble scampered away. While he was gone, Raffa attended to his next task, which was to make a few simple combinations with the botanica in h
is rucksack. His injured right hand proved to be mostly useless. Irritated at himself, he realized that he should have asked Jimble to fetch tweezers, too, so he could have tried to remove the sliver of glass.
Years earlier, his father had insisted that Raffa learn to use the pestle with either hand. Raffa had grumbled at the time. Now he was thankful, and set about grinding a few dendra leaves with his left hand.
Jimble was back within the hour, flushed and triumphant. “Couldn’t have been easier,” he said. “Garith—he was out in the yard when I got there, and he went and fetched everything. I was away without another soul knowing! And you were right, he can read lips. It’s better than brilliant!”
A short pause for breath, then Jimble went on. “I wonder, would he teach me? And my chummers, too? Just think if we could talk to each other without making any noise. There’s times when that’d be right handy!”
Raffa couldn’t help a smile. “I’m sure you could learn,” he said, “but it’s not as easy as he makes it look. He’s worked really hard on it.”
Jimble’s eyes widened; he was obviously impressed. “Oh—and he told me to say to you, whatever you’re doing that needs all this stuff, he hopes it works and he wishes he could help.”
Raffa nodded. “He already has.”
He had cleared off space on one of the shelves so he could line up the jars and packets of botanica Garith had sent. Then he chose what he needed to add to the combinations he had just made.
Jimble watched with great interest. “What about all them?” he asked, pointing to several ingredients that Raffa hadn’t yet used.
“I’ll explain in a bit,” Raffa said. He wasn’t meaning to be secretive, but he thought it wise to delay disclosing a part of the plan that Jimble might not care for.
Raffa used a reed to suck up a small amount of water from his waterskin. He added a little to the botanicals in his mortar and turned the pestle a few times. He looked up to see Jimble staring.
“Want to turn it?” Raffa asked, holding out the pestle.
Brow furrowed and tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth, Jimble turned with such vigor that the mixture was in danger of being sloshed out of the mortar. After only a minute or so, he stopped and stretched out his fingers. “Harder than it looks!” he said.
Raffa raised his eyebrows in surprise. Turning the pestle was something he had begun doing almost before he could walk; he couldn’t remember a time when he had found it difficult. He took the pestle again and began turning it steadily, rhythmically, applying more pressure to rougher parts of the paste, speeding up or slowing down, as his experience and instinct decreed. Jimble followed every move with his eyes.
Soon, a smooth, tranquil feeling suffused Raffa’s mind, which told him that the combination was ready. He poured it into a jar, then cleaned out the mortar and filled it with another combination.
He let Jimble perform the next steps: adding dried mirberries; stirring in a few drops of water; turning the pestle. It was hard to say who was having more fun: Jimble, being introduced to apothecary, or Raffa, making the introduction. Raffa had never before experienced the satisfaction of teaching someone else a little about the art he loved so well.
He wondered how apothecaries could tell whether a young person had talent. Certainly Jimble was showing both interest and enthusiasm. Was that where talent began?
When the combinations were finished, Raffa took a moment to go over the plan again in his head. It was, he thought, a good plan, not too complicated, but he found himself wishing for one more facet that might bolster its chance of success.
“What’s the matter?” Jimble asked.
Raffa pointed at the jar holding the first combination, which included the dendra leaves. “I need a disguise to get past the guards, right? When I take that, it will make my face swell up. But I wish there were a way to make me look even more different.”
Jimble inspected him in the light from the window. “How about cutting your hair?”
Raffa’s hair was dark and curly and untidy, even when well combed. Over his sojourn in the Suddens, it had grown into a tangle that nearly reached his shoulders. He thought of his likeness on the placard at the ferry landing, which had clearly depicted his curls.
He shook his head. “It’s a good idea, Jimble, but I don’t have any scissors.”
“Use your knife, couldn’t I?”
The activity that followed was quite noisy.
“Careful—that’s my ear.”
“I am being careful.”
“Yow! Don’t pull so hard!”
“I have to saw at it like this. You ought to keep the blade sharpened better.”
“Ouch! This was a terrible idea. I can’t stand it anymore!”
“We can’t stop now. It’s only half done, you look daft upon foolish!”
“Careful! You almost got my eye!”
By the time Jimble pronounced the job finished, Raffa’s whole scalp was smarting and stinging. He rubbed his hand over his head. In some places his scalp was almost bare; in others, patches of matted hair remained. He concluded that the lack of a mirror or glass in which to check his reflection was probably a blessing.
Jimble inspected his work. “It’s a bit uneven,” he conceded. “I could try—”
“No, thanks!” Raffa said as he snatched the knife out of Jimble’s hand.
“Well, anyway, you do look different now.”
Raffa nodded in resignation. “Once my face is all swollen, maybe people will think I have some kind of—of disease that made my hair fall out.” It seemed the best he could hope for.
He paused for a moment, then spoke slowly. “Jimble, do you remember when we first met? You asked me to show you some pother magic. What we’re going to do isn’t exactly magic . . . but maybe you could say it’s magical.”
Jimble hopped up and down in excitement. “And we’re going to use the pother stuff we just made, right?”
“Yes.” Another pause. “I could do this without you. It would be better if I had your help, but you can say no—”
Jimble looked astonished. “Why would I say no?”
“Because it . . . it’s going to make you sick.”
“No worries there! I don’t get sick, not hardly ever. Davvis once dared me to eat a cockroach, and I done it without a blink. I hate getting sick.” A shudder. “It was easier just to keep it down.”
Raffa sighed. “No, you don’t understand. That combination you helped make? You’d have to drink it, and it will make you sick. On purpose.”
“Oh.” The light in Jimble’s eyes dimmed. “Oh, shakes. Do I have to?”
“No.” Raffa spoke firmly even as his heart sank. “Like I said, I might be able to do this on my own.”
“But it would be better if I helped.”
Raffa did not reply.
Jimble was uncharacteristically quiet. Then he said, “I’m not sayin’ yes yet. I want you to tell me more—what it does and all.”
Raffa couldn’t help a small smile of admiration. It was the right question. Jimble was every bit as sharp as his sister.
“We put in those mirberries,” Raffa began.
“Three of them.”
“Right. They’re an emetic.”
“What’s a—a nemmetick?”
“Emetic. It’s a combination that makes people throw up. We use it when someone has eaten something they shouldn’t. Maybe a little kiddler eats sumac berries—they’re poisonous—so we get them to drink this.”
“Oh! So it’s something you use a lot?”
“Not that often. But I’ve made this combination before, at least a few times, for my parents to give to patients.”
“And it’s safe.”
“Yes. The infusion we made is a weak one, and I’ll only give you a sup or two. And I made another combination for stomach-soothing. You could take that afterwards if you don’t feel well.”
Jimble scratched his chin. “If Trixin was here, what d’you think she’d say?”
Raffa thought for a moment. Trixin had hit herself on the head with a board that time . . . but he suspected that she might feel differently about potential harm to her younger brother. He honestly didn’t know, and was about to say so when Jimble spoke again.
“No, I got to make up my own mind about this.” He scowled fiercely. “I so hate it! Your stomach all rumble-tumble—and how it burns your throat coming up, and—and that awful taste in your mouth even if you spit a hundred times—”
Everything Jimble had said was true. It was dreadful, there was no way to honey-drip it. Raffa resigned himself to a solo venture. He had no choice but to hope that the disguise would be enough.
Jimble looked up, his blue eyes steely. “You know something else about getting sick? You always feel better after. . . . And you say it’s safe, and Trixin says to help you, so—so I’ll do it.”
“Wait—what?”
“I said I’ll do it.” Jimble’s sunny grin returned. “And what a story I’ll have to tell my chummers!”
I wish I had some way to thank him, thought Raffa.
There was nothing in his rucksack that would make a suitable gift. He couldn’t give up his knife or his rope or his mortar and pestle. But Jimble was trusting Raffa with his very health; he deserved something in return.
He deserves to be trusted back.
“Jimble, can you keep a secret?”
“’Course I can!”
“No, I mean really keep it. You can’t tell your chummers. Or the twins. Or even baby Brid.”
Jimble giggled, then sobered quickly. “Not my chummers, hmm . . . Not even Trixin?”
“She already knows.”
“So it’s okay to talk about it with her?”
Raffa nodded. “Yes. But only if no one else is around.”
“This must be a quake of a secret!”
Raffa pulled out the perch necklace with a sleeping Echo.
Jimble stared in surprise. “Is it real? And you carry it with you all the time? Um . . . good fun, that.”
After the gravity of Raffa’s cautions, Jimble was clearly a little disappointed in the “secret.”
“His name is Echo.”
The bat was not usually awake at this hour, and he could be grumpy at such times. Raffa hoped that the storeroom’s dim light would help put Echo in good humor. He blew on the bat’s whiskers. Echo stretched his wings, opened his eyes, and looked around.