Chapter 82
Second Attempt
The dawn light filtering through my bedroom window was pale and watery, but it felt like a verdict.
"Useless," I muttered. The word tasted bitter.
I uncorked the bottle, took a cautious sniff and recoiled. It smelled fermented and cloyingly sweet, like rotten flowers left too long in a vase. A sharp, medicinal burn from the excess lavender oil hit the back of my throat. I didn't need to taste it to know.
I'd been scattered. Rushed. I'd probably even used tap water instead of the spring water the recipe demanded.
Chlorine and fear. A terrible recipe.
I poured the contents into the dust bin, watching the cloudy liquid swirl away with grim satisfaction.
Good riddance.
I needed to see the second attempt.
My gaze settled on the hilltop chamomile. It had always been reliable, rooted, shaped by wind rather than sheltered from it. I took the jar down first.
