Guardian Hound Read Free Page A

the words.
    â€œThe pleasure is mine,” Petra replied. “ Grandmama said you were making a potion.”
    â€œMy grandpapa was an Apotheker ,” Hans explained. He’d given this reason a lot. “I’m just experimenting with some of his recipes. I work in the Laboratorium .”
    â€œHow exciting!” Petra said with another charming smile.
    After a few moments of awkward silence, Hans said, “I, uhm , must go now. Nice to meet you.”
    â€œYou’ll have to tell us how the experiment went,” Petra replied.
    â€œAnd be careful!” Old Engel called out, always having to get in the last word.
    # # #
    Hans found it appropriate that the night he was finally ready to cast the final spells was Johannisfest , Midsummer’s Eve.
    If they’d still been in the countryside, all his relatives would have gathered in the village square that night for a bonfire, though several families would also have their own celebrations on their farms. They would have ritually sacrificed dried hops to clear away any bad spirits. After the ceremonies, the teenaged boys would take turns daring each other to jump over the flames from farther and farther away.
    Here, in Hildesheim, there was only the one big bonfire in the market. However, they also had fireworks.
    Hans was disappointed that he’d miss those, but he really wanted to finish his spell. He’d taken to trying little spells, easy things from Grandpapa’s books, slaving away at the hot wood-burning stove. He’d explained it to Father as practice for the lab, experiments with precise measurements and exact timing.
    Father had been pleased that Hans was finally showing such an interest. And Master Koenig hadn’t threatened to send him home early again, though Hans suspected that if this spell didn’t work, come the end of the year he would be out of the Laboratorium .
    Hans hated it all. He hated the hot stove and had burned himself frequently. While Grandpapa’s concoctions had been pungent, Hans’ frequently reeked. He’d never been good at magic, but he worked at it, determined to prove himself.
    Father left to go celebrate with the rest of the town—and to drink himself into unconsciousness, Hans suspected. So Hans worked in an empty house that night.
    Hans put on his white lab coat over his navy blue work shirt. He was already sweating in the tiny kitchen, but he wanted some protection from the splatters. The single tiny window looked out over the backyard and their square of greenery, but it didn’t provide much fresh air. A white-painted kitchen table sat in the center of the room, its top covered with the various potions, herbs, and charms Hans had already prepared. In the corner was a stained copper sink, with a crotchety hand pump for bringing up water.
    A black cast-iron stove hulked against one wall, already filled with burning firewood. Hans had two pots boiling on top, ready for the final herbs.
    After sharpening his knives with a whetstone, Hans started cutting up the peppermint, mugwort , and valerian. The cool scents mingled and reminded him of Grandpapa. Hans used the plain gray stone mortar and pestle to grind up the star anise and cloves, and to crush the periwinkle petals.
    Hans moved as slowly and methodically as he could, going back to check the recipe more than once. He found himself rushing, though. Finally, the night was here when he could do something about his life. If this spell worked, his whole life could be different.
    The first step of the preparation for the thorn apple leaves was already complete. Hans had pounded them with the mortar and pestle, covered them with water and lard, put them into an old earthenware pot, then let them sit for a day. When he lifted off the lid, he had to take a step back as the astringent, musty smell came rolling out.
    Old Engel had been right. They were powerful. But Grandpapa had said two cups of the leaves, so that’s what Hans