Noir by Jacqueline Garlick Read Free Book Online

overdosed, can be a killer. It’s risky, I know, but I don’t know what else to do to stop it. “Don’t look at me like that,” I say to a still-stunned-looking C.L. “I know you know where to find them!”
    C.L. closes his gaping mouth and sets off for the stairs, clearing two at a time, heading off to the forbidden laboratory of Urlick’s father.
    “It’s going to be all right, Cordelia,” I say between breaths. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
    I hope . . .
    Iris appears in the doorway behind me, three different plants in her hands, roots and all. She’s yanked them right out of the ground. She looks frazzled, her hair unpinned, holding the plants out in front of her like a frightened child. “That one,” I say, nodding at the fuzzy, dreary-grey plant in her left hand.
    She drops the others and runs at the sink.
    I keep pumping Cordelia’s chest. “Chop it very fine, very fine, then put it in the boiling pot of water on the stove.” She pulls out a knife.
    C.L. slides into the room, woodworm and aloini in a sling round his neck, medical jars clinking. “Two parts woodworm. One part aloini,” I instruct. “But not until after the water’s come to a full boil!”
    “Isn’t it going to scald her?”
    “Yes, that’s why you’re going to cool it down afterward. Iris, get the ice block!” I turn to her. Iris flies at the icebox, leaving C.L. to man the pot. He nods in my direction and then scoots over, setting the bottles down atop the cupboard, using his foot to dip a wooden spoon into the water and stir it. Bubbles swelter to the top and burst.
    “Now,” I say, and he tosses the potions in. Wafts of offensive smoke rise. Iris drops the ice block from its hooks on the woodwork, next to the stove, and wields the leaves up and over C.L.’s head, dropping them in clumps into the pot.
    “Stir,” I shout. “And quickly!”
    Cordelia’s pulse is slowing.
    Iris and C.L. grab wooden spoons and turn the water over, moving their faces out of the way of the tiny grey heaves of smoke.
    Cordelia still hasn’t moved. Despite my efforts, her breath has still not come back. She is less blue than when I first arrived in the kitchen, but she is still blue. “Come on,” I say, pounding her chest. “Come on, Cor. Work with me, Cordelia! Work with me!”
    “It’s no use, mum.” C.L.’s shoulders fall. He looks across the room at the clock. “It’s been too much time.”
    “Don’t say that!” I snap. Ice water puddles around us. “It’s not over until I say it’s over.” I slam my fists down on her chest again.
    “It’s been nearly five minutes now, mum.” C.L. looks at me through glossy eyes.
    “It’s not too late,” I say, and I pound again. “Do we have a syringe?”
    “I dunno, mum.”
    “Go FIND ONE!” I push air into Cordelia’s mouth again. “Come on, little mite. Take a breath . . .”
    C.L. returns seconds later holding a brass syringe in his toes.
    In school, we practiced suspending the breath of frogs for up to ten minutes with diriethoxy ethane and then successfully bringing them back with a jolt of woodworm and aloini. Here’s hoping things work like that with humans. I swallow, feeling the press of fear drive the last of the oxygen from my lungs.
    Please, Lord, let it work like that.
    I added the leaves to the concoction because I knew what they did for me. If what’s happened to Cordelia is the result of the most severe episode she’s ever experienced, the potency of a whole plant should hopefully release it. I’ve honestly no idea if any of this will work. But what else am I to do? What I’m doing is not working!
    “Fill it up!” I shout. “With the contents of the pot! Then run it under cold water to cool it!” C.L. rushes to fill the syringe, and Iris jumps in, dunking it in a pot of ice water before she passes it to me.
    I take the syringe in my hand, trembling, as I contemplate where best to inject it. The thigh—we used the thigh in the frog.