Inside the shop, they were greeted by a frail elderly woman with white hair. One look at her and Percy’s nose turned upward.
“Don’t dawdle,” he whispered. “We get whatever you need, and then we get out.”
For a fleeting moment Signa wished she’d stepped on his toes harder the day before, though she refused to let his negativity sit with her when they’d entered such a wonderland. Jars of tonics and bottles of herbs sat upon shelves riddled with tiny wooden bobbles. There were small containers of living moss, and dainty baskets of dried herbs that smelled so fragrant Signa wanted to bathe in them.
The middle of the shop was full of live potted plants. Most of them were types Signa had never seen before, with trailing vines or large bulbous flowers. She resisted the urge to stroke her finger across their petals, awed that such a wondrous place could exist. Had she enough money, Signa would have been tempted to buy out the entire store.
“Can I help you find something, miss?” the shopkeeper asked. Signa was glad to see that she paid Percy’s snobbery no mind.
His eyes darted to Signa, a dark warning brewing within them that signaled her to take caution with her words. The moment they left the apothecary, gossip would ignite. Though it was possible that whoever was harming Blythe was already aware they’d been found out, Signa and Percy didn’t need to risk adding fuel to the fire, or word getting back to Elijah that his wife’s death could have been prevented had someone been playing closer attention to her strange symptoms.
“I’ve a friend who ate something sour,” Signa offered the shopkeeper. “I’m looking for a Calabar bean to help rid her body of some toxins from it. And perhaps something to soothe her stomach after, too.”
The woman squinted her small eyes in assessment, then made a noise in the back of her throat as she hobbled with Signa toward a back shelf full of small plants and glass vials. Percy followed behind them, making a point of appearing disinterested as the woman inspected the shelves.
The shopkeeper muttered under her breath as she searched, growing more frustrated with her findings row after row until she found what it was that she was looking for and uttered a quiet “Aha!” She produced a small vial with a strange brown nut within it. The Calabar bean.
Signa reached for it, but the woman pulled the vial out of reach. She leaned toward Signa and whispered, “Are you sure it’s what you’re looking for? It’s highly poisonous, and it won’t help a sour stomach.”
Signa knew the Calabar bean was a risk, but if Signa did nothing—if she took no risk—then Blythe would die, and Signa would spend the rest of her life wondering if she could have saved her.
Signa nodded and put her faith in Death. “Yes ma’am. It’s precisely what I need.”
The woman dared a quick look at Percy, and said, very softly, “Are you safe, girl? If it’s something for him that you need, I have a few things a little more… inconspicuous.”
Signa blanched and set her hands upon the woman’s at once, hoping that her earnestness was enough to confirm her sincerity. “That’s not it at all, ma’am, I assure you. This will do just fine.”
With reservation, the shopkeeper hummed and handed over the vial. “Crush it into a powder. Then, put about half of it into a glass with water to induce vomiting.” Vomiting, Signa hoped, that would help rid Blythe of the poison.
The woman shuffled over to the back of the shop, skirts brushing against the dusty oak floor. For a long moment she searched, eventually producing a small jar filled with tiny brown seeds that she brought back to Signa. “Caraway seeds,” she told her, placing the jar in Signa’s palms. “To help settle your friend’s stomach.”
Percy’s agitation grew with each person who wandered by the foggy, dirt-crusted windows of the shop and took note of his presence within it. His long fingers refused to cease their tapping upon his thigh. He watched the woman hand over the caraway seeds, keen as a hawk. “Do you have any more of the Calabar bean?”
“It’s no easy plant to find,” said the shopkeeper. “This is all I’ll have for some time.”
He grunted, dissatisfied, and produced his coin purse. “Very well. How much do we owe you?”
The woman flinched with surprise at his severity but said firmly enough, “A thruppence will do.”
Percy pressed a shilling into her waiting palm. “For your discretion.”
The shopkeeper fisted the coin with a snort, then dropped it into a pocket of her skirt. “Get out of here, boy, before I give you something to be discreet about.”
There was no need to tell him twice. Signa tucked the vial away in her pocket as Percy tugged her out of the shop she easily could have spent a full day in, chatting to the shopkeeper about every beautiful thing within it. Her fingers curled tenderly around the jar of caraway seeds. Signa had the vague impression that Percy believed the apothecary might suddenly infect him with the plague.
He darted a look around to ensure no one was watching as he pushed open the door. “There is a madness within that woman,” he said. “I don’t trust her.”
Signa bristled. “She is a healer.”
“She’s a witch,” he scoffed. “I still don’t see how some seed will help my sister when nothing else could.”
Witch. The word sent Signa’s mind reeling back to the night of Magda’s death. “Don’t call her that. If a berry is powerful enough to hurt your sister and kill your mother, then who are you to say a plant cannot heal with that same power?”
He had no response to that. She could feel the fear rolling off him in waves. She knew that if she were him, she wouldn’t want to let herself hope that this tiny seed would somehow fix everything, either. Because if it didn’t…
“Let’s make haste,” Percy muttered. “We’ll need to get back to the carriage before—”
“Miss Farrow?” called a voice from down the street. “Miss Farrow, is that you?”
Dread sunk its claws into Signa when she saw that Eliza Wakefield and Charlotte Killinger approached, accompanied by a handsome gentleman with light brown skin and a head of wheat-brown curls. He wore a fashionable olive-green topcoat and a hat that he tipped toward them with a smile so charming that Signa’s heart fluttered.
Sweat beaded upon Signa’s brow as Charlotte noticed the shop they’d emerged from. It was good fortune that she was too polite to speak of it, though the same couldn’t be said for Eliza.
“Oh, it is you,” Eliza said as she lowered herself to a curtsy before Percy. “I thought it might be. Have you come from the apothecary?”
Percy took on an entirely new air before Signa could bat an eye. “And have ourselves cursed by a witch? Never.” He spoke in a light, jovial manner that made Signa’s jaw tense.
Eliza matched his grating smile, giggling as though he was most humorous. She waited for Charlotte and the man accompanying them to echo the laugh, but both kept their faces smooth. Eliza—finally able to peel her eyes from Percy long enough to remember herself—inclined her head and took Signa by the hand. “My apologies,” she said. “This is my cousin Lord Everett Wakefield, son of the Duke of Berness.” Eliza held his arm with a smirk upon her lips.