The Lost Apothecary(24)
Trembling, I handed Beatrice back to her mother as the boatman began to navigate us to shore.
Early the next morning, after harvesting the beetles from the field and roasting them over the hearth, I could hardly lift myself from my place on the floor. The frigid air of the day prior had left my knees stiff, and the long walk after the boat journey made my ankles swell. My fingers, too, were raw and bloodied, but that was expected; I’d dug more than a hundred blister beetles out of the fields near Walworth, plucking each one from its nest, removing each one from its beloved kin.
Amid this discomfort, relief was provided by the low flame and the opium-laced water boiling over it. I had an hour to rest until the wealthy customer—whose imminent visit still left me with a palpable sense of unease—arrived.
And yet, I was made a fool of; just as I leaned my head back against the hearth, there came a knock on the hidden door, so sudden, so startling, I almost cried out. Quickly, quickly, I scoured my thoughts. Was I so exhausted that I had forgotten an appointment? Had I missed a letter? It was too early for the lady arriving at ten; too early to be blamed on mismatched clocks.
God be damned, it must be a woman needing wormwood or feverfew, the everyday remedies. I groaned and began to heave myself from the floor, but my own weight was like quicksand, sucking me down. Then came another knock, louder this time. Silently, I cursed the intruder, the person bringing more pain upon me.
I went to the door and peered through the narrow cleft in order to view my visitor.
It was Eliza.
11
Eliza
February 8, 1791
When Nella opened the door, swinging it toward her small body, she looked frightened out of her wits. “I’m sorry for catching you by surprise,” I offered.
“Oh, do come in,” she breathed, hand on her chest. I stomped my wet feet and stepped inside. The room looked exactly as it had several days ago, but the odor had changed; the air smelled earthy, like moist, healthy dirt. Curious, I peered around the shelves.
“I read the papers yesterday,” Nella said, catching my gaze. The shadows of her sunken cheeks were darker today, and wisps of her charcoal, wiry hair stuck out at odd angles around her face. “About Mr. Amwell, finally succumbing to the drink. Everything went as planned, it seems.”
I nodded, pride blooming inside of me. I could hardly wait to tell her how well the poisoned egg had worked, and I wished that she hadn’t read of it before I had the chance to tell her myself. “He fell ill instantly,” I said, “and he never did improve, not even a bit.”
There was only one problem. My hand found its way to my lower belly, which had ached since the hour of Mr. Amwell’s death. He might have succumbed to the poison as planned, but I had begun bleeding at the very moment his spirit was released into the house. Returning to Nella’s shop seemed my only option; surely one of her tinctures could remove his ghost.
Besides, her vials and potions fascinated me. She might not think them magickal, but I mightily disagreed. I knew that Mr. Amwell had not merely died; something in him had transformed, just like the butterflies in their cocoons. He had taken new form, and I felt sure Nella’s elixirs were the only way to reverse it, the only way to stop the bleeding from my belly.
But I could not share this with Nella, not yet, for she’d denied magick during my first visit. I did not want her to think me tiresome—or downright mad—so I’d come prepared with another tactic.
Nella crossed her arms, looking me up and down. Her knuckles, just inches in front of my face, appeared swollen, round and red as cherries. “I’m very glad the egg worked,” she said, “but given that you accomplished your task, I am curious what brought you back here. Without warning, I should add.” Her tone was not a punishing one, but I sensed she was not pleased with me. “I presume you did not return to issue the same fate to your mistress?”
“Of course not,” I said, shaking my head. “She has been lovely to me, always.” A sudden draft swirled through the air, and I caught a strong whiff of the damp, earthy odor. “What is that smell?”
“Come here,” Nella said, waving me to an earthenware pot on the floor, near the hearth. The pot stood as high as my waist and was filled with loose black dirt. I followed eagerly, but she held out her hand. “No closer,” she said. Then she took a pair of crude leather mitts and, with a small, spade-like instrument, she parted some of the dirt toward the edge of the pot to reveal, hiding within, a hard, whitish object. “Wolfsbane root,” she said.
“Wolfs...bane,” I repeated slowly. The object looked like a rock, but, craning my neck, I could just barely make out a few little knots protruding from it, similar to a potato or carrot. “For killing wolves?”
“At one time, yes. The Greeks used to extract the poison and place it on their arrows while hunting wild dogs. But nothing of that sort will be done here.”
“Because it will kill men, not wolves,” I said, eager to show my understanding.
Nella raised her eyebrows at me. “You are unlike any twelve-year-old I have met,” she said. She turned back to the pot and gently brushed the dirt back over the root. “In a month’s time, I will shred this root into a thousand pieces. A pinch of it, mixed well into an otherwise bitter horseradish sauce, will stop the heart within an hour.” She tilted her head at me. “You still haven’t answered my question. Is there something else you’re needing from me?” She took off her mitts and intertwined her fingers in her lap.