Chapter 10
The Apothecary lab with its attached greenhouse is my favorite place in the whole world. I relish the embrace of warmth and humidity, the way the scents of dirt and lavender automatically soothe me.
I stand at the threshold, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
This is the last time I’ll be here. When I leave this cottage, I’ll belong to the Guardian House in name, if not in heart. Never again will I be allowed in this space, never entrusted with the craft that’s shaped every aspect of my existence.
I inhale deeply, steadying myself as I realize that I came here to say goodbye.
My mind catalogs the room, taking in every neatly arranged tool and precisely placed ingredient.
The drawers of medicinal powders are closed, their contents safe.
The bottles of distilled liquids lining the shelves are labeled and aligned, the mortar and pestle on the center worktable clean and ready for use.
The rootlings in the next room that I speak to like friends thrive in their neat pots.
Something’s wrong, though. I can feel it prickling across my scalp.
That’s when I spot something my wedding jitters must have hidden from me yesterday: a nearly imperceptible dusting of black speckles scattered across the third shelf to my left.
I step forward and drag my finger through it, bringing it to my nose to smell.
Charcoal. The trail leads behind a row of tincture bottles.
Strange. Mother—the only other person who regularly used this space—was meticulous about cross-contamination.
I reach behind the bottles and feel…a book?
My breath catches as I pull out Mom’s journal, far from its usual home on her workbench.
I’m surprised she’s left it this close to the greenhouse.
She always lectured Jonas and me about how damaging humidity is to paper.
My fingers skim the cover, tracing scuffs and scratches, before I remember I don’t have time for sentimentality.
I flip through the pages, scanning her precise handwriting, looking for any explanation as to why this book would be hidden away.
Most entries are exactly as I remember them—detailed notes on preparation methods, dosages, contraindications.
But an error on the belladonna page makes me pause.
She’s listed it as safe for children in small doses.
Nonsense. A few pages later is a note on foxglove—the very plant I turn into digitalis extract to treat Horace’s weak heart—warning that it should never be used on a heart patient.
Deliberate inaccuracies.
Mother never made mistakes like this. My mind sharpens, dissecting.
What had she been up to? A misdirection?
If so, there must be a pattern to the falsehoods, a rhythm to their placement.
But I can’t work it out now. I’m away from the Tzu house on borrowed time already.
I slip the journal into my suitcase, trying to ignore the guilt.
It’s not stealing if it was my mother’s, after all, and no one else in this House understands plants and potions well enough to use it.
I’ll give it back, I tell myself. Once I clear Jonas’s name and find Mom’s killer.
I take one last look at the room, confirming that everything remains precisely as it was before I entered. I’m about to slip through the rear door when a soft creak sounds from the other side of it.
My heartbeat double thumps.
Someone is shuffling around out there, and it’s not my aunt or uncle.
They’re still back in the main room with Gran.
And a villager would enter through the clinic.
I scramble for a hiding place inside the greenhouse, pale daylight pressing through windows that line the walls from floor to ceiling.
I dive beneath a table stacked with yarrow and goldenrod just in time, tucking myself away as a door opens across the lab.
I can’t see the intruder from here, but every part of me is straining to listen. I hear the careful shuffle of footsteps, the faint sound of pots being moved, the telltale rustle of turned pages across the room.
Whoever it is, they’re looking for something.