Excerpts from WordBound

He picked up a jar containing a purple fungus that pulsed rhythmically. “You know the catacombs beneath the Manor? They used to extend under the greenhouse. Back when the original Murkmire foundation was a bit more… pagan.”

Rea’s spine stiffened. “Pagan?”

“Oh yes. Before your Grandfather List made everything respectable. There were rituals. Circles, some odd mulch recipes and a certain reverence for rot.”

“You always sound like you’re joking, but you never laugh.”

“I laugh in spores. You’ve never developed the ears to hear them.” He stared at her from behind his wire-framed glasses, looking so sincere. She was unsure if he was serious.

She smiled, despite herself. “Why hasn’t anyone told you more about what’s going on? You have so much knowledge.”

He looked away, toward a jar of something glowing faintly orange. “Because I’m a List, but not the kind they trust. I see too much. And I never learned to keep secrets. Only to preserve them in agar where they can be seen and dissected.”

“Maybe the Family could use a little less secrecy.”

“And a little more mold? I agree.”

He led her down a narrower catwalk, where a misting system hissed softly overhead. One terrarium was filled with vines that curled toward Rea as she passed. Another contained a damp, gnarled root system that pulsed in slow rhythm. The air here was warmer and denser.

The lab hummed around her, like the sound of breathing in a thousand directions. “Thank you, Uncle.”

He turned back and patted her arm with a slightly moist glove. “You be careful, my little bee. Some soil remembers what it grew and some roots bite back. At least I think that’s what happened to that visiting scientist last month.”

He gestured at a large amorphous shape, more a mound, covered in thick green moss with tiny yellow three petal flowers across it.

“Oh, and while I have you, I meant to mention this earlier, your galah is doing quite well.”

She froze. “My… Wait. Winkle? Winkle’s alive?”

“Flourishing,” he replied. “Resides in the center of the maze now. Bit of a legend among the gardeners. Sings opera at sunrise. Mimics snoring with eerie accuracy. Refers to one of the staff as ‘mossbrain’ with unsettling clarity.”

Rea felt something bloom in her chest. It was an uncomplicated, sudden joy and it lit her from the ribs outward.

“I thought she’d flown off,” she whispered. “Or forgotten me.”

“She hasn’t. I passed by last week and she asked, ‘Where’s Rea, guru of glug?’ Followed by a rendition of ‘Ave Maria’ and a raspberry.”

Rea laughed aloud, hand to her mouth. “That’s her. I’m going to find her tomorrow first thing.”

“She’ll be insufferably pleased. Take the west path. She’s nested in the old lemonwood. The one that looks like a haunted wishbone.”

Then, too casually, Rea asked, “Hey. Weird question. Do we still have those little jungle toads in the conservatory? Pale green, translucent, and very… sneaky.” She nodded slowly. “Some of them were poisonous, right?”

“Extremely,” Uncle Vita exclaimed, brightening like a lecturer on his favorite tragic topic. “The Inkblots excrete a mild hallucinogen. Nothing fatal unless concentrated. The Whisper frogs, on the other hand, produce a paralytic compound when stressed. Very elegant defense mechanism. Rare and difficult to harvest. Timing is essential. Crucial to some of my brews.”

Rea kept her tone even. “Could someone… extract that? Use it creatively?”

“Oh yes,” he agreed pleasantly. “If dried and distilled properly, it’s quite effective. The effect is subtle but potent. Miss your mark by half a gram and it’s useless. Hit it right and… well. It’s the sort of thing old apothecaries used to label ‘for cautious experimentation only.’”

“Good to know,” Rea murmured.

A silence followed. Then, without warning, Vita turned his head and gave her a sidelong glance. The corners of his mouth twitched into a knowing smile. “You’ve always been clever, Rea. Curious. Analytical. Not unlike myself.”

She wasn’t sure how to respond. She waited for her uncle to continue.

“I know when I’m being interrogated,” he added.

Rea froze, pulse suddenly loud. His tone hadn’t changed. He still looked entirely calm like a man enjoying a relaxing midnight stroll.

A pause stretched between them, the buzzing of a bee the only sound in the room now. The silence was heavy and expectant.

“I’ll be watching, sister,” Tip Toes added. “Not from where you think. You know I like the places people forget to look.” He turned and began to walk. Then paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame. He looked at Ve Toes.

“Something is happening,” he whispered. “Something vast and I am outside its reach. For now.” Then he vanished again, as he had appeared. Ve did not move. Not until the quiet returned fully. Then her hands resumed their rhythm.

Thunk. Clack. Draw.

The pattern curled again. She thought of Rea List. Why had her mother chosen her? Ve had examined this question from every conceivable angle since the Solicitor first announced it. No reason held up to scrutiny. Nothing presented itself to her, made her able to understand why such a choice would be made. A wrong choice, clearly. Ve may not be able to piece it all together yet, but as her pattern was slowly appearing, so too would the answer to this mystery. Why Rea?

Thunk. Clack. Draw.

And who had murdered her mother? She had already dealt with her fleeting feelings of grief. What mattered now was discovering who. Who would benefit from Stilet’s death? Just because Rea had been away, didn’t clear her of guilt. Murders could be arranged by texts nowadays. And money had never been an issue for either Family.

Could Rea have somehow known about the inheritance? And what was the actual Family Fortune? She still didn’t know. So many questions, so few answers. She shook her head, clearing it and returned to the moment. She focused on her weaving, but the normally soothing actions brought no solace.

Thunk. Clack. Draw.

She pulled the weft hard and the fibers trembled as they tightened into form. Although Ve was uneasy, Murkmire listened and found comfort in the repetition of her work.

Thunk. Clack. Draw.

“Ah,” Mystica List uttered not opening her eyes, her words as breath fogging a window: there, then gone. “The knowledge-gathering frog returns to the pond.”

Rea rolled her eyes but smiled. “Good morning, Aunt Mystica. How’s old age treating you?”

The old mystic’s eyes snapped open. “Not old, dear one. I am precisely as aged as I need to be today.” She gestured to a stool across from her. “Sit. The Trefello cards have been restless, they say it is time.”

“Time for what?” Rea asked, settling in.

“To be shuffled with purpose. To speak aloud what is already known. And to whisper what must not yet be heard.”

Mystica spread her deck of Trefello cards in a wide fan, fingers fluttering like wings. Rea watched in wary silence as Mystica’s hands hovered, trembled, then plucked three cards from the spread and laid them before her.

“The Gemini, reversed. The Gentle Grip. The Weave.”

Mystica inhaled deeply, letting the incense swirl around her. “The past. You have experienced a sudden sundering,” she breathed, tapping the Gemini card. “Bonds bisected. Sequestered. Painful but necessary. This was the decision that shaped your reality.”

“When Mother sent me away to school.” Rea interjected.

“Perhaps,” Mystica replied, her voice carefully neutral. “Or it may be even older, when something was cleaved so deeply…” she faded away.

She moved her finger, gemstone rings sparkling, to point at The Gentle Grip. “The now.” Mystica smiled warmly. “Tame the surge of emotion. Anger, fear, power, whatever it may be. Use patience and steady will. A soft control beats force my dear.”

Rea considered all that was going on within the walls of Murkmire. With a few things, or people, patience would be difficult on a good day.

She moved to the final card, The Weave. “The future. A synthesis, many strands becoming one pattern. A collaboration that holds, with systems aligning.”

Rea felt a chill despite the warm, fragrant air.

“What should I do?” Rea pursued, knowing somehow that Aunt Mystica was having a true seeing.

“Think before reacting. The Weave also shows that the power of many can be stronger than the individuals. A gestalt. This is your future Rea, both soon and ongoing. Do not forget yourself.”

“Sounds like I need to avoid unthinking reactions. Be open to integrating other ideas instead of choosing the obvious or easy one.” At least Rea’s pragmatic nature would be of use in the days ahead. She hoped.

“Indeed. More rides on your success than you realize child.” Mystica flicked her wrist. The Trefello Deck vanished back into the velvet pouch.

Rea gave a mock bow as she rose. “Thank you, O Cryptic One.”

Mystica sniffed. “You’ll thank me later.”

She turned back to her cards, but Rea paused at the threshold. “Aunt Mystica?”

“Yes?”

“We found something,” she explained the photos and the third sister.

“The secrets of the past are just that, dear. Secrets.” Mystica gestured widely with her hand, silk sleeves flowing. “I use my Velare Crystal to keep up with current events.”

Rea shivered. “You’re not going to be more specific?”

“What fun would that be?” Mystica responded with a laughing cackle.