The Lost Apothecary(45)
“One by one,” I repeated.
“One by one. Which is why Lady Clarence best not return a moment too soon, as it will take us every last second to finish the task.”
I recalled the moment when Nella threw her beetle powder into the fire, causing an eruption of green flame; what nerve it must have taken, to throw over a day’s worth of work into the blaze. Until now, it had not been clear to me just how strongly she felt against murdering the mistress of a lord—how strongly she resisted aiding in the death of a woman.
I imagined the tediousness of the day ahead and willed myself to be cheerful about it. Nella had told me that she did not want me at the shop after this chore was complete. But perhaps if I performed it well, she would change her mind and permit me to stay. The idea of it energized me, because the hot, crimson bleeding from my belly had finally ceased, leaving in its wake a russet-colored shadow, and this could mean just one thing: Mr. Amwell’s spirit had decided to make its way out of my body and lie in wait for me. But where? There was only one sensible place, the place where he knew I was soon to return: the lonely Amwell estate on Warwick Lane.
Oh, how I would have rather stayed and roasted a thousand beetles than step foot back into the dwelling place of my dead master. Who knew what ugly form he would take next?
With twelve minutes remaining until Lady Clarence’s arrival, a terrible storm was unleashed outside. But we hardly noticed it, for both of us were bent over mortar bowls, grinding the beetles as finely as we could.
If Nella intended to send me away before Lady Clarence returned, it must have been a distant thought by now; it would have been impossible for her to finish the task without my help. With six minutes to go, Nella asked me to choose a vessel—any appropriately sized jar would do, she instructed. She remained head down, eyes focused and sweat on her forearms as she ground the pestle loudly against the mortar.
At half one, Lady Clarence arrived, not a tick of the clock late. No pleasantries were exchanged upon her arrival. When she stepped into the room, her lips formed a tight line and her shoulders were pulled taut. “You have it ready?” she asked. Rain droplets slid down her face like tears.
Nella swept underneath the table while I carefully poured the remainder of the powder into the sand-colored earthenware jar I had found in a lower cabinet. I had just finished securing the stopper and the cork was still warm from my fingers when Nella answered her.
“Yes,” she said, while I gently, ever so gently, passed the jar into the care of Lady Clarence. She clutched it to her chest in an instant, hiding it underneath her coat. No matter who would ingest the poison—for my loyalties were not as rigid as Nella’s—I could not help the pride that swelled within me on account of the many hours that went into the preparation of it. I did not recall ever being so proud, not even after composing lengthy letters on behalf of Mrs. Amwell.
Lady Clarence passed a banknote to Nella. I could not see how much, nor did I particularly care.
As she turned to leave, Nella cleared her throat. “The party is still tonight?” she asked. In her voice was a glimmer of hope, and I suspected that she prayed the whole affair had been canceled on account of the weather.
“Would I have rushed over here in the rain if it were not?” Lady Clarence retorted. “Oh, don’t be so foul about it,” she added, seeing the look on Nella’s face. “You’re not the one stirring it into Miss Berkwell’s liqueur.” She paused, pursing her lips. “I only pray she drinks it quickly so we may put this all to an end.”
Nella closed her eyes as though the words sickened her.
After Lady Clarence left, Nella walked slowly to where I sat at the table, lowered herself into her chair and pulled her register toward her. She dipped her quill into the ink with a slowness I had not seen plague her before, as if the burden of the preceding hours had, at last, caught up to her. To think of the countless poisonous remedies she had dispensed, and yet this single one lay so heavy on her heart. I could not understand it.
“Nella,” I began, “you mustn’t feel so bad. She would have ruined you had we not made the beetles for her.” Nella had done nothing wrong in my eyes. Indeed, she had just saved countless lives, my own included. How did she not see it?
Nella paused at my words, the quill in her hand. But without replying, she placed the nib to parchment and began to write.
Miss Berkwell. Mistress to, cousin of, the Lord Clarence. Cantharides. 9 February 1791. On account of his wife, the Lady Clarence.
On the last mark, she held the nib to the paper and exhaled, and I felt sure tears were imminent. Finally, she set the quill on its side, and a gentle roll of thunder rumbled somewhere outside. She turned to me, her eyes dark.
“Dear child, it is that—” She hesitated, considering her words. “It is that I have never had this feeling before.”
I began to tremble, as if a chill had just entered the room. “What feeling?”
“A feeling that something is about to go terribly, terribly wrong.”
In the quiet moments that followed—for I knew not how to reply to her frightening statement—I grew convinced that some nameless, unseen evil haunted us both. Could the spirit of Mr. Amwell have begun to haunt her, too? My eyes fell on the worn burgundy book still resting at the side of the table. The book of magick. Nella had said the book was meant for midwives and healers, but the inscription inside the back cover noted the address of the bookshop where it originated—a place where I might find more volumes of the same subject matter.