Her dark eyes bulge. “You? Purchase the estate?” She crows a laugh. “You needfundsto purchase property. What will you do, pull coin from out of thin air?” Shaking her head, she rinses her hands in thewashbasin, dries them on a cotton rag hanging from the wall. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but I already have a buyer interested.”
No, I cannot accept this. “Wh-what if I offered something else besides c-coin?” Contrary to Lady Clarisse’s beliefs, I’ve a small inheritance left to me by Nan that I refuse to touch. The funds are buried in a metal tin behind the garden shed. I’d hoped to one day use them to reinstate Nan’s business, once I gained enough experience. Surely St. Laurent is large enough for two apothecaries?
“Something besides coin,” she iterates, curious now. “Like what?”
“Information. From the p-prisoner.” My voice strengthens. It could work. “I could f-find out where this god-touched w-weapon is.”
My employer considers me with new eyes. There is no laughter, no scathing remark or questioning my intelligence. I have captured her attention at last.
Then she snorts. “Have you been listening to anything I just said? The brew will gift me what I seek.”
“But—”
She lifts a hand, cutting me off. “While there’s still daylight.”
I bite my cheek, knowing better than to argue. Gathering my basket and coat, I hurry out the back door, down the pathway cutting through the overgrown grass until I reach the iron gate guarding the entrance to the estate. Steel clouds roll in from the east, and large waves hammer the rocks below. My body stiffens, already anticipating the water’s icy touch, but I am safe here, on these cliffs that rise high. The wind, cutting and cold, tugs at my threadbare dress and apron. Gooseflesh prickles my skin, and I shiver.
I’ve two, maybe three, hours before the storm hits. My pace quickens as the path angles downhill toward St. Laurent, with its shining bell tower and lustrous pillars nestled like pearls against the expansive lavender fields and tidy vineyards. Dirt hardens to smooth, rust cobblestones, their uneven surface poking painfully against the worn soles of my loafers. I wince. The thin rope I’ve used to bind my shoes is slowly disintegrating. Lady Clarisse gives me a few pennies’ worth of salary each week, whatever remains after room and boardhave been deducted. In a few months, I should have enough saved to purchase new shoes. I dare not risk spending my inheritance on something so minor.
Apartment buildings border the northern edge of town, arched windows stamped button-like down their fronts, the corroded copper roofs akin to sloped green hats. As I travel farther south, storefronts begin to replace the elegant structures. A small chapel has burrowed itself into a hillside. The sparkle of its windows reminds me of jewels: emerald swirled with aquamarine. Meanwhile, a chorale drifts through the open doors of the sanctuary.
Whisking around the corner, I step onto Market Street, which is wide, framed by green hedges and two-story edifices constructed of gray stone. Ivy climbs the ancient walls and iron balconies ornament the upper levels. The air, perfumed with warmed sugar and yeast, drifts from the bakers’ carts that are too many to count. Truly, one may purchase a tart or loaf of bread from any corner. Farther on, a large fountain burbles at the entrance to the local park.
After purchasing a small sourdough bun, I tear into its soft center and allow my pace to slow. Each window is dressed dashingly in dried flowers and wreaths. Welcome mats grace the doorways of every bakery, florist, butcher, and grocer. A fine-looking gentleman in a tweed coat walks his dog along the strip of grass bordering the road. He tips his hat in my direction with a freckled hand, and I drop my eyes, hurrying onward. Two women bundled in sweaters sip hot tea on the small porch of a bookshop, their bronzed skin flushed in the chill of morning.
“I, for one, thought the production was phenomenal,” says the first woman as she refills her porcelain cup from a teapot. “I swear I couldsmellthe meat as he cooked her dinner.”
“Agreed!” her curly-haired companion exclaims. “I wished he was cookingmedinner!” They share a cackling laugh. “What did you think of his reaction when she revealed that she was with child?”
The woman’s response is lost as I enter a nondescript shop. A silver bell chimes, and the wooden floors gleam in the autumn sun. I breathein deeply. Lemon, a sharp itch against my nostrils, paired with the mellow fragrance of tarragon. “Good morning, Master Alain.”
“Ah, Min! I was wondering when you’d arrive.” A beefy, brown-skinned man wearing a loose, linen shirt rounds the back counter. Walls of shelving showcase an impressive array of herbs, from the common and familiar to the rare and unique. “The usual?” he asks, accepting my list.
“Not quite,” I say with a tense smile.
He frowns at her ladyship’s penmanship. “Vanishing night?”
“That won’t be a problem, will it?”
“No, but it is an unusual request. Difficult to acquire.” He taps the list against his palm thoughtfully. “Not to worry. I have connections in Under. Occasionally, we get a few fair folk passing through, asking for it. Drifters, usually. See them once and never again.”
Yes, because Lady Clarisse tosses any and all immortals into the cells below the estate. Currently, she has two fair folk imprisoned. There was a third, but after several weeks, the poor soul expired, unable to withstand the prolonged suffering.
After placing my basket on the counter, I browse the offerings while Master Alain gathers my supplies. Though I work for Lady Clarisse, I’ve known his lordship since I was a young girl. He and Nan were close friends, having met shortly after my grandmother arrived at St. Laurent from Jinsan, her homeland.
It is then that a curious plant draws my eye: dusky petals, velvet to the touch.
“Black iris.”
I snatch my hand away. “Pardon?”
“The plant you’re touching.” He tugs at his beard. It is spectacularly red. “It’s called black iris. Comes all the way from Ammara.”
“I see.” I’ve heard of Ammara. Realm of sand and sun. “What are its properties?”
“Well, many like to crush the roots, as it is a diuretic if mixed with Ammaran salt. Others prefer to dry the leaves and use them to scent their linens. The petals haven’t much of a taste.” He removes a small envelope from beneath the counter and slips it into my basket.
Interesting. I will see what further research I can uncover on this specimen.
