Though the bell above the door rings cheerfully when I step into the apothecary’s lair, the store remains empty for long moments. I take in the myriad shelves and jars, coloured vials, scales, alembics, mortars and pestles, sacks and pots of all manner of liquids, lipids and medicinal pounce and leaves, twigs and poultices. The light is low so as not to upset the delicate balance of the merchandise.
In the end, I call, ‘Reynald, if you don’t appear this second, I’ll steal something.’
From deep in the back, behind walls and curtains, I hear the clatter of shoes, the tinkling of light fixtures set too lowfor the height of the man who works here, and I hear cursing. Profound and impressive cursing which ends on a mild ‘Don’t you dare, you light-fingered witchy bitch.’
Reynald Alberic, slender and elegantly dressed in shades of dove-grey not really compatible with a profession involving powders and bubbling liquids, steps through the doorway like a stork being born – if storks weren’t hatched but rather entered with all the aplomb of a chorus girl on stage in Seaton St. Mary or one of Bellsholm’s finer theatres. Yet he’s no dancer, but the person who formulates and mixesmateria medicafor those like me and for others, far-flung, who call themselves doctors. Reynald has a keen mind for the chemistry of ingredients, for their alchemy. We work with similar intent, he and I (though his skill is the greater), but only I will be condemned if something goes awry; apothecaries live, witches die.
His means of distilling essences are better than mine, the equipment more finely tuned and expensive, so I’m glad to trade with him: raw plants of rare sort for the processed liquids of another – he prefers not to have to gather ingredients out in the woods. His husband, Lucien, runs the Fox & Crow Inn across the way. I’ve also found Reynald to be my best source of useful gossip.
‘Shouldn’t leave customers waiting like that,’ I say as he busses my cheek, once, twice. Such fancy manners.
‘Indeed not when they’re as old as you and like to expire at any moment.’
‘Rude. You’d make an excellent frog.’
‘Then who’d provide ingredients for your worst concoctions and best elixirs?’
‘You’re in luck, I still need you,’ I grumble and open my satchel, withdrawing the dozen pouches of fresh and dried leaves, petals, herbs, mushrooms and grasses that grow in various locations in the woods, mostly hidden, hard to get to and known only to me. Pink bleeding heart, purple strangleweed, yellow Belver’s hemlock, creeping gloriana red as blood, pale monksbane fungus, green weld and St Bathild’s lace the colour of mud.
Reynald draws in a sharp breath, delighted. ‘Oh, bless you, Mehrab. Perfect and timely.’ In return, he dives behind the counter and swiftly resurfaces with a series of labelled small blue bottles filled with concentrates, their stoppers sealed with wax. He proceeds to wrap each one in tissue paper to pad them for the journey home – substances I don’t especially want carelessly spilled – enquiring as to my health and wellbeing, and I after his. He hands them over with glee; no coin ever passes between us for this barter is far more useful, more profitable.
‘Can I help you with anything else, Mehrab?’
‘The child who went missing, Ari Hadderholm?’
He nods. ‘The baker’s girl. Such a shame. Quite a nice child.’
‘Did you see her the day she disappeared?’
‘Not that day, no.’
‘Another?’
‘Most days because she and the other urchins gather on the green when they’re out of school.’ His smile droops. ‘Poor mite. I don’t hold out much hope.’
And I don’t tell him any different because the tale will soon spread from the Hadderholms’ bakery, grief lit and flying likewildfire in a field. ‘And no sign of her anywhere?’
‘Lucien hears things; people talk over their meals, drinks. There were footprints leading to the pond by Falda’s, then some on the other side as if she’d taken a dip. Along the northern trail and into the common orchard, across to the opposite fence then gone. Like she’d been plucked up and carried off.’
‘Poor mite,’ I echo. ‘Nothing else of interest?’
He appears to hesitate, and my interest is piqued.
‘C’mon, Reynald, spill it.’
‘Promise you won’t be mad?’ He’s not really fearful, but definitely reluctant, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this in the years I’ve known him.
‘Promise – within reason.’
‘Best I can hope for.’ He sighs. ‘Faolan’s wife died two months ago.’
Despite my best effort it seems the shock shows on my face. Not the news I expected. Not sure what he expected from me, but he goes on quickly as if to forestall a reaction: ‘You’ve not been into the village for the last few months, and it didn’t seem like something you’d want anyone rushing to tell you…’
I shake my head. ‘No. No, you’re right. No reason to tell me at all.’ I do not ask if the blacksmith is well. I will not. I had nothing against the woman, though there was so much… history there. The feelings are so old; they should not sting. I’m precise as I pack the wrapped vials into the satchel, careful as I sling it over my shoulder. My voice is level as I ask, ‘Do you have any special requests for the next harvest?’
He hands me a list on a fine piece of paper; I peruse it, nod, and bid him farewell.
***
