The Water and the Wild by Katie Elise Ormsbee Page B

fresh-cut flower buds. Next to the abacus sat a massive leather-bound book that looked too thick to be a dictionary, yet too thin to be a proper encyclopedia.
    Mr. Wilfer harrumphed and lit a pipe that quivered between his lips. The dusky smell of tobacco crept into Lottie’s nostrils, and it reminded her of being much younger, when Mr. Yates had been alive and had smoked a pipe religiously, three times a day. Lottie shook her head of the faint memory and tried her best to sit up straight in her chair.
    â€œAre you the letter-writer?” she asked.
    â€œI am.”
    Lottie looked at the rumpled old man uncertainly.
This
was the source of her birthday presents?
    â€œWell, then, Mr. Wilfer,” she began, “I’m not sure where this is or how I got here. I only came because Adelaide told me that you have a medicine to make Eliot better.”
    Mr. Wilfer released a puff of smoke. The firelight glinted off his goggles, so Lottie could not tell whether he was looking at her.
    He spoke quietly. “You’ve always had a very firm idea of what you want, Lottie Fiske, ever since your first letter. I trust all of your previous presents arrived in good condition?”
    â€œOh!” Lottie whitened. She was, she realized, being exceptionally rude. The letter-writer had given Lottie many presents over the years. “Um, yes. Of course. Thank you very much. They were all nice presents. That is, except for that one book about the fairy queen.”
    Mr. Wilfer raised an eyebrow over his goggles. “You don’t like fairy tales?”
    â€œShould I?” she asked.
    â€œIt would be helpful if you did,” said Mr. Wilfer, “as I’m a fairy myself. A
sprite,
to be precise. We sprites and your Earth’s fairies share old blood.”
    Lottie blinked.
    â€œBut you can’t be something magical,” she said sensibly. “You’re a doctor.”
    â€œI’m a healer, yes,” said Mr. Wilfer, standing up. “And that is, currently, the most important point of our conversation.”
    There was a glass case resting on the study’s mantel-piece, and it was to this case that Mr. Wilfer now directed his attention. He turned his back to Lottie, and she heard the sound of a key opening a lock. Mr. Wilfer returned to the desk and sat down. In one hand, he still held his pipe. The other hand he extended to Lottie. He uncurled his fingers to reveal a squat, square vial in his palm. It was filled with a liquid colored the most anxious of reds.
    Lottie scooted her chair closer. On the vial was a label written in thin, scrawling script:
Otherwise Incurable
.
    Lottie read the label out loud and looked up. “Does it really work?” she whispered, reaching out. “Does it cure incurable things?”
    Mr. Wilfer retracted the bottle before Lottie could touch it. “I’m afraid the whole matter still requires . . . time.”
    â€œBut,” Lottie said, “Eliot doesn’t have time. He’s only got weeks left!”
    â€œMedicine,” said Mr. Wilfer, “is like magic. You cannot rush it. You cannot pinch it off and tie it up, clean and neat. You cannot make it behave. This potion”—he tapped the vial—“has become my life’s work, and much as I’ve tried these past months to expedite the process, I am still missing one important ingredient.”
    â€œWhat sort of ingredient?” asked Lottie.
    Mr. Wilfer raised a hand. “There are things I still need to explain to you.”
    Lottie did not see what else needed explaining. If one missing ingredient was all that kept Eliot from getting better, nothing else could possibly matter. Then again, Mr. Wilfer was the one with a medicine in his hand. She nodded begrudgingly.
    â€œWhat’s this?” she asked, poking her finger against the spine of the massive book on his table. “Does this tell you how to make your