I slid the burner to the midpoint of the table, then carefully lowered the cooking platform over the top of the flame. Next came the copper pot I had taken from the kitchen. I gingerly placed it on top of the setup, taking time to make sure it was centered. Spilled milk may not be a big deal, but spilled potions were never advisable.

I stood back to admire my handiwork.

Perfect.

Using a Bunsen burner wasn’t the most romantic way to cook up a spell, but it would have to do. I wasn’t about to use the giant cauldron Nora kept hidden in the greenhouse. The only place big enough to operate it was the firepit in the backyard, and Mr. Henderson might be on the lookout. That would really send him over the edge.

I set to grinding the necessary herbs for the spell together with a mortar and pestle, and it didn’t take long for them to react to one another. A strange pungent smell came swirling up to my nose. Charcoal, smoke, and just a hint of sulfur. Again, perfect. Next, I needed something to represent the Graves family. I pulled a hair from the comb Constance had used, then wrapped it around a dried twig I found in one of Nora’s many jars. It was from an arborvitae tree, Latin for the tree of life. In this case, though, it would stand in for a family tree. I placed the herbs and twig into the mini cauldron. Now I needed a base. It could be water, but for this particular spell I had something better. The half a bottle of prune juice. The last glass from it had been served to Constance. Symbolism was always good in spellcasting. I dumped the contents into the pot and cranked up the flame.

A new acrid stench rose up from the brew. Burnt prunes. Not the most pleasant aroma, but then this wasn’t one of Izzy’s spells. Darker magic usually was more pungent.

I wasn’t the only one put off by the scent because the instant my spoon touched the potion to mix it together, Faustus sneezed, making Dog jump.

I hid a smile.

The potion would need a couple of minutes to simmer, so I sat down to practice the spell. Apart from the title, the words had been updated to modern English, but it was still best to go over them a few times to avoid any mistakes.

About ten minutes later, I gave the bubbling stew a sniff, then drained it through a sieve into a mason jar.

“There,” I said, planting my hands on my hips. “That part wasn’t so hard.”

Dog let out a noisy caw.

“I know I’m not done.” I frowned at the bird. “I’m just working myself up to the next part.”

I let the potion cool in the glass for a minute or two before picking it up.

“Okay.” I plugged my nose. “Here goes nothing.”

I tossed the contents into my mouth and swallowed hard. The liquid burned a path down to my stomach.