Bast grinned as he watched her look around, first left, then right. Then she began to unlace her bodice. Her dress was a pale cornflower blue, edged with yellow, and when she spread it on the hedge, it flared and splayed out like the wing of a great bird. Perhaps some fantastic combination of a finch and a jay.
Dressed only in her white shift, Emberlee looked around again: left, then right. Then she shimmied free of it, a fascinating motion. She tossed the shift aside and stood there, naked as the moon. Her creamy skin was amazing with freckle. Her hips wide and lovely. The tips of her breasts were brushed with the palest of pink.
She scampered into the water. Making a series of small, dismayed cries at the chill of it. They were, on consideration, not really similar to a raven’s at all. Though they could, perhaps, be slightly like a heron’s.
Emberlee washed herself a bit, splashing and shivering. She soaped herself, dunked her head in the river, and came up gasping. Wet, her hair became the color of ripe cherries.
It was then that the first of the blue touch-me-nots arrived, drifting on the water. She glanced at it curiously as it floated by and began to lather soap into her hair.
More flowers followed. They came downstream and made circles around her, caught in the slow eddy of the pool. She looked at them, amazed. Then sieved a double handful from the water and brought them to her face, drawing a deep breath to smell them.
She laughed delightedly and dunked under the surface, coming up in the middle of the flowers; the water sluiced her pale skin, running over her naked breasts. Blossoms clung to her, as if reluctant to let go.
That was when Bast fell out of the tree.
There was a brief, mad scrabbling of fingers against bark, a bit of a yelp, then he hit the ground like a sack of suet. He lay on his back in the grass and let out a low, miserable groan.
He heard a splashing, and then Emberlee appeared above him. She held her white shift in front of her. Bast looked up from where he lay in the tall grass.
He’d been lucky to land on that patch of springy turf, cushioned with tall green grass. A few feet to one side, and he’d have broken himself against the rocks. Five feet the other way and he would have been wallowing in mud.
Emberlee knelt beside him, her skin pale, her hair dark. One posy clung to her neck—it was the same color as her eyes, a pale and vibrant blue.
“Oh,” Bast said happily as he gazed up at her. His eyes were slightly dazed. “You’re so much lovelier than I’d imagined.”
He lifted a hand as if to brush her cheek, only to find it holding the crown and knotted handkerchief. “Ahh,” he said, remembering. “I’ve brought you some daisies too. And a sweet bun.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking the daisy crown with both hands. She had to let go of her shift to do this. It fell lightly to the grass.
Bast blinked, momentarily at a loss for words.
Emberlee tilted her head to look at the crown; the ribbon was a striking cornflower blue, but it was nothing near as lovely as her eyes. She lifted it with both hands and settled it proudly on her head. Her arms still raised, she drew a slow breath.
Bast’s eyes slipped from her crown.
She smiled at him indulgently.
Bast drew a breath to speak, then stopped and drew another through his nose. Honeysuckle.
“Did you steal my soap?” he asked incredulously.
Emberlee laughed and kissed him.
A good while later, Bast took the long way back to the lightning tree, making a wide loop up into the hills north of town. Things were rockier up that way, no ground flat enough to plant, the terrain too treacherous for grazing.
Even with the boy’s directions, it took Bast a while to find Martin’s still. He had to give the crazy old bastard credit, though. Between the brambles, rockslides, and fallen trees, there wasn’t a chance he would have stumbled onto it accidentally, tucked back into a shallow cave in a scrubby little box valley.
The still wasn’t some slipshod contraption bunged together out of old pots and twisted wire either. It was a work of art. There were barrels and basins and great spirals of copper tube. A great copper kettle twice the size of a washbin, and a smolder-stove for warming it. A wooden trough ran all along the ceiling, and only after following it outside did Bast realize Martin collected rainwater and brought it inside to fill his cooling barrels.
Looking it over, Bast had the sudden urge to flip through Celum Tinture and learn what all the different pieces of the still were called, what they were for. Only then did he realize he’d left the book back at the lightning tree.
So instead Bast rooted around until he found a box filled with a mad miscellany of containers: two dozen bottles of all sorts, clay jugs, old canning jars … A dozen of them were full. None of them were labeled in any way.
Bast lifted out a tall bottle that had obviously once held wine. He pulled the cork, sniffed it gingerly, then took a careful sip. His face bloomed into a sunrise of delight. He’d half expected turpentine, but this was … well … he wasn’t sure entirely. He took another drink. There was something of apples about it, and … barley?
Bast took a third drink, grinning. Whatever you care to call it, it was lovely. Smooth and strong and just a little sweet. Martin might be mad as a badger, but he clearly knew his liquor.
It was better than an hour before Bast made it back to the lightning tree. Rike hadn’t returned, but Celum Tinture was sitting there unharmed. For the first time he could remember, he was glad to see the book. He flipped it open to the chapter on distillation and read for half an hour, nodding to himself at various points. It was called a condensate coil. He’d thought it looked important.
Eventually he closed the book and sighed. There were a few clouds rolling in, and no good could come of leaving the book unattended again. His luck wouldn’t last forever, and he shuddered to think what would happen if the wind tumbled the book into the grass and tore the pages. If there was a sudden rain …
So Bast wandered back to the Waystone Inn and slipped silently through the back door. Stepping carefully, he opened a cupboard and tucked the book inside. He made his silent way halfway back to the door before he heard footsteps behind him.
“Ah, Bast,” the innkeeper said. “Have you brought the carrots?”
Bast froze, caught awkwardly midsneak. He straightened up and brushed self-consciously at his clothes. “I … I haven’t quite got round to that yet, Reshi.”
The innkeeper gave a deep sigh. “I don’t ask a …” He stopped and sniffed, then eyed the dark-haired man narrowly. “Are you drunk, Bast?”
Bast looked affronted. “Reshi!”
The innkeeper rolled his eyes. “Fine then, have you been drinking?”
“I’ve been investigating,” Bast said, emphasizing the word. “Did you know Crazy Martin runs a still?”
“I didn’t,” the innkeeper said, his tone making it clear he didn’t find this information to be particularly thrilling. “And Martin isn’t crazy. He just has a handful of unfortunately strong affect compulsions. And a touch of tabard madness from when he was a soldier.”
“Well, yes …” Bast said slowly. “I know, because he set his dog on me and when I climbed a tree to get away, he tried to chop the tree down. But also, aside from those things, he’s crazy too, Reshi. Really, really crazy.”
“Bast.” The innkeeper gave him a chiding look.
“I’m not saying he’s bad, Reshi. I’m not even saying I don’t like him. But trust me. I know crazy. His head isn’t put together like a normal person’s.”
The innkeeper gave an agreeable if slightly impatient nod. “Noted.”