“Erin, close the door. But not entirely.”

I immediately did so, and the sudden swoosh of my robes snuffed out some of the candles behind me. I left it with just enough open space so that the glow from this room tinged the outside with warm orange.

As soon as I turned around, Wilbur already had a purple powdered gemstone in his hand. It was the brightest color in the room. This was unusual; Wilbur had never loomed over his patients with the raw substance before. It had to be mixed with other solutions. He stooped down close to Anika, his lips ready with the command for healing.

He paused, looked at the bright color of dust in his hand, and turned his head slowly to face me. “It just occurred to me that I have no recollection of the all the gemstones inside my bag. I know that I use them, but I’m not sure I had the strength to mine them.”

Me neither, but we knew who must have collected them for Wilbur. A certain brother who was built like a boulder, who could crush stones with his hands. If only I could imprint my memory of Ealhstan to Wilbur as he and I stared at each other over the little girl, but Ealhstan too must be pushed away for now.

Wilbur took a deep breath and focused on Anika. He scooped up the candle closest to her with his free hand and sprinkled the purple powder on the flame.

The flame turned the same color of purple; an eerie light that blended well with the yellow and orange hues of the other candles. It licked Wilbur’s face three times, then pointed like an arrow at Anika’s figure. She stirred, more restless now. Wilbur then held the purple candle close to her face, the tip of the flame eager to lick her skin.

I poked my head outside. Joan was still rummaging shelves. Claude must have gone outside because I heard shrubs shaking and steps pounding on the dusty ground. Maybe Woodrow will catch on to what was happening and charm them: remove the questions or suspicions in their heads.

I may not remember much, but I do know that Wilbur did not venture outside to mine the ores he will need for experiments, he was right about that. Our memory skips like how one skips stones on the surface of a lake. One moment in my memories, we were waiting idly by the dungeons, then the next memory comes to show that we were unpacking ores and crude gems.

I do remember his experiments using these precious stones, though. Those are where the ripples of my memory were strongest.

Sometimes, his long desks carried the weight of those big ores. Dust and dirt covered his parchments. Sometimes, the ores would already be halved, revealing the rich mineral glinting at its center. Sometimes, he would chip at them, taking only what was necessary.

He spoke to each node, each precious stone and valuable mineral deposit. He combined them with other glinting crystals. He touched them, whispered to them, and his words and hands manipulated their properties as if they were nothing but clay and water.

But plants he had trouble with, especially at our earlier monasteries.

The only time he combined metals with plants was when he needed to heal people, and that was a trickier process, still. Wilbur said once that inorganic compounds were easier to manipulate than organic. We both guessed it was because of the life in them; the little essence of life in every stalk, blade, petal, root, and leaf. So, Wilbur labors, trying to invent potent antidotes and modern medicines and everyday tonics.

Whenever he worked with plants, he looked more like a witch than an alchemist. If he wasn't in his dungeons, or his cell, or the infirmary, Wilbur can be found in his garden under the moon’s different faces. He planted silverspun flowers that only bloomed once every month on a full moon, summer’s breath at the end of spring, and dragontooth chains that exploded when you brushed them before they ripened.

That is how his powers differed from the rest of the brothers, and probably why Blake and Knox sniffed at him so. If I was an abomination, Wilbur was the odd duck among geese. Their powers came in an instant, almost effortless, while Wilbur labored. He needed to learn. He needed to understand. He needed to grow and adapt. There can be no single process that worked exactly the same.

This meant that his power was unpredictable.

“Away with you,” Wilbur said.

Wilbur’s power turned the fused purple flame into vapor. The mist entered Anika’s nose and eyes and lips and ears. It seeped into her pores–everywhere that Wilbur marked, every part of skin he touched when he checked her vitals. I watched Wilbur as his eyes controlled it, saw his fingers bring out an empty bottle from his bag.

Anika coughed. She coughed vehemently, and to my bewilderment, coughed out dust and smoke, like the ones found in the fireplace. The dark smoke went up the air and seemed to slither and writhe. Wilbur spoke to it.

“In here, you vile miasma.” It struggled at first, like it had a mind of its own. But just as Blake controlled almost everyone, just how Woodrow charmed away the wits of men and women, so did the mysterious miasma followed his voice. The smoke went inside the bottle, which Wilbur immediately stoppered. “There we go.”

We looked at each other in triumph until Anika sat upright and gasped for air. It sounded horrible, like we were dunking her head under water. She fell back on her bed twitching and spasming, mouth grotesquely open in a silent scream, her small fingers clawing her throat.

Wilbur held her arms while I pinned her kicking legs. Downstairs, Woodrow chuckled with Joan, her sigh of relief following after. Wilbur reached again within his bag, desperately finding anything to stop her from thrashing. Anika bit her tongue, causing blood to trickle down her lips. And then the blood flowed from her nose and from the corners of her eyes.

Wilbur swore and threw the bag at me. He rummaged in his pockets and found the thing he used for emergencies.

My eyes widened.

I still knew what that was. I did not think he still had one of those left.

It looked like any old stone, until Wilbur kissed it and commanded it to reveal itself. The stone opened up like petals unfurling, for it was a flower camouflaging like a common pebble. It looked like a small chest opening to reveal golden treasure.

The curious flower released a tiny drop of nectar. Wilbur pried Anika’s mouth open and dropped the necter onto her open mouth. Wilbur checked to see if it went down her throat before forcibly shutting her lips tight. We waited, our breaths labored like hers, watching intently.

Anika’s thrashing slowed then finally stopped. The flower in his hand wilted and crumbled into dust.

It was Wilbur’s ultimate medicinal project; a true elixir made from the crossbreeding of many rare plants, which were inventions themselves from his painstaking gardening. He forced that crossbred plant to fuse with the dust particles of other precious stones that were the most susceptible to organic compounds and which were carefully selected for their own healing properties.

And the venom milked from a snake’s fangs. That last part, I did not know where Wilbur got the idea.

He tested it only for people whose sicknesses were too mysterious or too stubborn for Wilbur’s current medicines. Once administered, four out of five people survived their ordeal, with the last one drifting off to what we hoped was a painless final slumber.

This ultimate medicine had no name, but always it crumbled back into dust, using all its properties for that one golden drop. The dust fell into the floor, useless. Joan or Claude would sweep it away later. As I stared at the flower, I was certain that it was the last one in his possession. I was also more certain that it would take a long time for him to make another.

“What kind of sickness is this?” Wilbur shook his head. He answered his own question. “A new one, apparently. An enhanced version of the death-chill that sends its victims into spasms. It has to do with the brain. Or the spine.” He looked at me sharply. “Erin, I’m not sure the medicine will hold. The blood is still leaking. I need you to make me childsplay. All right? You can do that for me, while I study her like this.”

I protested. childsplay was our name for a very adaptable cure-all that acted as the base for all medicinal compounds. The mixture can heal by itself, but it could also enhance or bind the properties of other ingredients. It was simple to make, but the measurements must be precise. “Wilbur, I can’t–”

His eyes shimmered. “Yes, you can. And you shall. You have no choice on the matter.”

It was true. The only outcome was for me to make it now: Anika’s blood demanded it. Her blood, and the terror that will come from Joan and Claude below once they see what we were capable of.

With shaking hands, I grabbed what I needed from Wilbur’s bag. I brought out the phial containing spring water, as well as camomile, cinnamon bark, and glensage. I took a piece of cinnamon, took all the petals of the camomile and inserted them on the large phial. Then, I sprinkled glensage on it. Wilbur, meanwhile, removed his cowl and placed it under Anika, so that her blood would not stain the mattresses.

The tricky part comes with the powdered stones. Wilbur’s fingers can scoop up the exact amount he needed for a formula, but my clumsy fingers would simply spill it on the floor. Or worse, scoop up the wrong measurements. I remember the weighing scale I used for practice; just one smidge that caused an imbalance would cause disastrous results.

Thankfully, I managed to memorize this particular medicine’s ingredients and counted myself fortunate that Blake did not take that memory from me.

I concentrated. From his many labeled jars, I pinched a small amount of soot-like substance and sprinkled it on the phial, then pressed my thumb softly on another jar of thick gold paste. Finally, I plucked thin hairs from a mandrake root and added them to the mixture, swirling them around.

Wilbur quickly checked each time I dipped my finger into his containers and nodded when I used the correct measurements.

“Give it to me. I think I know what to do.” Wilbur fixed his eyes on the phial and commanded it to coagulate. The phial bubbled and thickened. In my hands, it was a disgusting liquid that may cure. In his hands, with his words, the contents sloshed to form a healing balm.

He took the phial with the miasma again and spoke to it. “Behave.” It thundered like an angry black cloud. “Take out the amethyst powder again,” he said to me. Despite the grim situation, I smiled a little. Just a quick one. It was like I was playing his little assistant again, back at the monastery. I opened the lid and handed the dust to him. He did not even have to look to get the right amount. Wilbur unstoppered the bottle holding the miasma. “Fuse. Fuse with the amethyst.”

Some of the miasma hovered over the purple powder. And nothing happened. The particles were at odds with each other. Wilbur furrowed his brows. “Fuse, I said.”

The powder absorbed the miasma unwillingly, and it quickly turned into sludge. Wilbur quickly added this to childsplay, which reacted similarly to the amethyst. It regurgitated the sludge;it would not even let it float on its surface like oil. Wilbur closed it, caged it with both hands, and pressed the phial on his brows, on his lips. He closed his eyes desperately. He chanted, and from this position, he looked like he was praying. “Fuse, fuse, fuse. Bind. Bind. Bind. Mix. Mingle. Accept. Adapt. Fuse…”

He concentrated hard on it, but it boiled and tried to reject the sludge, still. Sweat began to form on Wilbur’s brow with the effort, and to my horror, began to dry out like fish baking in the sun.

His skin started to show his veins.

“Wilbur, wait!” I shouted, but he was done.

He unclasped his hands. Resting between them was a liquid with blobs drifting like jellyfish underwater. It was different, but the potion looked pleasing now, its colors slightly purple and slightly yellow. He put his hand behind Anika’s head and poured the contents into her mouth.

The venom milked from a snake. Antitoxin, was that the word he used before? Was this it? To collect a dangerous substance and add it to something pure to counteract its effect.

We watched her again, preparing for the worst.

The blood had stopped leaking. Her breathing became normal. Wilbur carefully took his cowl and tied it back to the rest of his robes, the fresh blood stains hidden underneath its folds. He touched each stain and murmured them to dry quickly.

He smiled at me, weary. I pointed to his skin, to the veins that had started to appear on his arms. He covered them under his sleeves. His fingers went to his face. I shook my head. The veins stopped showing just below his chin. They also looked much subtler than mine, not so stark as Woodrow's had been. He had stopped using his powers just before he exhausted himself.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

He knew what I meant. "I will admit, there is a primal urge stirring in me to strike you. But not enough to actually do so." He realized something and sighed. "I should apologize to Woodrow."

I appreciated his honesty. "You will never hurt me, Wilbur. Your will is strong. But if it is too much to bear, tell me and I shall give you my blood willingly."

He frowned but said no more.

We had finished just in time. I heard Joan’s steps on the first few boards of their stairs. I hurriedly pushed the door wide open, as it was before.

She walked inside with her hands full of the things Wilbur requested. Claude peered over her shoulder, his hands holding a bucket of green and brown foliage. Both of them were breathless. “We have everything….” Joan looked at her daughter with a curious and shocked expression. We all followed her gaze, except for Wilbur fastening his bag, tight. I heard a few bottles inside clink.

Just like that, Anika's swollen body subsided. She was struggling still, but less so. Her brows unknitted and she actually belched comically. Her hands even removed the thickest blanket that wrapped her torso.

Joan looked in awe, at her daughter and at Wilbur, who was still holding the snuffed-out candle that held purple flame. The stink was disappearing from the room. Claude looked around; its corners, its walls. His brows met, confused. “Something has changed. I don’t… feel heavy anymore.” His eyes went to mine. “I always feel like there was this heavy curtain over us whenever we’re inside here. It’s gone now.”

I shrugged. “Good.”

Joan placed the flowers on the bedside table absentmindedly. The ugly colors that blotched her daughter's skin receded in her recovery. Her mouth trembled unabashedly, and her eyes welled with tears. So were Claude’s when he observed his sister. Joan looked at Wilbur desperately for confirmation, for her hopes to come true, for her fervent prayers to be answered.

Wilbur nodded, and Joan tried not to let all her emotions run free. She focused only on two; joy and relief. Wilbur gave a different-colored thick liquid to her. “It’s a remedy that can stop coughs and shivers. You shouldn’t drink it. It's meant to be inhaled. That’s what I gave her. Smell it.”

Joan brought it close to her nose. “It smells like…” like the things she was holding. Ah. All the things Wilbur wanted to fetch were all a ruse. Or, no wait. It was true. It was the same thing he administered countless times to others, but those with common sickness, not this. “It smells like garlic and glensage, and something else,”

“Wilbur shrugged. “I added menthol. Unfortunately, I have yet to procure more of it, so this is the last bottle I have. Not to worry, though. It is more than enough for her as she recovers.”

I smiled to myself. It was probably the crushed innards of a corpse; perhaps its bones or eyes or hair. The dissected parts of the dead to save lives. Joan took the bottle from him, and she kept it immediately in one of her pockets. Wilbur and Joan locked eyes. “I would appreciate it if you did not tell anyone of this. They may say it was a miracle, but we monks yearn for a secluded life in a dense forest. I hope to establish our domain first and make sure everything is in order first so that we may better serve the people.”

Wilbur did not want to lie to them, but Joan merely nodded, still very much awestruck. She approached Anika, and he immediately went to my side.

Joan touched her daughter’s temple and her cheeks. “Oh, my darling girl.” Then, to us, she said, “what a blessing it was for us when you stumbled into this part of the world. You’ve done what doctors and priests couldn’t do. She kissed her daughter's face. My darling girl, she whispered again. She blinked back tears. “Her skin is warmer.”

With those teary eyes, she stared straight at Wilbur. He looked away, embarrassed, but I smiled. She approached us and grabbed Wilbur’s hands. She kissed them. “My children mean the world to me, monk. If only I could give you something so precious as thanks to cover that magnitude. But all I have is my gratitude. Thank you. Thank you.”

Out of all the villagers who thanked us, this was by far the most genuine and intimate. If only he could blush, Wilbur would be red as a tomato. But he simply let her hold his hands until she let go.

Wilbur coughed, trying to regain his composure. He then told Joan how to use the bottle. “Before bedtime, pour a few drops—five will do–in a basin of hot water, and let her absorb the steam.” There was a question in her eyes that Wilbur answered. “She will wake tomorrow.” He said it with such certainty that Joan once again closed her eyes in joy and relief. “Stop using it once she begins to regain her strength, then keep it somewhere safe and dark and cool for future use.” If only he sounded so sure when he mentioned the future. Tomorrow isn't even guaranteed.

He also told her of the herbs she used. And then he said again, “If only I could show you how my concoction’s done, but you see, some of the ingredients are rare and procured from other foreign places donated by grateful merchants.” It was a safe enough lie, I thought.

“I understand. What’s important is that this will help her. I am truly indebted.” Joan stored the bottle away again. “I wish you can stay for as long as you like. Heaven knows how much we folks need people like you for help.”

“It’s a good thing I insisted on taking you home with me,” Claude said. He too was equal parts dumbfounded and awestruck. Just a moment ago he was appraising Woodrow’s looks, now he looked at Wilbur as if he can cure the whole world. I smiled inwardly. That’s right. Wilbur can be a hero in his own right. And perhaps Wilbur can cure the whole world. A world without Blake, that is.

We saw then the tiredness in her eyes. “Rest, Joan. Your son and I will tidy things up downstairs.” Wilbur stopped. “But, of course, you should spend some time with your sister, Claude. Lessen the blankets once she starts to sweat.”

We had already turned around when Claude gripped both of our robes. He looked resolute. “I won’t let this pass without a proper thanks. If ever you need something on that monastery, I will come help, no questions asked.”

“Oh, Claude, you don’t have to—” I began to say, but he stopped me.

He placed his hand on the charm hanging on his door and pressed his other palm on his chest. “I swear it to the gods and saints and to my father. I will help you.”

It was as if the charm shimmered and tinkled. It must have been a trick, nothing more. Yet, I finally asked Claude what it was. He said, “it was one of my father’s secret creations. He had an old friend before meeting my mother. He said this old friend of his was a master craftsman, who towered over every man, who had a heart soft as a kitten. One of his tall tales, I guess. But their friendship deepened enough for that ‘giant’ to gift him these.”

My stomach dropped. Wilbur breathed hard beside me. He repeated the question he asked me before. “Does this friend of his have a name?”

Claude shrugged. “I forgot. But he was odd, too, though. Even in my father’s tall tales. Said that he only came out at night and lives deep in the forest.” He smiled an easy smile again. “Perhaps all the best ones are strange, and our clan attracts the strangest of the lot.”