Chapter Three #2
My voice turned stiff again. “Thank you again. I’ll see you about.”
The convenient thing about Caldwell’s was that it was only three blocks from my father’s apothecary, my apothecary.
Balancing the crate across my arm, I jammed my key into the lock. When I pushed open the door, a sharp ring of the shop bell trilled.
If I could bottle the smell of the shop into a perfume, my skin would never hold another scent for as long as I was alive.
Inside, a holy manifold of herbs and antique wood scents mingled.
Waves of nostalgia greeted me every time I entered.
My father came home smelling like the apothecary most nights when it was not the morgue.
I loved when the cologne of the domain would follow me home, savoring every moment it stuck to my senses.
Because of this fantastical place, his memory would never fade.
It was like he was here with me always—in every way but physically when I was in the shop.
Past the dark wooden counter was the back room. I called it my lab, even if it was improper and haphazard. This was where the magic happened.
In the back room, brass instruments that belonged to my father or were retired from the King’s College lab were scattered across the extended workbenches.
Glass bottles diverse in shape, color, and ounce capacity were stacked neatly under the benches, a layer of dust collecting with patience on their surfaces.
It smelled less pleasant than the front of the store, more noticeably of mildew and bleach.
The only light came from slender horizontal windows high on the walls that could be propped open for ventilation.
Lastly, a simple back door opened to the alleyway where the bins and rats were kept.
I used to catch my lab rats out back, but I had decided that I would most likely breed my own this time around for consistency.
As far as anyone was concerned, I studied the toxicity of compounds used in beauty and wellness, giving me good reason to collect the type of plants I do. Most of the academic jargon lost people immediately. Follow-up questions were few and far between.
As I placed the crate on the workbench, the bell at the front door rang already. Unfortunately, I would have to wait to dissect this beautiful specimen later.
Throughout the day, clients wandered in asking about makeup, what to take for which ailment, what plants would make their skin lighter, which made them skinnier, and which ones would make sure their husbands could perform the typical.
I didn’t mind any of it. All curiosities about botany made me enjoy this side of the business.
I would rather people ask than believe whatever the tabloids told them without a paper backing it.
This was why I frequently submitted my own articles.
It wasn’t hard to dumb it down enough for everyone to understand X was poisonous, use Y .
The bell rang all day, but I was excited to hear one particular ring as she entered my shop, Madam Berdot.
She was one of my long-term special-order clients.
All of my clients were appreciated relatively equally, but this particular client was the one I looked forward to after long weeks or months.
I had given her a generous amount of the experimental snakeroot poison just the other month through the mail.
I used leftover samples my father had hidden away to make something new.
She wrote to me a few weeks ago that it was working well, which was why I ordered more of it.
Her occupation came with the unfortunate hazard of dealing with unfavorable men.
She owned one of the most established brothels in the city down by the harbor, so it was the perfect grounds for testing whatever solution I came up with, and she would gladly subject especially horrible individuals to my curiosity.
My only rule was that she must use it on men of an abusive nature.
“We need to talk,” she said abruptly, her eyes shifting to the group of patrons perusing the herbal shelf. Her anxious hands brushed through her frizzy blonde hair, and her emerald-painted eyelids fluttered skittishly toward the front door despite her recent arrival.
“Of course, please.” I gestured behind the counter toward the back room to talk discreetly.
She gripped my arm with her clammy hand. “I don’t know what happened, but it stopped working.”
I arched my brow at her. “That is not possible.”
“Well, it is. It was working, I’ll give you that, but then it didn’t. Do you know how much danger you are putting me and my girls in?”
I lowered my voice. “It is not possible, because it would not have degenerated with time. A small amount of that will bring down a horse. I made sure of it.”
“He just got sick, and he came back, and he—” Her voice hitched in her throat. “I thought maybe I didn’t use the correct dosage, but then it just works for some and not all.”
“You do not owe an explanation. Let me get you something else. Was anyone hurt? Do you need anything?” I asked, already picking through the thin drawers behind the counter.
I pulled out a small vial. “Arsenic. Though if he is an immediate danger, I would recommend faster, more blunt alternatives. Do not take any more risks than you have to.”
She snatched the vial from my hand and nodded. Without another word, she left my shop in a hurry. I could not tell if she was upset with me, though I could assume that our professional relationship would be affected by this stumble.
There goes my steady supply of test subjects.
The sun had disappeared over the foggy skyline, and the light in the shop slowly dimmed.
The glow from the handheld lamp guided me as I closed up for the night.
The floors were swept, shelves were faced, and items were restocked before the new day tomorrow.
At this rate I would not have time to take apart my new plants.
Until tomorrow, my beautiful specimens.
I turned my back to the door to focus on my one-hundred-and-fifty-drawer apothecary cabinet, shifting through for some loose inventory. I noticed the small leather satchel containing my house-call orders, due to be delivered sometime soon, before I checked to ensure I was not forgetting anything.
A low clicking sound that I couldn’t place echoed through the room.
The sound was so amiss that it took a beat to register that it was not some sort of tinnitus rattling in my ear. It was like something had crossed a cicada with the chattering noise a cat made when it saw birds outside the window. A sound of curiosity and predation.
It continued for a long minute that felt eternal.
It was coming from the lab, somewhere far within the darkness that peeked at me through the cracked door.
I debated whether I should snap the door closed or invite the critter in by opening it wider. I decided on the latter. When I did so, the light from the lamp flooded across the dull floor. It illuminated only the dust that fluttered through the air—the curious noise abruptly silenced.
Just a dark, empty shop remained alongside deafening silence.
My brow furrowed as I closed the door, snatching up my satchel and lamp. I would not try to trick myself into believing it was a figment of my imagination. I either tracked in an exotic insect with my fresh shipment of snakeroot or an animal was hidden somewhere in my shop.
The walk home was longer than usual that night. My skin shifted with unease from that sound. It was guttural and unfamiliar, though it did give me some excitement about finding the creature in the morning, whatever it was. I always wondered what I would name a newly discovered insect or mammal.
By the time I arrived at my front door, my legs were worn from all the standing and walking from the day. In the foyer, moonlight greeted me as it began to peek through the window above the stairs, scattering across the neat tiles.
Settling into the living room, I poured myself a well-deserved glass of scotch.
One thing about Phoebe’s father, Mr. Aston, was that he knew his liquor and only kept the best around.
He also had a knack for collecting some of the oldest bottles and barrels I had ever seen, based on the last time I saw his collection at their estate in the country.
With the crystal glass in hand, I kicked my boots off at the bottom of the stairs before I walked up. The slow start to the morning wasn’t helping the fatigue I was currently suffering. The soreness was more noticeable as I ascended each step.
After the first flight of stairs, an audible scattering was heard.
“ Another pest?” I groaned.
My weapon of choice was a broom from the small closet at the top of the stairs.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
I peeked around the corner at the end of the hall. Then I waited. It could have only gone left or right. As I leaned against the wall and took another sip of my drink, I listened for the next disturbance.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
Again. To the left was my bedroom. I traced the broom along the carpet to see if I could spot any critters on my way, ready to catch them.
At the end of the hall, my bedroom door was ajar.
It was silent for a moment. The remaining liquid in my cup swayed from side to side, as did my posture. I confidently clasped the broom in my other hand, waiting for the sound to reveal itself again in the dark bedroom.
The door let out a pitchy whine as it revealed the room upon a gentle shove.
There was no use leaving the room so dim if I was to find anything in there.
I glided across the room to turn on a light by my bed. The lamp flickered when I turned the dial, the flame growing lazily to brighten the gloomy room.
Then, there was the sound again. Right behind me.
Not the scratching noise, but that clicking from the shop.
Petrified once more, I listened intensely as if to convince myself that I could decipher what it was this time around. It was nothing like I had ever heard before. I had traveled the world in pursuit of exotic plants and animals, and nothing had ever come close to this thing I heard.
As I turned on my heels, the noise stopped abruptly. No creatures were in sight. Just a dim, empty room.
I could have sworn that it had been a few meters away, but there was no evidence of anything to suggest such a thing. The only proof that remained was tucked deep into the corners of my imagination, accompanied by the buzz of my poison of choice.