Philus repeated. He leaned his little face so close to the necklace that his nose nearly tapped the shell. His fingers were reaching for it, though they never touched the charm. “But for you, my boy – for you it would be just enough - just enough to take a crack at those who have taken everything from you. It wouldbe just enough for a chance to reverse your fortunes. You have only to say the word.”
Jim stared at the necklace. His insides churned and he felt as though he would be sick. It seemed as though his arm wanted to shove the necklace back into his pocket and his legs wanted to run away. But in Jim’s mind, all he could see was a world put right – a world with the Cromiers locked up like animals and Morgan Manor built anew, a proper home for Jim and all his friends. He could build a room, Jim told himself, a whole wing of the new house to honor his father and his mother. Surely that would make up for the cost of this one necklace, would it not?
Jim slowly extended his arm and offered the necklace to Philus. At the last moment he nearly yanked the necklace back and ran away, but Philus pushed the bottle of warm Revenge into Jim’s other hand. Jim felt the heat in one palm and the cool metal in the other.
He let go of the cold silver chain.
“Aha!” Philus announced with a whoop. “Then it is done! A well-struck bargain my boy, and I do believe you came away with the better end of the deal, I do say, I do say. But now, to prepare your concoction!”
Philus leapt from the step, flute to his lips. A rollicking, raucous tune, wild and dangerous, spilled into the night. All by itself the fire whipped into a burning whirlpool of orange and yellow tongues, so bright and so hot that Jim covered his face with his arm and fell back on his seat in the sand. When he dared to look again, he found a black cauldron, perhaps summoned from the dark night itself, hovering above the fire. Water steamed within, frothing and bubbling over the sides.
Philus danced around the cauldron, his fingers flying over the twin-piped flute. Even when the old man stole the enchanted instrument into some hidden pocket, the melody continued to thrum in Jim’s ears, like wind through the trees. From other unseen pockets the tiny man withdrew the potion’s ingredients, chanting their names as he dropped them into his magic brew.
“Three drops of venom, squeezed from a scorpion’s sting!”
“Four yellow petals, torn from Birdsfoot Trefoil!”
“Two black feathers, fallen from Nemesis’s wings!”
“And one rose, cut from Brutus’s garden!”
Every item dipped into the cauldron’s depths sparked the enchanted tincture with thick smoke and flashing color. First came a sickly yellow, then a fiery orange. After that was a bruised purple, and lastly an emerald green. The colors dazzled Jim’s eyes. They were not quite natural colors in the potion, nor quite earthly scents upon the smoke. This was real magic. Jim knew it in his gut and felt it in his bones. It was as real as the Pirate Vault of Treasures or the Amulet of Portunes, both of which Jim had faced during his time in London.
“Now boy, the final touch to bend all the others toward your noble purpose.” Philus danced over to Jim, wrapping his small, strong fingers around Jim’s wrist. Pulling Jim over to the cauldron, Philus unstopped the vial and drew Jim’s hand over the boiling concoction. The heat burned against Jim’s skin and he wanted to snatch his hand away. But Philus was stronger than his small frame belied. He held Jim’s arm firmly in place and carefully, oh so carefully, let slip one perfectly measured drop from the bottle of Revenge into the cauldron’s brew.
The moment the liquid splashed into the potion, smoke and magic erupted in a column of red fire. The explosion threw Jim back from the cauldron and into the sand, his eyes closed tight with fear. When Jim found the courage to open them again, all was calm once more. The fire had died to a lazy
Jim stared at the necklace. His insides churned and he felt as though he would be sick. It seemed as though his arm wanted to shove the necklace back into his pocket and his legs wanted to run away. But in Jim’s mind, all he could see was a world put right – a world with the Cromiers locked up like animals and Morgan Manor built anew, a proper home for Jim and all his friends. He could build a room, Jim told himself, a whole wing of the new house to honor his father and his mother. Surely that would make up for the cost of this one necklace, would it not?
Jim slowly extended his arm and offered the necklace to Philus. At the last moment he nearly yanked the necklace back and ran away, but Philus pushed the bottle of warm Revenge into Jim’s other hand. Jim felt the heat in one palm and the cool metal in the other.
He let go of the cold silver chain.
“Aha!” Philus announced with a whoop. “Then it is done! A well-struck bargain my boy, and I do believe you came away with the better end of the deal, I do say, I do say. But now, to prepare your concoction!”
Philus leapt from the step, flute to his lips. A rollicking, raucous tune, wild and dangerous, spilled into the night. All by itself the fire whipped into a burning whirlpool of orange and yellow tongues, so bright and so hot that Jim covered his face with his arm and fell back on his seat in the sand. When he dared to look again, he found a black cauldron, perhaps summoned from the dark night itself, hovering above the fire. Water steamed within, frothing and bubbling over the sides.
Philus danced around the cauldron, his fingers flying over the twin-piped flute. Even when the old man stole the enchanted instrument into some hidden pocket, the melody continued to thrum in Jim’s ears, like wind through the trees. From other unseen pockets the tiny man withdrew the potion’s ingredients, chanting their names as he dropped them into his magic brew.
“Three drops of venom, squeezed from a scorpion’s sting!”
“Four yellow petals, torn from Birdsfoot Trefoil!”
“Two black feathers, fallen from Nemesis’s wings!”
“And one rose, cut from Brutus’s garden!”
Every item dipped into the cauldron’s depths sparked the enchanted tincture with thick smoke and flashing color. First came a sickly yellow, then a fiery orange. After that was a bruised purple, and lastly an emerald green. The colors dazzled Jim’s eyes. They were not quite natural colors in the potion, nor quite earthly scents upon the smoke. This was real magic. Jim knew it in his gut and felt it in his bones. It was as real as the Pirate Vault of Treasures or the Amulet of Portunes, both of which Jim had faced during his time in London.
“Now boy, the final touch to bend all the others toward your noble purpose.” Philus danced over to Jim, wrapping his small, strong fingers around Jim’s wrist. Pulling Jim over to the cauldron, Philus unstopped the vial and drew Jim’s hand over the boiling concoction. The heat burned against Jim’s skin and he wanted to snatch his hand away. But Philus was stronger than his small frame belied. He held Jim’s arm firmly in place and carefully, oh so carefully, let slip one perfectly measured drop from the bottle of Revenge into the cauldron’s brew.
The moment the liquid splashed into the potion, smoke and magic erupted in a column of red fire. The explosion threw Jim back from the cauldron and into the sand, his eyes closed tight with fear. When Jim found the courage to open them again, all was calm once more. The fire had died to a lazy
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