The Apothecary's Curse Read Online Free Page A

through the yellow haze of the streetlamps until he recognized his destination.
    Ornate lettering edged in gold sat atop the double-bowed windows: “Gaelan R. Erceldoune, Apothecary.”
    He’d not seen Erceldoune in many months. The apothecary had long been a popular choice among physicians: clever and well-read—and a bit of a legend. Extraordinary medicines, it was said round the club in hushed and admiring tones, were concocted in Erceldoune’s back room and found not in any modern pharmacopeia. Cures long since considered magical nonsense, conjured with herbs and rare metals out of books with odd-sounding titles. More effective than any in current usage.
    Simon knew the apothecary was as skilled at modern chemistry as he was at grinding standard salves and dispensing medicines, inventing the most exquisite of preparations months before they would be discussed at the Royal Society. They’d been cordial, never friends exactly, but for ten years they’d shared a mutual fascination with the latest discoveries, no matter the discipline: science, philosophy, literature, languages. Simon had always looked forward to their late-night conversations over a good whisky and a game of chess in Erceldoune’s laboratory.
    But in truth, Simon knew little about Gaelan Erceldoune, who would never, for all his apparent brilliance, be a part of his society—not someone to introduce round the club, nor ask to dinner. At the end of the day, Simon would return to his London mansion and Erceldoune would retire to his tiny Smithfield flat above the shop.
    Then Erceldoune’s wife passed away, and the apothecary slammed his door to physicians. He’d refused all requests for the filling of even the simplest of prescriptions, yet his shop remained open to all others—the wretched souls of Smithfield. There was speculation aplenty as to why Erceldoune would so abruptly forsake so lucrative an income source, but Simon never inquired, however much he’d missed their discourse. There were plenty of apothecaries in London eager for the trade.
    At times, Simon had wondered why a man as clever as Erceldoune dwelled amid the vile zoology of Smithfield Market. No doubt, he could afford a better abode, away from the reek of animals permeating the air and filth that ran like a river through the streets.
    But at this singular moment, Simon’s sole thought was the hope that Erceldoune would not refuse him now. He must make the apothecary comprehend the dire nature of Sophie’s situation. For if she died, Simon knew he would not be long for this earth. Sophie was his anchor, his entire life.
    Week by week, Simon’s grip on the frayed end of his oil-slick tether slipped further and further as Sophie’s tumor grew, a malignant evil upon her breast. Then he noticed the second one, grotesque and purple-red, protruding from the hollow beneath her arm. And his heart stopped, for he knew there was little else to be done for her—by anyone.
    Erceldoune’s shop was dark—not a surprise for the lateness of the hour. But the dim light filtering through a curtained window above the shop gave Simon hope that the apothecary might be at home and awake. But was it right to disturb him at home, after he’d closed for the night? Urgency dictated he ignore propriety and the stack of returned, unopened letters. How could the apothecary refuse him in the darkest hour of his desperation?
    Simon pounded on a door at the side of the building. It rattled, old and tired; slivers of peeling green paint fell onto the wet pavement. “Mr. Erceldoune! I’ve need of your assistance, if you please, sir!” For several moments, he continued slamming his fists against the desiccated surface, certain he would break either the rotting wood or his hand at the next turn.
    Simon stayed his fist at the welcome clang of a turning bolt, and then the door opened a crack. Simon held his breath as a finger of light