The Apothecary – Part 2: Tincture

The treatment was a quiet ritual of obedience. She had him hold out his hands while she smoothed a cool balm into his wrists, slowly. She had him sit with his eyes closed while she recited the names of herbs in a low voice, and corrected his breathing with a finger on his sternum. She made him kneel on the herb-scented rug and wait while she wrote notes in a heavy ledger. She spoke in the soft cadences of a woman who dispensed remedies and expected them to be taken. Everything was exact and slow and kind, and he felt his insomnia dissolving like sugar in tea.

Every half hour: "Do you wish to continue, patient?" "Yes, Madam." "Say it clearly." "I do. Thank you."

At one, the candles guttered.

"Antidote," said Perpetua, softly.

She set the ledger down. The gloves came off. She was suddenly just Perpetua, soft-eyed, tucking the cap back from her hair. She sat on the rug beside him and wrapped a shawl round them both.

"How are you?"

"Cured," said Noah, with a hoarse little laugh. "Utterly."

"Good." She kissed his forehead. "You were a perfect patient."

"Will the treatment continue?"

"A full course," said Perpetua. "Weekly. I'm drafting a new formula."

"I will take it as prescribed."

"I'm certain you will," said Perpetua, and the last candle burned down in a bead of gold.

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