Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
Birdsong floats through the window of my small shop, soothing me as I work, quietly watching the sun rise through the trees.
I went back to that field this morning to harvest some more ergot. Now that I’ve seen it work in the case of Lark’s bleeding yesterday, I feel confident that I can have it in my shop. I just need to do a little more research.
I might go and see Thorley to find out if she has used it before. I need to take her the belladonna for Dahlia too—if she is still there.
I finally found the correct dosage scribbled in one of the last journals I had yet to read. I was convinced I’d never find the answer I was looking for, but it was there, hidden in messy penmanship.
I set aside the remedy earlier. Perhaps I will drop it off tomorrow morning and talk to Thorley while I'm there.
As the only apothecary in town, there is no one I can go to for questions, no one who knows more than me and can teach me these things. The healers know of most things, but not to the extent of what another apothecary could teach me.
I pull a jar from the bottom shelf of the big wooden working table that sits in the middle of the room, popping the lid open and filling it with the ergot.
With every inhale I feel calmer, and with every exhale I let my shoulders relax, letting go of yesterday's worries. When I went back to the field, I couldn’t help but pop by Hazel’s to check in, and Lark is doing well. She and her baby are happy and healthy even after their rocky start.
But there’s one thing from yesterday I cannot seem to rid from my mind.
Rylan.
He continues to pop up wherever I am in a way that should make me feel uneasy. My common sense screams at me to be cautious of him, though I am more curious than anything.
Every time I’ve interacted with him, he’s left me with questions, things to occupy my mind when my hands are busy. Like now, as I write a label for the jar, using gum to stick it to the glass before I give it a home on the shelf.
The bell above the door jingles and a cool breeze floats into the room, but it carries with it a feeling of unease.
I turn slowly, and when my eyes catch on the head of grey hair, and the perfectly pressed deep red waistcoat—the buttons looking ready to pop—I discern that a councilman has just walked into my shop.
“Good morning, sir.” I bow my head ever so slightly, even as I chide myself for it. “Can I help you with something?”
When I lift my head to meet his gaze, his eyes roam around the small room, as if not even a sound left my mouth.
I stand unnaturally still as he begins to wander, taking stock of every single thing on my shelves. He pulls a bottle of lavender oil from the shelf, removing the cork and inhaling deeply as he brings his nose to the bottle.
“Are you in need of a sleeping aid?” I ask, my voice far warier than I intended.
I shouldn’t be scared of him; I have no reason to be. I try to remind myself of that as he fits the cork back in the opening of the bottle.
The councilman finally turns to look at me, his eyes perusing up and down my stature. “No,” is all he says before he replaces the bottle on the shelf.
I cannot help but feel unsettled as I stand here, like every move I make is being noted. I have half a mind to wonder if this is some sort of test, some way to measure how I respond to one of the mayor’s men in my space.
“Do you have any potions?” he asks, reaching up and plucking at the flowers I have hanging from the roof as they dry.
“Potions?” I ask, letting confusion flood my tone. A test indeed.
“Hmm,” he nods. “You know,” he gestures around the room, “those to make someone fall in love perhaps, or to make one pretty as they used to be.”
I don’t try to hide my confusion as he speaks. “No, sir. What I hold here is simply medicine.”
“Right,” he nods, gesturing towards me. “Of course.”
But his words lack any belief in mine, as if this is all some facade.
“I can assure you, councilman,” I say, stepping forward, “there is nothing untoward going on here. I merely help the sick when they need it.”
“Doctors help the sick, girl.” He stands with his hands clasped in front of him, the picture of a proper gentleman. “And you are no doctor.”
Doctors don’t exist in these parts. When I was young, I remember a local healer leaving for Rynwood to study to become a doctor, but he never came back. I can only assume he stayed in the capital province where he would be fairly compensated for his work.
But here we have to rely on our healers, and the knowledge passed down through generations. No doctor would ever find themselves here.
I lift my chin. “I do the best with the knowledge I have, and as such, we do not have any doctors in Sylvan,” I say. “I can presume you wouldn’t want the sick to have nowhere to turn to, would you, councilman?”
His eyes narrow as he looks at me. I just look right back, not cowering beneath his stare. We do not hide. Hazel’s voice echoes through my mind.
“I would hate to believe that you would ever be so cold-hearted,” I add as I move towards the working table, picking up the dried marigold off the bench and crumbling it between my fingers into the stone mortar in front of me.
“You should be careful with that tongue of yours, dear.” The councilman pulls on the hem of his waistcoat, straightening it and rolling his shoulders back. “You wouldn’t want it to get you in trouble.”
I pick up the pestle, grinding the flowers between the stone as I smile up at him. “Of course not, councilman,” I say. “My intention was not to offend you.”
He puffs out his chest as his cheeks fill with colour. “A mere woman such as yourself could not offend me. Do not be so poorly mistaken, Miss Greene.”
I nod. “It goes without saying, sir.”
He brushes his palms down his torso, seemingly pleased by his own words, and my apparent submission to them.
He turns, heading towards the door, but just as I hope he will push it open, he halts.
“Do stay out of trouble, Miss Greene,” he says over his shoulder before he slides a few bottles to the edge of the shelf beside him.
“I would hate for you to be dragged out of here.” A flick of his finger sends the small bottles hurtling towards the ground.
The sound of the glass smashing drowns out the bell as the councilman disappears out the door.
I take a deep breath as soon as the door closes behind him, steadying the beat of my heart.
There are some things in life that linger long after they are gone. Like the bump of a bee sting, the smell of a loved one after they pass, or the scar from a childhood injury.
The troubled feeling sitting deep in the pit of my stomach feels like one of those things, as if it will stay with me far longer than I care for it to.