The apothecary's second customer
The bell is still ringing when you take stock of him. Aldous Vane — though you don't know that name yet — stands in the doorway of your shop with the rain coming off his good coat in sheets. He is fortyish, clean-shaven, the kind of man who
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I take in the scene, and act on what matters most.
The bell is still ringing when you take stock of him. Aldous Vane — though you don't know that name yet — stands in the doorway of your shop with the rain coming off his good coat in sheets. He is fortyish, clean-shaven, the kind of man who irons his collars. The coat is wool, city-cut, and ruined from the knee down where he has walked through wet fields to get here. His eyes are the problem. They are the eyes of someone who has been listening for a sound behind him for a long time, and has nearly stopped being able to tell whether he hears it or merely expects to.
The coins sit on the counter between you. There are seven of them, heavy and dull gold, stamped with a profile you don't recognise. They look old, but not the kind of old that means valuable — the kind of old that means the place they came from might not be on any map you'd want to consult. The pile of them is worth more than your shop takes in a good month. Possibly a good season. You have not touched them yet.
"I'm closing," you say, because it's true, and because you need to hear your own voice in the room before you decide anything else. Your hand is still on the latch of the apothecary chest. The smell of dried rue and camphor is thick in the air, and the lamp on the counter has already been turned down once. Through the back window, the treeline of the Underwood is a black wall against a sky with no stars.
"I know. I'm sorry." He says it like he has been apologising to doors all night. His hand comes up, then drops.
"I tried the inn first. They sent me here. They said you were the one who would —" He stops, and you watch him choose the next word with enormous care. "— who would listen to the whole problem."
You have lived in Little Halloway your whole life, and you know what that sentence means. Bett Harrow does not send people to your shop for headache powders. She sends them when the problem has edges she can't see, and when the answer might be something that grows under wet bark. You look at the coins again. You look at the man. Then you turn the lamp back up, because you are going to need to see clearly for whatever comes next, and you say, "Sit down. Start from before the beginning, not from the middle."