Ribbing and Runes

still be killed by accident or disease, you understand, but not old age.”
Alchemy was one of the many things I knew very little about. “I thought the alchemist created a stone or something. Isn’t it also called the philosopher’s stone?”
“That’s right. The philosopher’s stone is a substance made of a number of ingredients that the alchemist keeps very secret. If it even exists. It can be a stone. It can also be a powder. The true secret of alchemy isn’t turning base matter into precious metal; it’s eternal youth. But a little of the elixir of life must be taken on a regular basis or it will wear off.”
I didn’t want to get into a big discussion about alchemy with Gran in the middle of a crowded marketplace, but I was interested. I had to admit, I was interested. This could be the solution to the biggest conflict that Rafe and I were going to have in our relationship. I didn’t want to turn into a vampire, but what if I could stay young-looking and extend my natural lifespan? That could be cool. Though I could see that it would be fraught with certain difficulties too. However, it was worth thinking about.
Sylvia was much more positive about the whole elixir of youth thing than my grandmother seemed to be. She said brightly, “Well, you must ask her about it.”
Gran looked grimly at both of us. “Don’t forget that the reason you wanted to speak to her is that you suspect Karmen sold the hex that nearly killed your cousin.”
I admit momentarily I had been so dazzled by the idea of eternal youth that I’d completely forgotten the hex thing. “It doesn’t put her in the best light, does it?”
Once again, Sylvia turned the conversation in a more positive direction. “I still think it would be a good idea to find out what she knows about this youth-inducing potion. If you don’t ask her, I certainly will.”
Gran looked like she would argue and then merely said, “I can’t go with you, much as I’d like to. She didn’t see me, but if she did, I’m sure she would recognize me.”
“And you don’t want her to know you’re a vampire.”
“The less she knows about any of us, the better.”
It was unlike Gran to be so mysterious and dark. She said, “I wish you wouldn’t go. I have a bad feeling in my waters.”
She must really have a bad feeling if she was bringing up her waters. It was a weird, old-fashioned expression that she only used when she was seriously perturbed.
Sylvia said, “Well, you rest your waters in the Bentley. Take Alfred with you. He’d only be in the way. Lucy and I will go and see this witch.”
“What about Clara and Mabel?”
She shook her head and said tartly, “Those bunglers. Best they stay out of it.”
So we decided that Alfred and the other three vampires would visit the Sheep Market, an old coaching inn that was now an indoor collection of antique stalls, while Sylvia and I went to see the witch.
I’d expected to be called into chauffeur duty, since Alfred was busy chaperoning the female vampires, but Sylvia drove the Bentley. I’d never seen her drive before. It suited her, and I told her so.
She glanced at me, not looking best pleased. “It suits me to sit in the back and be chauffeured, like the film star I am.”
“Right. What was I thinking?” The world might have moved on, but Sylvia never forgot that she’d been a glamorous celebrity back in her heyday.
We drove a little way out of town and then down a lane, and at the end of it was a long, low thatched cottage with several outbuildings. It was oddly shaped for a house, and it wasn’t a farm. As she turned off the engine, Sylvia said, “Why, it’s an old pub.” And then I saw that she was right. But there was a cottage next door where presumably the publican had once lived. There was smoke coming from the chimney.
We got out of the car and headed for the cottage. No sign of a doorbell, so I lifted a brass door knocker shaped like a lion’s head and banged it against the old black front door. I could hear the knock echoing inside the house.
There was no answer, so I tried again. And then Karmen popped her head out of the door of the old pub and said, “We’re in here.”
I was disappointed because I wanted to see inside the cute cottage, but Sylvia and I walked to the pub and through the door Karmen was holding open. It was a large space with plenty of windows, though they were small, mullioned windows. The floor was wood, stained and scarred by age and spilled beer—oak, I thought. The long bar remained but was obviously more of a workspace. In front was a workshop and retail store. Where once there would have been bottles of alcohol, now there were pots and jars of skin products. Karmen and her assistant were unloading the leftovers from the market. I smelled the same light scent I’d noticed when Karmen rubbed her hand cream onto my wrist. I introduced Sylvia to Karmen and watched them take stock of each other. Two powerful, vain creatures. Would they bond or loathe each other on sight? It was impossible to tell, as they were both coolly polite.
“What a gorgeous space,” I said, looking around.
“Thank you. Come and see the kitchen. It’s where I brew my potions.”
The old pub kitchen mixed the old with the new. I could swear I still smelled old hops, but I also smelled herbs, noting the top notes of licorice and rosemary. A big gas stove and a series of pots suggested she really produced her creams right here. Hanging from a clothes line were bundles of drying herbs, while jars and bottles and sacks and bags of curious-looking ingredients were stacked neatly on the open shelves. The décor was