15. Madame Poppy’s Potion Emporium #2
He blinked several times, shook his head as if that would do anything. He needed the glamour fully gone. He needed a little light to draw the shadows, but too much would banish them.
“There.” She patted his arm. “Better. Green now.”
He nodded and knocked.
A small window slid open in the door, and a pair of large, bespectacled eyes blinked at them. “Good day.”
“Is it? Clouds are low. Nothing’s growing.”
“Right you are, guv’ner.” The small window slapped closed and the whole door opened, revealing a short man with tufts of graying hair just over his ears, standing atop a bucket.
He jumped down, kicked the bucket to the side and welcomed them into a low-ceilinged gray room.
“All the way back you go, then.” He pointed down a long hallway. “Third door on the left.”
Bran pressed his hand into her back to propel Guin forward, and she went toward the slow rhythmic drip of a ceiling leak somewhere in the dark.
They reached the door, and this one didn’t require a knock. It was unlocked, and they pushed right through into a small room crammed full with tables. And on the tables, potions in sparkling little scarlet bottles.
Guin picked one up and uncorked it, waved it in front of her nose. She gasped and picked up another, uncorked, sniffed. And on and on down the table, leaving behind her a small glass graveyard.
“What is it?” Bran asked.
“A variety of potions. Some for complexion, some for belly aches, a mood enhancer. All curiously strong.”
“Love potion?”
“Not”—she swiped up another, uncorked, sniffed—“yet.”
“Someone’s coming.”
She put down the bottle she’d just picked up.
“I certainly hope you’re going to pay for all those.” The voice was bright and feminine with the flat tones of an American accent. And it was followed by a body coming out of a door in the back corner of the room Bran had been keeping an eye on since they’d entered.
“Of course,” Guin said, smiling brightly. “Are you the potion mistress who brewed these?”
“I am, Lady Guinevere.”
Guin raised a brow. “You know me.”
“Who doesn’t?” The American came closer until only a table stood between the two women.
Bran tensed, always ready, but the woman merely smiled, threaded her arms behind her back.
She had pale yellow hair and was a mere slip of a thing.
She wore a simple white gown that made her look too pale, sickly, but her brown eyes were very much alive.
And they were gobbling up the sight of Guin.
“You are an inspiration to me, Your Grace.”
“You also know that, I see,” Guin said.
“News travels quickly, and I do like to know news first.”
“Naturally. It can be quite important in our line of work.”
“Is it still our line of work?” The woman began to count the opened potion bottles. “I assumed you were moving to Mayfair.”
“What is your name?” Guin asked.
“Oh, apologies.” The American held out her hand. “I am Poppy Fairchild.”
Guin shook her hand. “Miss Fairchild, you appear to be a mistress of your art. Where did you learn?”
Miss Fairchild shrugged. “My mother, my grandmother, my nanny, a woman I met on the ship across the sea, the woman who lives across from me now. I gather recipes like some gather flowers in spring.”
“An excellent habit. A true potion mistress never stops learning.”
“Does that make you a false mistress?” A dimple appeared in Miss Fairchild’s cheek as she grinned. “Since Finsbury Square is no more?”
“I do not know you well enough to share my business plans with you.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to pry.”
The girl most certainly did mean to pry.
Bran released his hold on the shadows, showing himself for the first time.
Miss Fairchild hopped back a little, her eyes going wide. “Who are you?” she asked with that easy smile, but her shoulders were stiff, and her hand was slipping inside her pocket.
“He’s my personal guard,” Guin said. “Hired muscle. Women like us can never be too safe. You understand.”
Miss Fairchild dragged her gaze up and down him. “What’s the duke think about him?”
“He approves,” Bran said. “I have a question to ask you, Miss Fairchild.”
The other woman nodded slowly. “I may answer you.”
“I have heard you brew a certain kind of potion. It has the properties of opium without the unsettling drawbacks. It dulls pain, delivers you into a dreamlike world without putting you to sleep.”
“Hmm.” Miss Fairchild tapped her bottom lip. “I do not give away my recipes. And I do not sell my wares to someone who can identify those recipes with a single sniff. I begin to think you should take yourselves away from here.”
“Are you insinuating I would steal your recipes?” Guin looked like she was one more insult away from tossing the table over. “I would never produce such a disreputable potion. Anything that even smells of opium, Miss Poppy, is in bad taste.”
Fucking Jupiter, this might turn into a fight.
Bran put his hand on Guin’s shoulder. “We’re not looking for recipes or anything of the sort, Miss Fairchild. We were attacked by men who’d taken the potion. And we were wondering if you keep records.”
Miss Fairchild pressed a hand to her breast and looked up at them through pale, fluttering lashes. “You want me to snitch on my clients?”
“Only the criminal ones,” Guin said.
“That would be against my ethics, Your Grace.” Miss Fairchild took a step backward and folded her hands primly in front of her.
“It doesn’t matter,” Bran said, holding Miss Fairchild’s gaze. “I killed the men, anyway.” He cracked his knuckles and stepped between Guin and the table, shielding her. “I think it’s time we returned you to the duke, Your Grace.”
Guin craned her neck to look around him, stealing a final glance at the other woman. “Of course.”
With surprisingly little effort, he was able to lead her back outside and onto their horses.
“What did you think?” he asked as they trotted into the traffic heading west.
“I think…” She stuck her hands into her pockets and pulled out a handful of scarlet bottles. “I hope duchesses are as immune to accusations of theft as you and the queen think they are to assassinations.”
Bran chuckled.
“It’s not theft. It’s… strategic research for the queen.”
“Yeah, it is.”
She laughed, too, and for a moment it felt fucking good. Like old times. And when he caught her looking at him, he thought she might be able to forgive him one day.
Then her expression shifted, a wall slamming down between them, and she faced forward, busying herself with negotiating traffic.
He caught sight of his sleeves—blue velvet and gold and damn. He was Braxton again. “Is the glamour all the way on?”
“Yes.”
She was more comfortable with Bran than the duke, but he couldn’t bloody well control the change. “If I could bottle shadows, maybe I could drink the potion and banish the glamour for good.”
“What did Apollo do to break it?”
Holding the reins with one hand he scratched the back of his neck with the other. “Erm… hekilledme.”
“He… Apologies. I didn’t hear that last bit.”
“He killed me.”
Only a momentary pause before she said, “A pity he beat me to it.”
“I was dead for just a moment. He had to turn off all the lights. Even the ones inside. I’m assuming that simply living is keeping the rogue glamour going.”
“Hmm. You want to dim all the lights, but I need to keep them burning. The queen does anyway. It occurs to me our problems are similar. Did you know, sometimes the best way to discover how to do something is to first discover how not to do it?”
“What are you saying?”
“That helping you find the answer to your rogue glamour might help me formulate a potion for the queen.”
“They’re opposite problems. Too much light. Not enough.”
“Precisely. ‘Roses are planted where thorns grow, / And on the barren heath / Sing the honey bees.’”
“You’ve lost me.”
“Opposites, Bran. They are not enemies. They are necessary for one another. Can you tell me where you were standing when the beam hit you, when you were trapped, and when the rogue glamour was created.”
“I can.”
“Excellent. Perhaps, if we manage to collaborate, we might solve both our problems. Let’s return home, to the conservatory.”
Home. “Aye, let’s go.” It wasn’t forgiveness, wasn’t even a step in that direction, but for now, it would have to be enough.