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“Now?” Mrs. Honeysett asked in a tight voice.
He nodded, still departing. “I’ll return soon,” he repeated, then he turned on his heel and strode away.
“Men,” Mrs. Honeysett muttered, then she turned toward Morvoren with another smile. “Are ye ready, me dear?”
No, Morvoren was not ready in the slightest. But concerned glances from the Honeysetts broke through her stupor, and she limped forward, her head swirling like the waves of the ocean she could hear from the shop but not see.
She opened the door, the bell jingling above them as they entered the apothecary. The pungent smell of spices, herbs, and tinctures greeted them. Glass jars of the extracts and mixtures lined multiple shelves behind an empty, front counter.
The dark walls added a squalid quality to the room, but the rectangular-paned windows provided just enough light to improve the overall atmosphere of the shop.
“Do ye recognize it?” Mrs. Honeysett asked, her whisper carrying about the room like a draft of wind.
“Not exactly.”
Oh, how she wished she could be honest. How she wished Zennor would round the corner and ease all of her concerns.
As if on cue, footsteps padded from the backroom, but it was not Zennor nor Mr. Prout who appeared.
Instead, a large man with greying hair greeted them with a smile as he smoothed the front of his apron. “Sorry to keep ye waitin’. Mr. Skewes, at your service. ’Ow can I ‘elp ye?”
Morvoren froze. Mr. Skewes. As in, Skewes’s Apothecary.
Her mind raced to place the shattered pieces of her plans back together. The Prouts must have sold the shop. Did that mean they hadn’t any money to keep it running? Surely…surely they had enough to take her in for a time.
Mrs. Honeysett’s gentle hand on her arm brought Morvoren back to the present.
Mr. Skewe was glancing between all three women, his smile faltering at their prolonged silence.
“I…” Morvoren squeaked out, clearing her throat and beginning again. “I be lookin’ for Mrs. Zennor Prout.”
The man paused, his brow raising in surprise. “Zennor Prout?”
Morvoren’s palms began to sweat within her gloves as she wrung them together. “Yes, sir.”
Slowly, he shook his head. “I be sorry, miss, but I ain’t seen ’er in o’er six months.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Morvoren reached for the counter, clasping on as her legs threatened to give out. She became acutely aware of the Honeysetts behind her. Though neither of them said a word she could only imagine their thoughts.
Didn’t Morvoren say she’d been in contact with the Prouts?
If she was untruthful about that, what else has she been lying about?
“Can ye tell I where she be?” she asked, leaning closer to the counter in the faint hope that the man would only share such news with her and not Mrs. Honeysett or Poppy.
The clerk blew out a slow breath. “Oh, bound for Scotland, last I ’eard. They sold the apothecary to meself, see, ’fore they packed up and left.”
Scotland? The air rushed from Morvoren’s lungs as the last of her hope fled her heart. Gone. Scotland. Left.
The overpowering spices from the room clouded her mind, and she couldn’t draw a breath, as if she was once again drowning in the sea. Only this time, she was caught in the net of her own lies and mistakes.
She couldn’t go back to Uncle. She couldn’t marry Mr. Foss. But then, what other choice did she have? Remain in Sennen and knock from door-to-door, begging for food and shelter?
“Morvoren?” Mrs. Honeysett’s concerned voice slipped into her thoughts, and Morvoren blinked.
Concerned? How could the woman be concerned? Surely she had already pieced together the situation and was now aware of Morvoren’s deception. Why was she not angry?
