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Authors: Candace Robb
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meant to sleep. She had closed the shop for the midday meal and a chance to go over the accounts. Things tallied well. They had lost no customers to Nicholas's illness. In fact, the books reflected business as usual.
Even the inventory. Nicholas always kept meticulous records of the medicines they dispensed, so that he might improve the efficiency of the garden. He still had to trade for some roots and barks, and buy some of the minerals and gemstones - ground pearl and emerald were popular with some of their wealthier clients - but they got most of the herbs they used from their own garden.
Lucie had taken pains to spread out the fatal dose of aconite in the records, a pinch in this physick, a pinch in that, over a week's time. The books would arouse no suspicion.
But she worried how long she could keep up her pace. She rubbed the back of her neck, sat up slowly, every muscle aching. It was too much, the shop, the household, the garden. She had asked the Guildmaster for an apprentice. Being an apprentice herself, she knew it was unlikely he would agree. He'd been much too courteous to say that to her face, but she knew how it worked. What was sincere was his praise for her work. Not one customer had been turned away since Nicholas took to his bed.
But Lucie paid for it with a weariness that she could no longer ignore. Bess, bless her heart, was only too happy to mother her. She already took care of most of the meals. And she'd taken an armload of mending this morning. No doubt she would clean the house if given a chance. Lucie had given up the fight with dust - a fine layer lay over everything in the house, upstairs and down. But not the shop. That was pristine. She neglected nothing about the shop. Nicholas was proud of her. She was proud of herself. It was one thing to be an apprentice, quite another to be in charge. She enjoyed it, revelled in it, but also feared it. Every min ute of every day, with every grain she measured out, she was aware of the trust the people of York placed in her. She held the power of life and death. One slip, one mismeasure could kill. She double- and triple-checked everything, focusing her attention completely on the task at hand.
But she could not keep up such diligence without more sleep. She must sleep. She must have help. If not an apprentice, at least a serving girl.
'Lucie. Are you sleeping at the table?'
She jerked alert and winced as pain radiated from head to neck to arm. But it was good to have Nicholas alert, speaking, knowing her again. His speech was slurred, as if his mouth did not work quite right yet, but understandable. And when the pale eyes lit on her, they saw her, not some phantom, as they had on those first horrible nights.
He had asked if the pilgrim was up and about yet. She had told him that even his physick could not save the man. Nicholas had crossed himself and bowed his head. Lucie prayed she never had to tell him the complete truth.
Five
The Apothecary Rose
U p in his room, Owen sat down on the stool beneath the window and ripped off his patch to massage the scar tissue around the eye. He rubbed hard. The skin was tight from the cold ride north, and needlepricks of pain shot through the eye itself from time to time. Five days he'd travelled, through freezing rain and snow. Only fools travelled north in mid-February. He searched through his pack for the salve that eased the tightness. He had only enough for one day. A natural purpose for visiting the apothecary.
He bided his time, shaking out his extra shirt and leggings, easing his feet out of his boots for a bit. They stank. He stank. He must ask about the public baths. When he saw no one at any windows opposite, nor down below, he leaned out the window and studied the apothecary's garden. Tidy, laid out in an unusual fashion. More variety than in most such. It looked like a monastery garden. Behind a holly hedge, what must be a potting shed. He could just see the back of the house. A door that led
Even the inventory. Nicholas always kept meticulous records of the medicines they dispensed, so that he might improve the efficiency of the garden. He still had to trade for some roots and barks, and buy some of the minerals and gemstones - ground pearl and emerald were popular with some of their wealthier clients - but they got most of the herbs they used from their own garden.
Lucie had taken pains to spread out the fatal dose of aconite in the records, a pinch in this physick, a pinch in that, over a week's time. The books would arouse no suspicion.
But she worried how long she could keep up her pace. She rubbed the back of her neck, sat up slowly, every muscle aching. It was too much, the shop, the household, the garden. She had asked the Guildmaster for an apprentice. Being an apprentice herself, she knew it was unlikely he would agree. He'd been much too courteous to say that to her face, but she knew how it worked. What was sincere was his praise for her work. Not one customer had been turned away since Nicholas took to his bed.
But Lucie paid for it with a weariness that she could no longer ignore. Bess, bless her heart, was only too happy to mother her. She already took care of most of the meals. And she'd taken an armload of mending this morning. No doubt she would clean the house if given a chance. Lucie had given up the fight with dust - a fine layer lay over everything in the house, upstairs and down. But not the shop. That was pristine. She neglected nothing about the shop. Nicholas was proud of her. She was proud of herself. It was one thing to be an apprentice, quite another to be in charge. She enjoyed it, revelled in it, but also feared it. Every min ute of every day, with every grain she measured out, she was aware of the trust the people of York placed in her. She held the power of life and death. One slip, one mismeasure could kill. She double- and triple-checked everything, focusing her attention completely on the task at hand.
But she could not keep up such diligence without more sleep. She must sleep. She must have help. If not an apprentice, at least a serving girl.
'Lucie. Are you sleeping at the table?'
She jerked alert and winced as pain radiated from head to neck to arm. But it was good to have Nicholas alert, speaking, knowing her again. His speech was slurred, as if his mouth did not work quite right yet, but understandable. And when the pale eyes lit on her, they saw her, not some phantom, as they had on those first horrible nights.
He had asked if the pilgrim was up and about yet. She had told him that even his physick could not save the man. Nicholas had crossed himself and bowed his head. Lucie prayed she never had to tell him the complete truth.
Five
The Apothecary Rose
U p in his room, Owen sat down on the stool beneath the window and ripped off his patch to massage the scar tissue around the eye. He rubbed hard. The skin was tight from the cold ride north, and needlepricks of pain shot through the eye itself from time to time. Five days he'd travelled, through freezing rain and snow. Only fools travelled north in mid-February. He searched through his pack for the salve that eased the tightness. He had only enough for one day. A natural purpose for visiting the apothecary.
He bided his time, shaking out his extra shirt and leggings, easing his feet out of his boots for a bit. They stank. He stank. He must ask about the public baths. When he saw no one at any windows opposite, nor down below, he leaned out the window and studied the apothecary's garden. Tidy, laid out in an unusual fashion. More variety than in most such. It looked like a monastery garden. Behind a holly hedge, what must be a potting shed. He could just see the back of the house. A door that led
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