The Mist and the Flame by Coral-Li St. Helen

On the particular day that started it all, our tutor, Grigio, gave me something to translate which turned out to be an old recipe for a potion to be used for suppressing painful memories. It called for various common herbs which I knew Friar Lawrence grew in his garden, so I ran to him the first chance I got to ask for the ingredients. That, I found out later, was how the school at La Fortezza became interested in me. Friar Lawrence and, incredibly, my tutor both looked out for potential candidates to recruit for this secret school. Most of the tutor’s pupils, my cousin Juliet included, merely did the translation (perfectly, in her case). The very few with the curiosity to see if it would work, those were the ones that interested them.

But I knew none of that at the time; I was only interested in making the potion work. Initially, it didn’t, and I figured out there had been an ingredient omitted—possibly deliberately, so Grigio’s students wouldn’t have the complete formula. That was laughable—and insulting. I immediately began experimenting on my own, trying to figure out the missing item. (This extra step, apparently, made La Fortezza very interested in me.) My creations, placed discretely in various rooms, made me sneeze (not magical), made the cook giggle (possibly magical, since she generally had a dour disposition), and made my parents look at each other in a way I hadn’t seen in years (which was uncomfortable to witness but also possibly magical). I noted these combinations of ingredients down and, not satisfied, kept trying.

When I couldn’t quite come up with the perfect formula on my own, I sought the friar again. If Grigio was a young man who seemed like an old one, Friar Lawrence was, if not old, then middle-aged at least, but cheerful, jovial, and youthful in every aspect of his demeanor. To put it another way, he was possibly the only priest that people my age actually liked, someone who talked to you like a person and not just a sinner. In his little garden behind the church he welcomed me with delight, a dirt-crusted trowel in one hand and some mysterious wrinkled root in the other, immediately asking how my potion had gone.

“Not well, thank you. It didn’t work, but I think I know how I can fix it—with your help, if you would.”

“I would be most delighted to help,” he said, eager curiosity shining in his eyes. He put down the trowel and root, dusted his cassock off (though his hands were dirty too and he really only ended up shifting the soiling of the garment to different sections), and gestured me toward a bench where we both sat. “Now, how did you know it didn’t work?”

“I tried. A lot. The closest I got was when I tried it on Bruno, but even then it still wasn’t right.”

“Bruno?”

“The old dog I found wandering around outside our gate. I named him Bruno. Poor thing. He had been treated very badly, we think by a man or several of them—he is afraid of men. I wanted to see if I could help him forget his suffering. He seemed to be calmer when I sprinkled one particular herbal powder mix around him, but he still growls and shrinks away when a man goes by, so he hasn’t completely forgotten.”

The friar smiled. “That was kind of you to try, though a human subject might have been more able to communicate what they were experiencing.”

I shrugged. I wanted to try it on the dog because I wanted to alleviate his suffering. His big brown eyes were deep with sorrow. How could I do otherwise? I went on impatiently, “I know why it didn’t work—there’s an ingredient missing, isn’t there?”

Friar Lawrence tilted his head. “Yes and no. Well, yes and yes, I suppose. The recipe as you received it is in fact missing an ingredient, but that ingredient alone—stridolo petals, I believe—will not make this work. The real missing ingredient is you. Bruno calmed down because you were calm. Bruno cannot forget whatever suffering he went through, no matter what herbs you use, because you can’t forget it—because you never remembered it in the first place.”

“Of course not. I wasn’t there.” Now I frowned. Did I, too, have to be beaten and starved by cruel men for both of us to forget? Wasn’t there an easier way to help my poor sad-eyed friend? There was a limit to what even I wished to experience. “How can I make these things work without, well, going through terrible things?”

“It is a long and difficult journey to take, Rosaline. But I can try to show you the first steps.” He shifted a little on the bench so that he was facing me. “Think of a happy memory from your childhood, but don’t tell me about it.”

His simple request startled me. Was he going to read my mind?