“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 Mortonalmost 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 scarfwrapped 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.
