Thirteen

One, two, three, four; the time has come to even the score,

Five, six, seven, eight; tell me who should bear this weight,

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve; there are places where you should ne'er dwell,

Where thirteen is the death knell, the Devil's Child shall rise to conquer fate.

"Eye of newt, fur of rat,

Scale of snake, wing of bat,

Sprig of hemlock, branch of yew,

Turn this water into Witch's Brew."

Johanne mutters to himself as he stirs clockwise thirteen times. The potion in the cast-iron cauldron hanging over the hearth bubbles away merrily, a fluorescent purple that does not reflect the ingredients used to create it. He leaves the stirring rod in the cauldron and runs a finger across the next line in his book, telling him to let the potion simmer for twenty-six minutes exactly.

Twenty-six. Double thirteen.

He does not understand the significance behind this number 'thirteen.' Why did the Ancients fear it so much, to the point of including it into every aspect of their lives? Is it because of its indivisibility by any number aside from itself and one? Or the fact that it is an odd number, an omen of bad luck?

He shakes his head with a sigh. The Ancients were too superstitious, in his opinion. They're the reason that this city is cursed in the first place.

Johanne moves over to the tiny circular window in the wall, from which he can catch a glimpse of the city beyond. He longs to be out there with the rest of them, rather than stuck in this room of thirteen by thirteen feet and brewing potions for a living. But he can't leave without permission; the door is locked from the outside and warded to prevent escape. They let him out use the toilet three times a day, always accompanied by a guard. Meals are also magicked into his room three times a day, and the dishes vanish as soon as they are empty. He has no company save for his books and all of the glass jars of ingredients lining the shelves along one wall.

It's lonely.

He stays there by the window until twenty-six minutes are up, then picks up his stirring rod again and swirls the potion thirteen times again, this time counter-clockwise. He picks up the crushed nightshade petals on his ingredients tray with a pair of tongs and drops them into the potion one by one, directly in the center of the vortex created by his vigorous stirring. When the last petal falls, the potion turns a deep, velvety blue. Perfect.

He ladles the potion into thirteen glass vials, stoppering them carefully to avoid any spillage. Then he places them into the black wicker basket by the door, where they will be taken away by the Head Potioneer at the end of the day.

The cauldron must be scrubbed and rinsed clean before he can begin work on another potion. Johanne grabs his heat-neutralizing gloves and lifts the hot cauldron out of the hearth, setting it inside the sink to wash.

But before he can begin, a series of sharp knocks sound out against the door. Startled, Johanne knocks his elbow against the surface of the cauldron and hisses at the sharp burn. "Yes, who is it?" he calls, sparing a moment to briefly run cool water over the affected area.

The lock clicks from the outside and the door opens inward. A tall, dark-skinned man adorned in a charcoal gray, double-breasted suit steps in, his golden eyes surveying the room with distate.

Johanne immediately kneels on the floor, his head bowed. "Welcome, Sir Damon. How may this humble potioneer assist you today?"

Sir Damon J. Kingfisher is the head of the city's most prominent merchant's guild, Lumina. It would be an understatement to say that he is a man of great wealth and importance. For Johanne, who is stuck as a fourth-tier potioneer, it is vastly intimidating to have such a high-ranking man coming, presumably, to see him.

The man's intense stare does not waver from him for thirteen long seconds, making the tiniest hint of nervous sweat bead on Johanne's brow, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

"Rise," Sir Damon commands. Johanne shakily climbs to his feet, but keeps his eyes focused on the tips of the man's polished wingtip shoes. "State your name."

"Johanne, sir."

Sir Damon gives a noncommittal hum. He looks down at the wicker basket by the door and picks one of the vials up. Johanne fists his stained apron to quell his nerves as the man examines the potion within.

"You brewed this." He says it matter-of-factly, rather than a question. Something in Johanne settles at the implied acknowledgment of his brewing skills, soothing feathers that he hadn't even known were ruffled.

"Yes, sir. Freshly-made Witch's Brew, just finished a few minutes ago," he says, trying to keep any pride from leaking into his voice. He dares to glance up at the man's face, before quickly dropping his eyes back down.

Sir Damon swirls the vial thoughtfully, then sets it back into the basket. "What tier are you?"

"Fourth-tier, sir."

The man's golden eyes narrow at him. "Fourth-tier? That is unacceptable. You should be ranked first-tier, at least."

Johanne feels his eyes sting with unshed tears. "The Head Potioneer does not think that I'm good enough to advance, sir," he whispers, the familiar lump of anxiety swelling dangerously in his breast.

"Utter drivel. Come with me." Sir Damon grabs Johanne by the wrist and tugs him towards the door, uncaring of the way that Johanne stumbles clumsily over his own feet in surprise.

"Wh—S-Sir Damon?" Johanne stammers. "I-I'm not supposed to leave this room. The wards—"

Sir Damon snorts, "Such flimsy wards are of no trouble to me." He snaps his fingers and the door is blown clean off of its hinges, alarming the guard stationed outside of the room.

"Sir Damon! You can't bring that mongrel outside," the guard protests when Sir Damon steps through the doorway. "He is to stay in that room at all times—"

The dark-skinned man pins the guard with a glare that instantly shuts him up and makes him quake in his boots. "Do you presume that you can tell me what to do?" Sir Damon says, low and threatening.

"N-no, sir," the guard squeaks.

"Precisely. Now bring us to your master. I wish to have a word with her."

Meanwhile Johanne stares down at the ruins of the door with equal parts shock and awe. The door that had, for so long, represented the forbidden gateway to his freedom. The entire number thirteen etched into the front of the door had been obliterated, erasing one of his innumerable ties to that cursed number. He doesn't know what to call the unknown emotion in his chest. Joy? Sorrow? Disbelief? Fear? Perhaps all of the above, or somewhere in between?

He forgets that Sir Damon is still gripping on to his wrist until the man is tugging on him again, forcing him to follow the other two men through the winding hallways towards the Head Potioneer's quarters. The only sound comes from the echo of their shoes against the linoleum floor; the guard is too scared to speak, Johanne is too shocked by this unexpected turn of events to fill the silence, and Sir Damon's face looks like it could be carved from stone.

Ten minutes later, they arrive at the Head Potioneer's chambers. The guard knocks frantically, barely managing to step back before the door is violently flung open by a snarling woman clad in bright green scrubs, who yells, "What part of 'do not disturb me' do you not understand?" Then her gaze falls upon Sir Damon and her eyes bulge unattractively in their sockets. "S-Sir Damon! My goodness, I apologize for my uncouth behavior just now. Had I known you were stopping by today, I would have come to greet you." She smoothes down her hair and attempts to look presentable despite the hideous neon color of her clothes.

Sir Damon appears unimpressed with her, judging by the tight press of his lips into a thin line. "Miss Grenille, I have come to discuss an important matter with you, yes, but do not forget your place. I do not answer to you, you answer to me."

"Y-yes, forgive me, sir," she stutters, taking half a step backwards. Johanne shrinks back when she finally sees him standing behind the taller man and her fragile mask of faux admiration shatters in an instant. "You! What the hell are you doing outside of your room, you worthless little rat—" Johanne tries to tug his wrist out of Sir Damon's vice-like grip in vain as she flings all manner of insults at him, apparently forgetting exactly whose presence they are currently in for all that Sir Damon tends to command attention wherever he goes.

Sir Damon doesn't release Johanne from his grasp. Instead, he steps between him and the Head Potioneer with a thunderous expression on his face. "You are out of line, Head Potioneer Judith Grenille," he says frostily.

"I beg your forgiveness, sir, but that boy should not leave his room," she spits with such vitriol that Johanne wonders if he had perhaps been a murderer in his past life to warrant such intense hatred towards himself. Her pale-blue eyes are wild with madness, glassy, as if she's superimposing another image over the sight of him. "He is a descendant of the Vernes family, and the thirteenth child, no less! Rumors have it that he was born on the night of the new moon and killed his mother in childbirth. Surely you understand what that means, Sir Damon? This boy will bring ruin upon us if he's unleashed into the world. He is the Devil's Child!" The guard, who had surreptitiously moved a few feet away from them so as not to get the brunt of the tirade, nods along with the woman's words.

Johanne just stares at the Head Potioneer, nonplussed. When Sir Damon turns to look down at him, his thick brows are the slightest bit furrowed. "Is that true? You are the thirteenth Vernes child?" he asks.

Johanne shrugs uncomfortably. "I don't know, sir. I've lived in that room for as long as I can remember."

"Well, there you have it," says Sir Damon, turning back to Judith. "The boy himself doesn't even understand what you're talking about. What proof do you have that he's the supposed thirteenth child of Vernes?"

The woman draws herself up to her full height, which doesn't even come to the bottom of Sir Damon's chin. "Proof? Why, just look at him! No normal human being has eyes the color of blood!" she sputters.

"And?"

Judith flounders, casting around desperately for another excuse. "He was abandoned on our doorstep, I'll have you know! Yes, there was a note left with him, proclaiming him to be the abominable thirteenth child of Vernes, stamped and signed by the king himself!"

"Document forgery is a common occurrence, Miss Grenille." Sir Damon looks quite unhappy with her. It brings a spark of vindictiveness to Johanne's chest, and happiness that for once, someone is defending him. He had thought Sir Damon to be an intimidating individual at first, but the head of Lumina has so far proven to be a far more decent human being than everyone else in this building combined. It's... freeing.

When the woman tries to babble on for longer, Sir Damon silences her with a look. "I'll be in contact with the king regarding your apparent gross negligence of a child unwittingly placed into your care. Rest assured that you will not remain the Head Potioneer for long," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing.

Johanne is not sorry to say that the sight of Judith's jaw flapping up and down in speechless shock is the most hilarious thing he's ever seen. He has to clap his free hand over his mouth to keep himself from guffawing out loud. It would be terribly inappropriate.

Sir Damon turns away from the woman in disgust, and he finally releases his grip on Johanne's wrist. The potioneer rubs the skin of his wrist to alleviate some of the ache from when Sir Damon held him too tightly.

"As for you, I will take you on as a first-tier potioneer directly under my command. The work will be tough, but I am a fair man. You will be compensated for your work accordingly," says the man. He holds out a hand. "Do we have a deal, Johanne possibly of Vernes?"

Johanne's grin is bright and toothy and nearly swallows up his entire face. He reaches out to put his small, pale hand against Sir Damon's. "As long as I don't have to do anything by thirteens anymore, deal," he says.

They shake on it. The solid warmth of Sir Damon's fingers curling around his feels like a promise.