The writing on the cracked pot said simply, Wormwood. The letters began to fade, but I saw some of the others: Typhos. Pox. Atermors. Choleros. Malaros. Typhus. Smallpox. The Black Death. Cholera. Malaria. And Wormwood. And there were lots of other jars on the shelf. My hands started shaking a little. “It is not yet the appointed time for that one to be born,” Mother Summer said quietly, and her hard eyes flicked toward Mother Winter.
