The man at the bridge moved, pacing a quick line, and his edges blurred to smoke.
August’s shoulders loosened. Just an anchored. As he approached, he kept his gaze down, hoping that if he avoided eye contact, the anchored might not realize he could see him. But of course, the man knew. They always knew. And somehow, they always knew who August was, which made it even worse.
The man stopped mid-step and kneeled, his eerie grey face dropping as he bowed his head. “Mo Aesling.”
August grumbled under his breath, frustration mounting as he sidestepped the dead man. He had discovered at a very young age that passing through an anchored was a dreadful experience; a smack of frigid cold accompanied by a musty taste, like licking the decaying wall of a dank cellar, followed by a quick bout of intense nausea. It passed quickly, but he’d rather avoid it.
He crossed the bridge, attention pulling to a handful of other anchored on the riverbanks below, their shapes reduced to a hazy mist.
On the other side of the river was the Trade District. Like the rest of Bedwyck, the buildings were dark grey brick, coated withgrime from the factories and smoothed by the sea air, but here, the doors and signs were painted in vibrant hues meant as silent lures for the tourists as they disembarked from the docks. Back when Bedwyck had tourists. Now, the paint was peeling and faded, and though light spilled from a few of the shops, most were long abandoned.
Positioned on opposite sides of the street were two pubs, one dark and sleeping, the other alive with the buzz of music and conversation. The people remaining in the city were scared and hungry and worn down, but apparently some were still willing to risk the trek for an ale.
He crossed to the shop withApothecarypainted above the door, pulled the hood of his cloak up to hide his face, and slipped inside.
A cluttered wooden counter took up most of the space. A mortar and pestle rested at its edge, surrounded by the remnants of ground ingredients, smeared from someone’s half-hearted attempt at clearing it.
Behind the counter stood a stout man with a hairline that had receded to the centre of his head, the remaining wisps thin and white. The sleeves of his cream shirt were rolled up past his elbows, and round glasses with a magnifying lens attachment rested low on his pointed nose. He studied a glass jar on the counter with narrow eyes and unwavering focus, tipping it with one finger and watching the contents swirl.
August hunched his shoulders and tugged at his hood, hoping the shadows were dark enough to keep hidden the rivers of black creeping up his neck, then shifted his weight impatiently. He hated apothecary shops, which seemed justifiable considering the only other one he’d been inside had been Ashcroft’s back in Fallowmoor.
This one was different from the other, though. It was warm, and the shelves were fully stocked. It smelled of camphor andmenthol undercut by the gentle perfume of dried herbs and flowers. Not the metallic tang of blood.
The man brushed a hand over the dust on the counter, stirring the familiar smell of frankincense—warm, woody, and faintly spicy. It smelled of evenings spent in the reading room, August and Lottie sprawled on the plush rug, their father telling Jivanten stories of imagined worlds. Of perching on the desk while his father handled some offical matter. Of barefoot raids to the castle kitchen for midnight snacks, whispers breaking into bursts of laughter.
The grief hadn’t gone away, though it had softened over the past four years. But the unexpected memories sent a fresh ache through August, intensifying the pain that already plagued his body. He supposed grief wasn’t something that was meant to go away. And he wasn’t sure he’d want it to. His memories were his most treasured possession, all that remained of the life he’d once had before everything changed. He wouldn’t trade them for anything.
“Evening,” the shop owner said finally. He pressed a button on his glasses, and the small lens withdrew. “What can I do for you?”
“I, uh. . .” August patted his cloak pockets until he found the folded piece of paper. “I need this.” He flattened it on the counter and slid it toward the man, who leaned forward, resting his elbows on the countertop.
“Where’d you find this?”
August had pulled the ad from an old newspaper buried in a stack in the cottage—a relic left behind by August’s grandfather, back when the place was used as a hunting getaway for the royal family. The paper was dusty and old, like everything else there. With little else to do, August had read every one. However, the question felt irrelevant.
“Does that matter?”
“It’s a bit outdated.”
August’s face hardened. “Do you have it or not?”
“Afraid not. That tonic was disproven ages ago.”
He deflated at the words. Of course it was. It sounded too good to be true, and it was.
The man slid the paper back and gave him an apologetic smile, but it faltered as he met August’s eyes.
Quickly looking down, August snatched up the paper, crumpled it, and tucked it back in his pocket. He wasn’t sure if the shop owner had noticed the rings or if he’d recognized his face, but either way, it was time to go.
“You know,” the man said softly, tapping a hand on the countertop, “I may have something. Just give me a sec.” He vanished through a door, leaving August alone at the shop’s front.
Maybe he should just leave. If the man had recognized him, he might call the City Watch. His mother was still searching for him, no doubt. And he wasn’t sure if she’d arrest him now that she knew his secret or if she’d force him back into the role he dreaded. And honestly, he wasn’t even sure which would be worse. Either way, going back would end with him as hollowed out as an anchored. He couldn’t go home. Ever.
But if the man had a solution . . .
August’s gaze swept over jars and bottles, past the small labeled drawers stacked on wooden shelves, and came to rest on the rifle hanging behind the counter. His hand went involuntarily to his chest, touching the place where the echo of pain sparked. The memory of a long-healed wound.
“Ah now,” the shop owner said as he returned, placing a brown glass bottle on the counter. “This is more what you’re looking for. Should temporarily suppress your, um,” he hesitated, then leaned in, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yourmagic.” With a grin, the man was back to his normal volume. “One sip should do the trick.”
