The Apothecary's Curse Read Online Free Page B

slipped through, too bright in the dark alleyway. “Shop’s closed for the night. Come back tomorrow, if you please. We open at eight sharp.” The door rasped as it closed, leaving Simon in the drizzle, stunned. Had Erceldoune not recognized him? Perhaps it was too dark to have seen him properly. He pounded again.
    â€œMr. Erceldoune! It is Simon Bell come to call. Please, sir, it is urgent. For some weeks now I have been endeavoring to contact you and—”
    The hinges creaked as the door opened again, this time wider. Dark, apprehensive eyes, luminescent in candlelight, scrutinized him; their wary gaze penetrated deep within Simon’s resolve, forcing him back a step.
    â€œWhat is it, then?” The inquiry was frigid as the November night.
    Simon pressed on, ignoring an urge to flee. “Do you not know me, then? It is Dr. Si—”
    Erceldoune replied with a sneer. “I know who you are, have known since I saw you from my window, before you took to breaking down my door. Now please, if you would be so kind as to leave! I’ve nothing to say to any of London’s gentlemen physicians. Not even Dr. Simon Bell!” The words rasped, bitter poison droplets.
    â€œMy wife is ill . . . dying. Even tonight, she . . . I think she may be . . .” Simon did nothing to conceal his anguish. Would it be enough of an appeal to gain an audience, after camaraderie had come to naught?
    After a long moment, Erceldoune stepped aside, allowing Simon to pass beyond the threshold. They climbed a rickety, winding staircase, entering a spacious sitting room at the top. The room—comfortable, even elegant—seemed anomalous here in Smithfield, so like its owner.
    The sour-sweet smell of ink and old books, whisky, and dying embers permeated Simon’s nostrils. He sank into a faded chair, noticing the brimming shelves lining three walls of the room—thousands of volumes reaching to the corniced ceiling, piled high on tables and chairs. In the amber glow of candlelight, the room reminded Simon of a Baroque painting: organized chaos, shadows and light, great stillness, yet activity teeming beneath the surface. But there was a jarring untidiness about the room as well. Papers, quills, and open jars of ink were strewn among the books. Jars of herbs, dirty brass pestles, and broken crucibles littered the floor. None of this fit the meticulous man Simon had known for years.
    Erceldoune balanced a tumbler half-filled with amber liquid on his knee, making a game of keeping it steady there. “Why have you disturbed me this night, Dr. Bell?”
    Simon shivered from the iciness of the apothecary’s welcome, so unlike their cordial relationship had been.
    Erceldoune scooped up his glass with a deft move, downing its contents in a single gulp. He poured another, emptying the faceted crystal decanter. Simon noted the tremor in Erceldoune’s hand as he thrust his fingers through his hair, the tremble in every word, the almost nervous way in which he threw back another whisky. He had been the most reliable apothecary in London, whatever it was worth, for most of them were reprobates, enriched off the misfortune of others. But now?
    Could it have been the drink that changed him thus? Simon hesitated a moment, wondering if he had been wrong to come here. No. This was his last chance, the only chance, to save Sophie—and himself.
    â€œMy wife has cancer of the breast. It has now spread. I . . .” Simon was unable to urge another word past the clot of tears in his throat.
    Erceldoune held up a hand, pinning Simon with his steely eyes. “Then she is dead. Had I a cure for that, I should be a famous and wealthy man and not living thus in cramped quarters above a shop. If that is what brought you from your warm home and into the night, I am afraid you’ve wasted your time—and mine. We are therefore done. I bid you a good night,