vi. Broken Hearts Brew

Madame Celeste motions Melody over, all her teeth on display. “Sit, Melody! Here—I’m making an energizing brew for the townsfolk. They go like hotcakes, especially when the weather is hot. Why don’t you help me finish this batch up?”

Melody watches the pink grog bubble thick in the cauldron, contents self-stirring with the crackle of magic in the air. “Um, wouldn’t you prefer Ursula to help you finish? She knows a lot more than I do.”

“Ah, but that’s why you’re here, Melody, to learn. Sit beside me—yes, right there. Now.” She takes Melody’s hand in hers, palm-up, and presses something into it. “You’re holding something good for waking up. It’s edible, but in this case, we’re adding it for its aromatic properties. Can you list anything like that?”

Melody thinks—and thinks—and thinks—and why can’t she remember it? Her head is nothing but golden grains, empty wastelands, sand sand sand.

“Hey.” Madame Celeste’s gentle whisper brings her back, chains her to the forest floor outside the cottage. Grounding. “It’s okay, Melody. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I just…”

Madame Celeste lifts her fingers from Melody’s palm, still smiling like she’s proud. But how can she be? Melody’s gaze falls to the shavings in her hand.

“Orange zest.”

Citrus dances into her nose, bright and cool. The zest is moist, and the scent sticks to her skin even as she tilts the orange ribbons into the brew. Will she begin to smell like Madame Celeste, after long? Like every herb and perfume the world has to offer?

Madame Celeste waves a hand over the steam and the direction of the stirring changes, counter-clockwise. “May I ask you a question, Melody?”

Melody glances over her shoulder. Ursula is still in the garden, back to them, head angled at the beds of sweet peas.

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Do you often have difficulty remembering things?”

Melody doesn’t answer.

“I saw the signs at Sasha and June’s house yesterday. You had the face of someone who knew the answer, but it remained just out of your reach.”

“I—” Melody stops, inhales. “I forget stuff, sometimes. Not always. I don’t know, it happens most when I’m focusing on things I learned about plants. I’m not sure why, because I want to do well here, and exploring this branch of magic is something I’ve wanted for two years. I’m passionate about this.”

“You know, I chose you for one of my two apprentice slots because of your application. It was inspiring; you talked at length about how hard you were willing to work, how much an opportunity like this would mean to you.”

The brew is almost done.

“You told Ursula you admire me, right?”

“Wha—how—you heard that?”

Madame Celeste chuckles. “I have very good ears. In my experience, the people who admire others most are those whose lives have been directly impacted by them.” Her ragwort eyes gaze into Melody, past her flesh, piercing her heart. “Melody, are you a client of mine?”

Melody stares at the bubbles, watches them grow and pop all in the same breath. Born, just to die, over and over. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You purchase your brew under a different name?”

“My mother’s. She pays for it, so her name is on the bill.”

Madame Celeste hums, and it’s an understanding sound, something that tells Melody this is okay.

That she’s okay.

“Now, if I know my side-effects, forgetfulness can expand to related materials. You’re having difficulty remembering earth magic facts because whatever brew you’ve been taking is erasing something else. Is it the Broken Hearts Brew, Melody?”

Melody sniffs, nods.

“If you continue taking that brew, by association earth magic will continue to be a roadblock for you. Whatever you’re taking it for is what led you to your passion for nature, no?”

“I assume,” Melody whispers. “But if I went as far as to take the Broken Hearts Brew, it must be something I don’t want to remember. If I stop, I’ll remember more earth magic, but the memory I erased will come back, too. I’m happier like this. Aren’t I?”

Madame Celeste hums, pats Melody’s shoulder. “Well, that’s for you to decide, isn’t it? My brews—especially yours—are used to treat symptoms. I want you to keep in mind a cure is something you must find.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m glad to have you here, Melody.”

The breeze picks up and the scent of the garden drifts past them, cotton caught in the air. Melody glances back. Ursula is still in the garden, now gazing at her. Her painted lips are set in a firm line. Sunlight refracts through the leaves against her skin, a thousand patterns dancing over her. Melody thinks of their conversation minutes before—she mentioned a name, one she hadn’t heard before. Ursula’s expression reminds Melody of one her mother used to make, several years ago. She tries to recall the name, the conversation, the origin of the sad, emotional eyes.

She knows nothing but sand.