Chapter 3
Phin
Seven doses. That was all that was left.
I stared at the little bottle, willing the liquid inside to multiply. It did not.
Carefully, I placed a single drop of my daily tincture onto my tongue, grimacing at the potent bitter taste, the way it burned all the way down my throat and into my stomach.
Hands trembling, I resecured the cork and set the vial on my little bedside table, nervously clutching at the oval amethyst pendant of my mother’s necklace.
The apothecary had promised Father they’d have a fresh batch ready by the end of the week, but that was far too close to me running out completely for my comfort.
I hadn’t gone a single day without it in years, and I didn’t want to know what would happen if I did.
I was already struggling with the formula needing to be changed—my freezing episodes were becoming much more frequent and at times were fully debilitating.
And that didn’t even account for the main reason I took it.
To run out completely would surely be catastrophic.
Father called from the main room of the library. “Are you ready to get started?”
I stepped out of my small room and joined him, relieved to find that my frayed nerves were somewhat settled. Whether that was a real side effect of having taken the tincture or just my imagination, I wasn’t sure.
Silently, he set out our quills and ink, then spread parchment over the two workstations. When his eyes caught mine and held, a frown tugged at his mouth. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes. Sorry about before. I thought I had more time.” I’d gone out into the churchyard to fetch some of the few remaining fresh herbs to cook with and had gotten caught by the bells. I’d never even made it to the garden.
“That’s alright, my child. It’s not your fault.”
He settled a leather-bound tome in front of me, and I turned to the pages where I’d left off the last time.
Words became nothing more than curves and lines as I copied them letter by letter to a fresh sheet of parchment.
I absorbed no meaning from the writing like this, my focus distilled down to nothing more complicated than the way my quill rasped against the fibers in the paper.
I was setting aside my seventh page when I looked up to find Father Morton dozing in one of the comfortable armchairs. His workstation was clean, and the oil in the lamps was running low.
Once I stopped, my body’s aches began to make themselves known.
My shoulder was tight and sore, my eyes tired and starting to blur.
My stomach growled and my throat was painfully dry.
Sad that the pleasant activity had come to an end, I set to cleaning up my station as well.
The new pages were laid flat on one of the shelves to dry, the book I was working from reshelved.
The pots of ink and quills went in a little nook so they wouldn’t be somewhere they could get bumped or spill.
Yawning so big my jaw cracked, I reached above my head, indulging in a powerful stretch. Joints popped and muscles creaked as everything loosened back up.
“Father?” I leaned close to his ear, one hand gently shaking his shoulder.
He blinked awake. “Are you all finished?” I nodded, and he got to his feet, giving my work a cursory glance.
“Nicely done. Come. Let’s get some supper, yes?
We’ve been down here for hours. I abandoned my labors quite a while ago, but I was loath to interrupt you.
You always look so peaceful when you are deeply focused like that.
” His heavy hand patted my shoulder, and I reveled in the praise.
I followed him up the stairs, admiring the smears of ink on my fingers, already regretting that I’d have to wash it away.
Just as we went into the small kitchen, the telltale creak of the door opening stopped us.
“I’ll go,” I offered.
“No, no. You’re not in your robes and your hair coloring is wearing off. I’ll greet them.” He slipped on his own robe and went into the main vestibule. I glanced around him, but I couldn’t see much. “Hopefully they’re just here to light a candle or take a moment of prayer.”
I began assembling a quick meal of soup and bread, Father’s voice rising and falling a few times while I stirred.
Father rushed through the small kitchen and into his room. On his way back, he made strong eye contact and said, “Do not leave this room.”
Stunned by his gruff tone, I just nodded.
As everything simmered, I washed up the few dishes left from lunch.
Out the small, wavy window over the sink, I caught a glimpse of three people walking across the yard back toward the tavern.
They were all huddled together, wearing hoods over their heads and scarves across their faces.
It was impossible to tell anything about them, but they didn’t seem to be from the village based on the shabby condition of their clothing.
Nobody would survive the winter very well here without a decent coat.
Father came back in, expression blank and his mouth tight.
“Everything alright, Father?” I asked.
“Fine, fine,” he answered hastily. “I’ll just wash up so we can eat.” He wrung his hands together, and my stomach churned. He was lying. “Would you mind bringing it into my rooms?” he asked. “I have evening service to prepare for.”
“Of course.” I dished up the soup, carried his to the small table in his room, and ate mine standing at the counter, wishing I’d been able to get a better look at whoever had visited and left Father in such a state.
Father Morton almost never sent me to the apothecary, but he was too busy preparing for service to go himself, and I was desperate for my tincture.
Unable to stop fixating, I had pilfered the library to find possible suggestions for an alternative in case the worst happened and I had to take emergency measures.
The books were laid out on one of the small tables, mocking me every time I walked in or out of my little room.
Several of the suggestions were more familiar to me than I cared to think about, but I’d survived them once; I could do it again.
Especially if they bought me time until I got my hands on more tincture.
Finding the plants, however, given the season, might prove a significant challenge.
And I was out of time.
I’d used my last dose of tincture before breakfast, and it was nearly dark.
Father had become exasperated with me peering into his room over and over again, hopeful they’d sent word that it was ready.
He shooed me out the door with an extra scarf wrapped around my neck, coin in my pocket, and a muttered prayer that they’d done what he asked.
Things had been a little extra tense between us since the night the strange visitors had upset him, but we were mostly pretending everything was fine. It was a welcome relief to have a moment away from the church if I was being honest.
I hustled across the square toward the alley behind the shops, through the noise from the dinner crowd at the tavern spilling out into the street, and in and out of the light from shop windows.
The rear door of the apothecary was almost directly across from the one at the chandler.
I rapped the knock I’d been instructed to give and waited, my breath hanging in plumes of steam in front of me.
Sunset had come and gone, and full, frigid darkness was rapidly approaching, the soft slush and snow already icy under my boots.
The old proprietor peered through the small crack he’d opened the door. “Can I help you?
“Father Morton sent me.” His blank stare made my heart skip. I forced out the words I’d practiced over and over in my head on the way over. “His tincture, it’s supposed to be ready today.” My quiet voice was muffled by the heavy air.
With a grunt, he disappeared. My throat closed further the longer he was gone, worry that he still didn’t have it or had just left me standing there in the cold setting in deep.
I only breathed fully again when he finally returned with a slender glass bottle.
I offered the coin Father had given me, but he refused it with the wave of a hand.
“Keep your coin.” He frowned. Then he cleared his throat. My heart began to pound louder and faster the longer he delayed. “Please give our apologies to Father. We can’t make this anymore.”
Panic raced through me, icy in my veins. “Why not?”
“The ingredients. Perhaps you could try another apothecary.”
“But there is no other.” He just shrugged as I stuttered out the frantic argument.
“I’ll pay extra,” I rushed to say, though I didn’t have any money to speak of.
Maybe I could help Georgina at the chandler, or perhaps he needed someone to clean or stock shelves, and I could trade?
Surely there had to be something I could do to earn some coin.
“Not about the money.” He moved to close the door, and I shifted in my panic, blocking it with my foot. His eyes traveled from the scuffed toe of my boot back to my eyes.
“Where’s the rest?”
“That’s all there is. We can’t help him anymore.
” There was pity on his face as he looked me over.
He straightened, glanced both directions as though making sure we weren’t being watched, and tugged on the door again.
My foot slipped from the little space, and I heard him latch the lock as soon as it clicked closed.
“No. Please.”
I stepped back, shock leaving me numb as I stared down at the precious little bottle. Less than half what it should be. Six weeks’ worth, perhaps less. Not much time at all.
My throat burned from all the words I couldn’t say, all the screams I kept locked inside. Frantic thoughts bounced around inside my head; panic clouded my ability to think or speak coherently.
Fingertips numb, I shoved my hands down into my pockets and walked as fast as I could back to the church, panic gripping my chest and tears threatening to fall the whole way.