her own affairs.”
“And if she’s going to have one, she should know—”
“Out.” On a strangled laugh, Ana gave him a shove. “Out of my yard. I have work to do. If I need a psychic, I’ll call you.”
He relented and gave her a kiss. “See that you do.” A new smile began to bloom as he walked away with his wife. “I believe we’ll stop by and see Morgana and Nash.”
“That’s fine.” Mel shot a last glance over her shoulder. “I’d like to hear what they have to say about this guy myself.”
Sebastian laughed and hugged her close. “You are a woman after my own heart.”
“No, I’m not.” She kissed him soundly. “I’ve already got it.”
* * *
For the next several days, Ana busied herself indoors. It wasn’t that she was avoiding Boone—at least not to any great extent. She simply had a lot to do. Her medicinal supplies had become sadly depleted. Just that day, she’d had a call from a client in Carmel who was out of the elixir for her rheumatism. Ana had had just enough to ship, but that meant she had to make more as soon as possible. Even now she had dried primrose simmering with motherwort on the stove.
In the little room adjoining the kitchen through a wide archway, she had her distilling flasks, condensers, burners and bottles, along with vials and silver bowls and candles, set up for the day. To the casual eye, the room resembled a small chemistry lab. But there was a marked difference between chemistry and alchemy. In alchemy there was ritual, and the meticulous use of astrological timing.
All of the flowers and roots and herbs she had harvested by moonlight had been carefully washed in morning dew. Others, plucked under different phases of the moon, had already been prepared for their specific uses.
There was syrup of poppy to be distilled, and there was hyssop to be dried for cough syrup. She needed some oil of clary for a specialty perfume, and she could combine that with some chamomile for a digestive aid. There were infusions and decoctions to be completed as well as both oils and incense.
Plenty to do, Ana thought, particularly since she had the touch of magic from the flowers picked in moonlight. And she enjoyed her work, the scents that filled her kitchen and workroom, the pretty pink leaves of the flowering marjoram, the deep purple of foxglove, the sunny touch of the practical marigold.
They were lovely, and she could never resist setting some in vases or bowls around the house. She was testing a dilution of gentian, grimacing at the bitter taste, when Boone knocked on her screen door.
“I really do need sugar this time,” he told her with a quick, charming grin that had her heart pumping fast.“I’m homeroom mother this week, and I have to make three dozen cookies for tomorrow.”
Tilting her head, she studied him. “You could buy them.”
“What homeroom mother worth her salt serves the first grade class store-bought? A cup would do it.”
The image of him baking made her smile. “I probably have one. Come on in. Just let me finish this up.”
“It smells fabulous in here.” He leaned over to peek into the pots simmering on the stove. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t!” she warned, just as he was about to dip a finger in a black glass pan cooling on the counter. “That’s belladonna. Not for internal consumption in that form.”
“Belladonna.” His brows drew together. “You’re making poison?”
“I’m making a lotion—an anodyne—for neuralgia, rheumatism. And it isn’t a poison if it’s brewed and dispensed properly. It’s a sedative,”
Frowning, he looked into the room behind, with its chemical equipment and its bubbling brews. “Don’t you have to have a license or something?”
“I’m a qualified herbal practitioner, with a degree in pharmacognosy, if that relieves you.” She batted his hand away from a pot. “And this is not something for the novice.”
“Got anything for insomnia—besides belladonna? No
“And if she’s going to have one, she should know—”
“Out.” On a strangled laugh, Ana gave him a shove. “Out of my yard. I have work to do. If I need a psychic, I’ll call you.”
He relented and gave her a kiss. “See that you do.” A new smile began to bloom as he walked away with his wife. “I believe we’ll stop by and see Morgana and Nash.”
“That’s fine.” Mel shot a last glance over her shoulder. “I’d like to hear what they have to say about this guy myself.”
Sebastian laughed and hugged her close. “You are a woman after my own heart.”
“No, I’m not.” She kissed him soundly. “I’ve already got it.”
* * *
For the next several days, Ana busied herself indoors. It wasn’t that she was avoiding Boone—at least not to any great extent. She simply had a lot to do. Her medicinal supplies had become sadly depleted. Just that day, she’d had a call from a client in Carmel who was out of the elixir for her rheumatism. Ana had had just enough to ship, but that meant she had to make more as soon as possible. Even now she had dried primrose simmering with motherwort on the stove.
In the little room adjoining the kitchen through a wide archway, she had her distilling flasks, condensers, burners and bottles, along with vials and silver bowls and candles, set up for the day. To the casual eye, the room resembled a small chemistry lab. But there was a marked difference between chemistry and alchemy. In alchemy there was ritual, and the meticulous use of astrological timing.
All of the flowers and roots and herbs she had harvested by moonlight had been carefully washed in morning dew. Others, plucked under different phases of the moon, had already been prepared for their specific uses.
There was syrup of poppy to be distilled, and there was hyssop to be dried for cough syrup. She needed some oil of clary for a specialty perfume, and she could combine that with some chamomile for a digestive aid. There were infusions and decoctions to be completed as well as both oils and incense.
Plenty to do, Ana thought, particularly since she had the touch of magic from the flowers picked in moonlight. And she enjoyed her work, the scents that filled her kitchen and workroom, the pretty pink leaves of the flowering marjoram, the deep purple of foxglove, the sunny touch of the practical marigold.
They were lovely, and she could never resist setting some in vases or bowls around the house. She was testing a dilution of gentian, grimacing at the bitter taste, when Boone knocked on her screen door.
“I really do need sugar this time,” he told her with a quick, charming grin that had her heart pumping fast.“I’m homeroom mother this week, and I have to make three dozen cookies for tomorrow.”
Tilting her head, she studied him. “You could buy them.”
“What homeroom mother worth her salt serves the first grade class store-bought? A cup would do it.”
The image of him baking made her smile. “I probably have one. Come on in. Just let me finish this up.”
“It smells fabulous in here.” He leaned over to peek into the pots simmering on the stove. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t!” she warned, just as he was about to dip a finger in a black glass pan cooling on the counter. “That’s belladonna. Not for internal consumption in that form.”
“Belladonna.” His brows drew together. “You’re making poison?”
“I’m making a lotion—an anodyne—for neuralgia, rheumatism. And it isn’t a poison if it’s brewed and dispensed properly. It’s a sedative,”
Frowning, he looked into the room behind, with its chemical equipment and its bubbling brews. “Don’t you have to have a license or something?”
“I’m a qualified herbal practitioner, with a degree in pharmacognosy, if that relieves you.” She batted his hand away from a pot. “And this is not something for the novice.”
“Got anything for insomnia—besides belladonna? No
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