THINGS THAT BURN QUIETLY

Lyra’s POV

The cellar is too quiet for comfort too still, too heavy with the smell of herbs that lost their virtue years ago There’s rot here and dust that sticks to the back of my throat like guilt

I shouldn’t be here this late no one should but Spark’s busy stealing bread again and the rest of the servants pretend cellars don’t exist once the sun goes down

Which makes it perfect

The shelves are uneven jars of crushed leaves, powdered roots, glass bottles filled with liquid the color of bad intentions I run my fingers along the labels, half-faded belladonna wolfsbane ashroot mercyvine

Mercy, what a word humans like to make poison sound poetic when it kills neatly

I pull the last jar down carefully set it next to the half-cracked mortar grind until the smell fills my nose with something bitter, something final

The scrape of pestle against stone feels too loud every noise down here feels like a confession I mix until the powder turns dark, almost blue and my hands shake, maybe from the