Chapter 68 Ivy

Chapter 68 Ivy
Morning light spills into the apothecary in soft, honeyed bands, warming the stone floor and catching in the glass bottles that line the shelves. It turns the room into a quiet mosaic of gold and amber. Normally, this is where my thoughts slow and settle.

Today… not so much.

I stand at the central worktable, dark brown hair pulled back loosely, a few stubborn strands slipping free to brush my cheeks. My fair skin still holds a hint of morning cool as I measure dried root into the mortar, but my dark brown eyes keep drifting—away from the work, away from the present.

Back to last night.

To Luca in my doorway. To the steadiness of his mossy green eyes. To the way his voice softened when he said he cared. The memory hums under my skin like a held note, warm and distracting and entirely inconvenient.

The pestle moves too slowly.

“Ivy.”

Zeus’s voice cuts through my thoughts with clean precision.

I blink and look up. He stands across from me, broad and solid, stocky build filling the space without effort. His salt‑and‑pepper hair is combed back neatly, matching the short beard that frames his mouth. His skin is slightly tanned, weathered in the way of someone who has lived outdoors and paid attention. In front of him, his tincture is already perfectly measured, sealed, and labeled.

“You’re not here,” he says calmly.

Heat rises to my cheeks. “Sorry. I—”

“Focus,” he says, not unkindly. “Distraction ruins medicine faster than ignorance.”

Edward, sprawled dramatically on a stool nearby, immediately perks up.

“Oh?” he says, gray eyes glinting with amusement. “Is that what we’re calling it now—distraction?”

I shoot him a look. Edward only grins wider. With his dark brown hair artfully disheveled and his well‑built frame stretched lazily across the stool, he looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“Mind your business,” I mutter.

“My business,” Edward replies cheerfully, flexing his shoulders as if to remind the room he’s built very well indeed, “is making sure my baby sister doesn’t accidentally poison herself while daydreaming.”

Zeus exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Edward.”

“What?” Edward says innocently. “I’m supervising. Also learning. I did study modern medicine.”

Zeus doesn’t even blink. “You skimmed medical journals to flirt with interns.”

Edward places a hand over his chest. “That is a cruel oversimplification. I graduated top of my class, thank you very much.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. The sound breaks the tension, grounding me back in my body, back in the room. Zeus’s mouth twitches despite himself.

“Well at least Edward is good for something,” Zeus says. “Now that you’re with us again—tell me why your alcohol ratio is off.”

I glance down at my jar and immediately see it. Too much solvent. Too little patience.

“Too high,” I admit. “I was thinking about—” I stop myself, then correct, “—about extraction speed.”

Zeus nods once. “Better. Tinctures punish divided attention.”

Edward leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Alright,” he says. “Serious question. Since I’m the only one here who believes in peer‑reviewed studies.”

I roll my eyes fondly. “Go on.”

“What makes tinctures better—or worse—than other herbal remedies?” he asks. “From a modern medicine perspective.”

Zeus decides this is a good way to test me. He gestures toward me. “You answer.”

I straighten, grounding myself fully now, and lift the jar so the liquid catches the light. “Tinctures are efficient,” I say. “They extract compounds that water can’t. Alcohol pulls resin‑based and fat‑soluble properties—things teas leave behind.

Edward nods slowly. “So… stronger.”

“More controlled,” I correct. “They’re shelf‑stable, predictable, and easier to dose. From a modern standpoint, they’re closer to pharmaceuticals—consistent variables, repeatable results.”

Zeus watches me closely, approval unmistakable. “Good.”

“But,” I continue, “they’re not always appropriate. Alcohol isn’t ideal for everyone. Teas are better for hydration and fast relief. Poultices for localized treatment. Powders for gentler ingestion. Modern medicine values speed; old medicine values balance.”

Edward whistles softly. “Look at you—ancient wisdom with modern logic.”

Zeus seals his jar with a decisive motion. “She’s bridging disciplines,” he says. “That’s rare.”

I smile, feeling centered again. The distraction of last night settles into something warmer now—no longer pulling me away, but anchoring me.

Edward watches me with open pride. Zeus with quiet respect.

The mortar moves in a steady rhythm beneath my hands again, the scent of crushed herbs rising warm and sharp in the air. I’m just starting to feel fully settled—focused—when the door to the apothecary flies open.

“Mama?”

The word is out of my mouth before I even think.

Our mother rushes in, heels clicking sharply, pastel power suit immaculate as always despite her obvious hurry. Soft lavender today, tailored to perfection. Her blonde hair is swept back neatly, not a strand out of place, but her gray eyes are wide—alert in the way that makes my stomach tighten.

Edward straightens instantly, all laziness gone. Zeus turns, brows drawing together.

“What’s wrong?” Edward asks at the same time Zeus says, “Is Ivy alright?”

Mama’s gaze flicks to me first—always to me—scanning from my face to my hands like she expects to find blood or bruises she somehow missed. Her shoulders ease just a fraction when she finds none.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, wiping my hands on a cloth. “Mama, what happened?”

She exhales, one perfectly manicured hand lifting to her chest as if she’s only just remembered to breathe. “Nothing—nothing has happened,” she says, and the way she says it tells me that something absolutely has.

Edward steps closer to me, gray eyes sharp. “You don’t burst into Ivy’s apothecary like this for nothing.”

Mama presses her lips together, clearly weighing her words. Zeus watches her the way he watches volatile compounds—careful, patient, ready to intervene.

Then she softens, just a little, and her expression shifts from alarm to something more complicated. Fond. Emotional. Almost… guilty.

“I just realized,” she says slowly, “that your birthday is only a few days away.”

The room stills.
My hands pause mid‑movement.

“My… birthday?” I repeat.

Edward blinks. “That’s what this is about?”

Mama nods, eyes still on me. “With everything that’s been happening—your recovery, the investigation, the lessons—I nearly let it slip by. And that simply will not do.”

Zeus relaxes slightly but stays quiet. Edward lets out a breath, half relieved, half suspicious. “You scared us half to death.”

Mama waves him off absently. “You’ll live.”

Her gaze returns to me, softer now, but there’s something else behind it. Purpose. Intent.

“We need to talk about it,” she says. “Soon.”

A strange, prickling sensation crawls up my spine—not fear, not exactly. Anticipation. The kind that comes before a storm or a surprise you’re not sure you’re ready for.

“Talk about… what?” I ask.

Mama gives me a sinister smile.

And for the first time since she entered the room, she doesn’t answer.