The Lost Apothecary(49)

19

Eliza


February 10, 1791

I woke upon a dry, clear morning to the sound of a carriage rushing by, its iron wheels screeching against the cobblestone road. I’d slept a street away from Nella’s shop in a protected crevice at the back of Bartlett’s Passage. It was damper and less comfortable than the shed inside which I had rested two nights ago, but still better than my warm cot at the haunted Amwell home.

As soon as I woke, I clenched my teeth, waiting to see if the bloody belly pains had returned—if Mr. Amwell’s spirit, no longer fooled, had made its way back to me. But that was not the case. The pains had now stayed away for a full day, the trickle of blood reduced to almost nothing. And though I was grateful for it, I felt sure it was because Mr. Amwell lay in wait for me elsewhere. The idea of it angered me; he may have been master over me in days past, but it was not so any longer. I was not his toy, his plaything in death.

I thought, too, of Lady Clarence’s dinner party last evening. If all went as planned, Miss Berkwell should now be dead. A frightening vision, but I remembered what Nella told me about betrayal, and vengeance as medicine. Perhaps now, without the unwelcome presence of Miss Berkwell, Lady Clarence would find a way to tend her marriage and make a baby.

Unsteady on my feet, I lifted myself from the ground and pressed down my skirts, which were grimy and in need of a wash. My hand brushed the cover of the book inside my gown’s pocket: the book of magick. Locating the address within was my most pressing task, for I had little else in which to hope, and no other way to rid the Amwell house of ghosts.

I began to make my way to the bookshop on Basing Lane. A night of poor sleep had left me feeling wild, like an animal. My hands shook and a headache beat behind my eyes as the people near me moved about in a watery haze. Messenger boys raced their carts against one another, fishmongers waved away the gulls, and an elderly man slapped the rear of his goat with a flimsy reed. As my toes pushed uncomfortably against my tight shoes, I could not ignore the momentary temptation of returning home, or even to the servant’s registry office, where Mrs. Amwell first found me. I was a hundred times more desirable now than I was then. I was literate, for one; I could read and write and had been employed by a wealthy family. Surely my skills would be valued elsewhere, in a home not teeming with unsettled spirits.

I thought on this as I walked to the magick bookshop, but the idea quickly lost its hold as I considered the many reasons that I could not bear to run away—not least of which was my devotion to Mrs. Amwell. She would return from Norwich in a few weeks’ time, and by then I hoped to have rid the house of Mr. Amwell—and Johanna—altogether. Besides, I could not imagine any other girl writing my mistress’s letters. It felt a very special task, reserved only for me.

And a spirit could move, too; if the spirit of Mr. Amwell was able to seize me and follow me to Nella’s shop, what was to stop him from haunting me all over London? Even leaving the city and returning to Swindon would not solve this, for there was no such thing as escape from something that could float through walls. If I could not run from his spirit, I must find a way to dispel it.

There was so much at stake in this very moment, and removing Mr. Amwell’s spirit seemed all that mattered to me. So I was pleased, finally, to come upon Basing Lane, and I hoped to find the bookshop without trouble. But my joy did not last long; my eye passed from one storefront to another—a haberdashery and a baker, among others—and I frowned. The bookshop was not there. I walked another block, retraced my steps and even looked for the shop across the street. As I searched, I felt plagued by endless discomforts: tears pricking my eyes, frigid air burning my throat, a blister stinging and wet on the bottom of my foot.

Walking again to the end of Basing Lane, the whistle of wind rushing between buildings caught my attention. Set back from the lane was a shoulder-width alley, and at one side of this was a building with a wooden sign: Shoppe of Books and Baubles. I gasped; the bookshop, which I’d walked right past several times, was tucked behind the other storefronts, as though it meant to disguise itself. If Nella were here, she would have been disappointed that I had not unraveled the mystery sooner.

I placed my hand on the doorknob and stepped into the shop. It was not a large place, about the same size as Mrs. Amwell’s drawing room, and it was deserted save a single young man at the counter, his face buried in the spine of a thick book. This gave me a moment to take in my surroundings, which consisted of several shelves of dusty children’s trinkets and trifles at the front of the store, and a small area of books at the back behind the store attendant. The shop was humid and smelled of yeast, probably on account of the bread bakery nearby. I closed the door and the bell jingled softly.

The attendant looked up at me over his eyeglasses, eyes widening. “May I help you?” His voice cracked on the last word. He was young, only a few years older than me.

“The books,” I said, motioning to the shelves. “May I browse them?”

He nodded, then returned his attention to his book. I crossed the room in only four or five strides. As I stepped closer to the shelves, I saw that each shelf had a small sign identifying its subject. Eagerly, I read them: History and Medical Arts and Philosophy. I scanned quickly, wondering if the book on midwife magick might have come from the Medical Arts section, or if there might also be a shelf with books on the occult.

I made my way to a second case of books. Squatting low to better read the small signs at the base of the bookshelves, I let out a gasp; there, at the very bottom on a single half shelf, was a sign that read Magickal Arts. There were only a dozen or so volumes on the subject, and I intended to inspect them all. I began with the book on the far left, letting it fall open in my hands, but I cringed at the images printed onto the first few pages: large blackbirds with massive swords through their hearts; triangles and circles in a variety of strange patterns; and a long passage written in a language I could not understand. I carefully placed it back on the shelf, hoping for better luck.