The Apothecary's Curse (5 page)

Tendrils of icy fear crept up his neck as he contemplated the decision. An opportunity, perhaps it might be—should the medicine cure Bell's wife. The demonstration of his true skill so much in contrast to the polite distance of the physician's impotence: laudanum and leeches. Vindication for him and all of his trade, too often maligned, the object of derision for the few frauds among them.

Gaelan scoured the bookshelves, searching the titles, although he knew exactly where to find what he sought. “I have an ancient pharmacopeia,” he explained, unable to think of a better description for the volume. “But the recipes in it are unusual. I have used the book only rarely and, I confess, not for cancer. But if there be at all a cure for medicine's most ruthless enemy, I venture it would be in this remarkable book.”

The volume he had hidden high on the topmost shelf, away from his sight. Placed there after Caitrin and Iain died, it was too much a reminder of what might have been had he the opportunity to use it to save them. The steep ladder groaned as Gaelan mounted the rungs. Reaching the top, he stretched his arm yet higher, finally dislodging the large leather volume.

“
This
is your miraculous book?” Bell called up from the base of the ladder, startling Gaelan as he descended and nearly causing him to lose his balance.

He ignored the derision in Bell's tone, sweeping past him as he brushed his shirtsleeve across the cover; a swirl of dust erupted between them. Then with a rag pulled from his trouser pocket, Gaelan burnished the cover with meticulous, minute strokes, revealing the engraved image of an intricate tree. Emerging from deep within the leather, its bare branches entwined and diverged into snakes, each consuming its own tail—an ouroboros. The snakes merged, transforming once again into an elaborate border of interconnected and twisted helices. Gaelan beheld the marvelous engraving, considering the complexity of its design.

The hawthorn: sigil of balance between life and death. A reminder that all medicines were a paradox, curative or poisonous and, as Gaelan well knew, too often producing unexpected consequences. And then there were the ouroboroses—they were alchemy's symbol for the circularity of life: life from life, life from death, from death to living in an eternal chain. For what was the true nature of medicine's practice? To lift the dying, to forestall death's knock at the door, and recommence life. But Gaelan knew, more than most, that the ouroboros also signified life eternal . . . immortality, alchemy's
eternal
quest.

“This volume, indeed, dates back many centuries, Dr. Bell. It was, I am told, a gift given to an ancestor of mine.” He leaned in conspiratorially, whispering into Bell's ear. “It is a unique book of healing, said to have within its recipes the cure for all sickness that might befall man, no matter how dread.” Gaelan continued to polish the leather, bringing forth colors as vibrant as fine stained glass. Every engraved line radiated metallic inks: ruby, lapis, emerald, gold, and silver.

Standing close by, Simon thrust a finger at the volume, a sneer curling his lip. “What is this, then?” he demanded. “This is no medical book; it seems more alchemist absurdity than anything. And I
suppose
it contains magical incantations to be recited whilst conjuring these ‘ancient' recipes?” Bell spat the words, disdain plain on his features. “Do you forget, apothecary, to whom you speak? I am no peasant awed by pretty pictures and talk of ancient remedies.”

Gaelan pressed down on his ire, difficult as it was. Bell had come to him, not the other way around. But he understood that Bell was at his wits' end, much like any other patient. “I assure you
this
is no book of sorcery, no fraud. All is of this natural world. Its
magic
, if such a word signifies at all, is solely within the elegant and inventive, but proper, combining of herbs and elements. Magic is a relative term. What is now known scientific fact was once feared as sorcery, its proponents exiled, executed, ripped from exalted society, and thrust—” Gaelan halted himself from going further, cutting too close to his own truths.

The book originated, Gaelan knew, with a people out of myth, a goddess of healing long ago vanished from the face of this earth. But who was to say their knowledge was any less than the greatest of the Enlightenment's science, yet called by another name?

This he could not say to Bell, for then Bell would walk out without another word, thinking him mad or one of those street mountebanks who sold curatives from horse carts in the marketplace. “Please allow me, Dr. Bell, to save her as I was not able to help my dear wife and wee son.”

“Is there a harm in trying it?” Bell pleaded.

The question should have been expected, yet still it took Gaelan aback. There was too much of the manuscript beyond his grasp, and some amount of fear. Yet he was confident he could comprehend one recipe, at least, down to the last letter, and used well, the medicine would, in fact, cure Mrs. Bell.

After all, he explained to Bell, had his own wife and son been left to his devices and not taken from their beds, he would have used this very book to prepare a medicine. “There is potential harm in any medication, as I am certain you know, but if you heed the instructions I write out for you, it shall be fine. But,” he warned, emphasizing each word, “the recipes from this book require a unique sort of care; there can be no improvisation, no room for even the minutest error in handling or dosing.”

Simon nodded; he seemed resigned to the risk. “I ask you, sir, what sort of consequences might befall a woman already written off as dead by every physician in London? None will touch her; no remedies remain, no medicine.” Almost to himself, he added, “I have little choice but to trust you.”

“Good, then. It is settled. I shall prepare it for, shall we say, ten o'clock tomorrow morning? Now if you would not mind leaving me to my work—” Gaelan led Simon down the stairs and out through the side door, watching as he tried to hail a carriage, recalling the last time he'd employed the ouroboros book.

CHAPTER 4

Simon staggered through his foyer, clothes soaked through, barely noticing his cousin Dr. James Bell, hands behind his back, awaiting him, foot nervously tapping on the marble tiles. But Simon could not fail to miss the disapproving glare examining him head to foot as he removed his sodden coat and boots.

“My God, Simon! You are a sight. You'll do Sophie no good if you collapse! And where the devil have you been in the pouring rain?”

Simon had taken far too long with Erceldoune, and it had started to rain again. With no carriage to hire, he'd slogged the two miles home in the downpour. A brandy and blazing fire was needed, but it must wait until he'd seen Sophie.

James was perhaps the last person Simon wished to see at the moment. In a different family, his politically astute cousin might by now have a seat in the House of Commons, but he was a Bell. As other families cultivated politicians and barristers, bankers and explorers, the Family Bell cultivated physicians: successful physicians, respected physicians, invariably well-connected physicians like James, who was newly appointed to serve the young Queen Victoria.

“Stay if you wish;
I
am going up to my wife.” He had no time for James and his searching expression, ever judging him these past months. Simon refused to countenance any discussion regarding his whereabouts—or Sophie.

“Then let us go up together.”

“As you wish.” He shrugged, too weary and anxious to argue.

The portraits of Simon's ancestors stood in judgment as he mounted the stairs—generations of Bell patriarchs. His mettle as both physician and husband strained beneath the oppressive weight of their stares. But would they have fared any better in the face of such a monstrous medical villain as cancer?

Dread knifed through Simon's chest as he approached the gallery—as it had these past months whenever he neared the top of the stairs. Would he find his dear Sophie dead and cold? And what then? How long would he survive without her by his side? Not a month.

The threshold to Sophie's boudoir had been, for the fifteen years of their marriage, an open invitation into her private niche—an anticipated delight. Now the room held not the fragrance of her rosebud bath salts and jasmine perfume, but of pall of disease and impending death: putrefied flesh and lye soap. First one step beyond the doorstop and then another until he fell to the mattress and at her side.

For now, Sophie slept; at least she looked at peace. A lock of blue-black hair had fallen across her eyes; Simon brushed it gently aside, kissing her softly at the temple. She was feverish again. He dampened a small cloth in a bowl of cool water, wiping her face with it before placing it across her forehead. He felt James's presence at the door, the man watching his every move, his reproving eyes bearing down on Simon like his ancestors'.

James stepped forward, placing a hand on Simon's shoulder. “She's not likely to improve much. You need to prepare yourself, cousin.”

As if there were a way to prepare your heart to be cleaved in two. “I cannot simply wait and do nothing. Watch her die a little more each passing hour, and this fever . . . it consumes her; I fear it will hasten her demise.” Sophie's chest rose and fell, slow and even breaths—a deception. For just beneath the surface lay the truth of it.

James sat upon the other side of the bed; quietly, he removed the brocade blanket, exposing Sophie's chest. Small beads of perspiration were joined there by gooseflesh as James prodded the swelling prominent upon her breast, repeating the task in the pit of her arm. She did not stir from her sleep.

“The cancer has weakened her; you know that, cousin. She cannot fight off fevers of any sort. And this latest illness . . .” He gently replaced the bedcovers, rising to place a hand on Simon's back. “But we should not disturb her rest. Come, let us speak out in the hallway.” He led Simon out into the corridor.

“I do know she is weak, and the fever has not helped her cause—” Simon barely caught himself as he faltered, nearly collapsing as he reached for the doorjamb. No longer possessing the strength to remain upright, he slid to the floor, face buried in his hands.

James could not be right; all could not be lost if only they refused defeat. Simon knew he could convince James, despite his infuriating skepticism—he must. Rallying, Simon pushed himself from the carpet, dusting off his trousers. “James. There might yet be a way to save her. A friend—an acquaintance, to speak true—who shall this very night create for me a medicine that could save her. I have been to see him—”

“And this is where you have been? Dear Lord, not again! And a friend, you say? What sort of . . . ? You cannot be serious!
Simon!
What manner of patent hokum is it this time? A poultice? A tonic? A
magic
pill?”

Simon would not back down. “This apothecary . . . Erceldoune of Smithfield . . . his reputation is without blemish. I have known him for several—”

“Mark well my words, cousin. Do not pay heed to one of these apothecary fellows, no matter how well you may think you know him. They lure you in with promises from antiquity and deliver nothing but false hope. He shall only do you—and our dear Sophie—ill!”

CHAPTER 5

The world had much altered, grown, since the seventeenth century when Gaelan had used the book to cure himself of plague. Late autumn, it had been, October 1625, and plague had ridden into London like the Pale Rider himself. Death everywhere, in every home; on every street people were dead or dying: in pesthouses, in plague pits, dropped dead in the streets or forgotten in their beds, rotting as the rats feasted on their remains. No one—no physician, surgeon, apothecary—had the ability to face it down and win. Gaelan's few successes, he'd realized, had likely not been plague at all, but some lesser pestilence.

Then one morning he awoke from a fitful sleep, and there they were: swellings in his armpits, his groin—unmistakable signs. Fever consumed him; the tips of his fingers had gone dusky and then began to blacken within the span of a day, and Gaelan waited for the disease to rob him of all thoughts but welcome death.

As he lay in bed, shivering and drenched, he saw it—a shimmering vision of the hawthorn tree with its odd snakes. He remembered his father talking of the 1574 plague that had decimated Edinburgh. Yet, his father, Court Physician Thomas Erceldoune had saved the lives of the boy king and half his courtiers with a tonic from the ancient volume.

Clawing at the book like a lifeline, Gaelan found the page, but in his delirium, he could barely follow the instructions. With trembling hands, he ground, distilled, and mixed, nearly dropping the crucible twice as he toiled. Finally it was done, and he hungrily drank it down, ignoring the metallic taste and foul smell. He'd little enough chance of surviving, and his last thought before losing consciousness was a prayer that death take him quickly should this effort fail. But it did not, and miraculously, before two days had passed he felt right enough to venture outside. His thoughts turned to rescuing others from the scourge of Black Death—perhaps all the afflicted of his Shoreditch street.

Yet his neighbors had recoiled at the sight of him, fleeing across the cobblestones, calling out one to the next, “He'd the plague! And now it's vanished! Magic . . . sorcerer . . . always knew it . . . suspected him from the start! Something not right with that one. . . . Must be a witch!”

Gaelan shuddered at the memory, and sighed, his thoughts returning swiftly to Simon Bell and the matter at hand. He hauled the book up to his laboratory, footsteps echoing through the narrow, windowless turret and into the large room above his flat. A full moon lit the room through high-arched windows. Seldom had Gaelan reason to come up to the laboratory at night—except to gaze upon the stars, count the constellations he'd known by heart since he was a lad—but tonight the moon rendered the sky too bright. It was just as well, with only until morning to fix Bell's potion.