“Certain plants, roots. We’ll harvest herbs on the way back. Bones would be good if I can find them.”

“Bones?”

“Bird, lizard, small mammals. Natural things that can be used for my purposes. I’ll have to send for some of the more complex ingredients, or things that don’t grow here, but we can increase my supplies. Here, these poppies to start.”

He showed her how to harvest plants, roots, leaves. When he identified something unfamiliar to her, she sketched it.

Back at the villa he taught her how to use the mortar and pestle, how to jar and label.

“It’s not all a snap of the fingers or flick of the wrist.” She noted down the steps for distilling poppy in her sketchbook.

“Power should come from work, time, effort. Care,” he added. “As the most important things do. I’m used to doing this sort of thing on my own,” he admitted. “Or with another magician. But you’re a quick study, and what you can do here saves some of that time.”

“It matters to me.”

“I see it does.”

“You could show me more. The medicines especially. You and Doyle both think this last attack was a test, and the next will be worse.”

“I do.” He held a hand over a small, bubbling cauldron, gauging its progress.

“I can feel the wounds, if I let myself. But I don’t know how to use what you make to treat them. Or not enough.”

“I need to learn more myself, as this has never been my area. We’ll work on it.” Through the thin haze of smoke, he looked at her. “Together.”

He gave her a book on the healing arts. She decided to take an hour by the pool to study it, at least acquaint herself with the basics.

She made notes of her own on using comfrey for burns, milk thistle for sprains. How to prepare echinacea for its many uses. She glanced up when she saw Doyle some distance away on the lawn, apparently making something out of . . . canvas or burlap.

Alone, of course, she thought with a twinge of resentment.

She spotted Riley cresting the little rise, coming toward the pool carrying two wide-mouthed glasses filled with icy liquid.

“Magnificent Margaritas,” Riley said, and held one out.

“Thanks.”

“Still mad?”

Sasha took a sip—it was pretty magnificent. “I’m tired of being mad.”

“Then I’m sitting down. Heavy reading,” she added with a glance at the thick book with its carved leather binding.

“I’m going to learn how to help Bran treat injuries.”

“You did a lot of that this morning, without the book. I didn’t handle myself very well,” Riley continued. “Changing in front of an audience—and I was a little racked up initially. And Apollo . . .”

“Where is he?”

“He went down to the beach with Annika. He’s fine. Like nothing happened.”

“And you?”

“Like I said, if I’m injured as the wolf, I heal fast, even after the change. Look, I get a lie of omission is still a lie, but—”