The Princess Curse Read Online Free PDF
Author: Merrie Haskell
were missing, making him look roguish and ungodlike.
“You’re not up to more of your mischief, are you?” Marjit’s heavy brows lowered, and she looked pointedly at my herbs.
“No mischief today, Marjit.”
She added her hot stones to the bathwater, and herb-scented steam filled the chamber. She inhaled deeply. “Good. Smells pleasant. Nothing like soup. And well-timed. They’re here.”
Princess Maricara swept in first. She always led the line to remind everyone that she was the Prince’s oldest legitimately born daughter. Or so Marjit said. Otilia arrived second, arm in arm with Nadia. Otilia smiled, and Nadia hesitantly did the same. The others ignored me, and I sneaked out in the chaos of the princesses struggling into their bathing shifts.
Lacrimora, the one who had called me Cabbage Girl the night before, came in as I left. I stepped aside, but she moved close to me, bending her long neck like an angry goose to whisper, “You’d do well to stay out of our tower, Apprentice.” She ended the word with her teeth bared and let the last sound trail in a long hiss: apprentisssssss .
I turned away as though I hadn’t heard her, even though I should have curtsied.
In the herbary, Didina’s worktable was abandoned, though a pile of asphodel flowers awaited her attention. And Brother Cosmin hadn’t arrived yet. He preferred to greet the noonday sun while farting and scratching in his bed. Monks are very attached to their farts and their fleas, or so the nuns always said.
I loved having the herbary to myself. I would straighten the stacked bowls, line up the jars and flasks and terracotta pots on the shelves, arrange the drying herbs on the racks just so , and then sit on my stool and pretend the herbary was mine. I would mentally reorder the shelves and imagine that I stored the herbs by the best preparation methods instead of the hodgepodge ways Brother Cosmin invented. The shelf to the right of the door would be for hot infusions, the shelf to the left for cold ones. On the far wall, decoctions, tinctures, oils, ointments; on the near wall, balms, essences, extracts, syrups, lozenges, and electuaries.
But today, instead of dreaming, I went to pull down Brother Cosmin’s very best book, Saint Hildegard’s Physica , planning to compile a list of herbs good for curse breaking.
I loved reading through Physica ; I regarded Hildegard of Bingen as my personal saint. Hildegard founded and ran two convents, and not only had she run them exceedingly well, she had time to write songs and books, including works on medicinal simples that are read by herbalists everywhere.
But Physica wasn’t on the shelf with the other books. I looked around the herbary and spied it on Didina’s table. I fetched the book and started flipping through. There were interesting sections on reviving people that I copied to my own personal herbal, which was a fan-folded sheet of rescraped parchment filled mostly with drawings of plants that I found hard to distinguish.
Didina came in and settled down at her spot. She picked up her pestle, then noticed me. “What are you doing?”
“Copying. This is in Latin, but I think I mostly understand it.” I frowned then, remembering that Didina didn’t read Latin, or speak it; she could read Church Slavonic haltingly, and some Saxon. So why was Physica on her table? “What were you—”
“You should go collect flowers for the princesses’ posies,” she said.
“I have plenty of time to do that,” I said. “But why were you—” I glanced down at the page I’d been copying from: scrofula of the neck that has not ruptured—
Didina slammed the book closed, glaring at me. But I didn’t pay her any mind—my attention was grabbed by a scrap of vellum that fluttered from between the pages and slipped to the floor.
We both dived under the table after the vellum, but I got there first.
“Plantes Which Confer Vpon the Wearer Invisibilitie” was the title, written in a strange kind
“You’re not up to more of your mischief, are you?” Marjit’s heavy brows lowered, and she looked pointedly at my herbs.
“No mischief today, Marjit.”
She added her hot stones to the bathwater, and herb-scented steam filled the chamber. She inhaled deeply. “Good. Smells pleasant. Nothing like soup. And well-timed. They’re here.”
Princess Maricara swept in first. She always led the line to remind everyone that she was the Prince’s oldest legitimately born daughter. Or so Marjit said. Otilia arrived second, arm in arm with Nadia. Otilia smiled, and Nadia hesitantly did the same. The others ignored me, and I sneaked out in the chaos of the princesses struggling into their bathing shifts.
Lacrimora, the one who had called me Cabbage Girl the night before, came in as I left. I stepped aside, but she moved close to me, bending her long neck like an angry goose to whisper, “You’d do well to stay out of our tower, Apprentice.” She ended the word with her teeth bared and let the last sound trail in a long hiss: apprentisssssss .
I turned away as though I hadn’t heard her, even though I should have curtsied.
In the herbary, Didina’s worktable was abandoned, though a pile of asphodel flowers awaited her attention. And Brother Cosmin hadn’t arrived yet. He preferred to greet the noonday sun while farting and scratching in his bed. Monks are very attached to their farts and their fleas, or so the nuns always said.
I loved having the herbary to myself. I would straighten the stacked bowls, line up the jars and flasks and terracotta pots on the shelves, arrange the drying herbs on the racks just so , and then sit on my stool and pretend the herbary was mine. I would mentally reorder the shelves and imagine that I stored the herbs by the best preparation methods instead of the hodgepodge ways Brother Cosmin invented. The shelf to the right of the door would be for hot infusions, the shelf to the left for cold ones. On the far wall, decoctions, tinctures, oils, ointments; on the near wall, balms, essences, extracts, syrups, lozenges, and electuaries.
But today, instead of dreaming, I went to pull down Brother Cosmin’s very best book, Saint Hildegard’s Physica , planning to compile a list of herbs good for curse breaking.
I loved reading through Physica ; I regarded Hildegard of Bingen as my personal saint. Hildegard founded and ran two convents, and not only had she run them exceedingly well, she had time to write songs and books, including works on medicinal simples that are read by herbalists everywhere.
But Physica wasn’t on the shelf with the other books. I looked around the herbary and spied it on Didina’s table. I fetched the book and started flipping through. There were interesting sections on reviving people that I copied to my own personal herbal, which was a fan-folded sheet of rescraped parchment filled mostly with drawings of plants that I found hard to distinguish.
Didina came in and settled down at her spot. She picked up her pestle, then noticed me. “What are you doing?”
“Copying. This is in Latin, but I think I mostly understand it.” I frowned then, remembering that Didina didn’t read Latin, or speak it; she could read Church Slavonic haltingly, and some Saxon. So why was Physica on her table? “What were you—”
“You should go collect flowers for the princesses’ posies,” she said.
“I have plenty of time to do that,” I said. “But why were you—” I glanced down at the page I’d been copying from: scrofula of the neck that has not ruptured—
Didina slammed the book closed, glaring at me. But I didn’t pay her any mind—my attention was grabbed by a scrap of vellum that fluttered from between the pages and slipped to the floor.
We both dived under the table after the vellum, but I got there first.
“Plantes Which Confer Vpon the Wearer Invisibilitie” was the title, written in a strange kind