She took a ferry back across the river, enjoying a rest from toting the awkward fittings. The tide had changed and the ferrier poled his skiff diagonally, landing near the bridge. A crowd of onlookers had gathered at its entrance to see the fresh display of miscreants enhancing the upper rim of the gate. The heads were bloody and exposed, probably because no one cared to heat tar on a hot day to dip them. A throng of ravens and gulls fought over torn bits of flesh, their screeches drowning out the shouts and jeers of onlookers below.
If the crowd was any indication, Meddybemps probably enjoyed the spectacle as much as they. He probably did a brisk business and she hoped he managed to sell some of her remedies in addition to his amulets. Avoiding the boisterous revelers, Bianca took a back alley to her room of Medicinals and Physickes.
When she arrived, her hopes sank when she saw the door wide open. John would have closed it if he had gone to Boisvert’s. But the air was leaden and John’s consideration for her collection of laboratory equipment was often contingent upon his mood. Perhaps he had thought it more important to circulate the air than to protect a few of her crocks from crooks.
Alas, when she stepped inside her eyes were drawn to the neighbor’s chickens scratching through the rush that covered the floor. It looked to be the entire flock. Oblivious to their clucking and messing, John lay asleep on their bed with the black tiger cat sprawled beside him.
The sight was enough to make Bianca forget that John may have been too ill to shoo the fowl from their rent. She would have wished for a more responsible cat, but perhaps it had learned a long time ago that chickens were too large to bother with.
“John!” Bianca dropped the retorts where she stood and set upon the chickens, running after them. With arms windmilling, she chased them about, herding them out the door. Two particularly stubborn chickens managed to elude her. One scurried behind a stack of crockery and the other scooted under the table. Both refused to come out. Bianca grabbed a broom, a good scaring being a language the one hiding behind the pottery understood. Finally, Bianca got on her hands and knees and crawled under the table to catch the final holdout. She tossed the last hen into the air outside their door and slammed it shut. Removing her muffin cap, she hung it on a nail and picked up the retorts and the empty bottle of wine to carry them to the table.
John had propped himself on his elbows to watch the excitement.
“Didn’t you hear them clucking and knocking things over?”
“I did, but I thought I was dreaming.”
“You never made it to Boisvert’s?”
John lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I did not.”
“Have you even gotten up?”
“Not much.”
Bianca sat on the bed beside him. The black tiger, never one to refuse an opportunity to be petted, stretched and stepped on her lap.
“My head is pounding,” said John. “It feels as if horses are galloping back and forth inside my skull.”
Bianca blinked in alarm. She ran through the symptoms Barnabas Hughes had mentioned about the sweat. Pounding head, fever, shortness of breath . . . “Are you feverish?” She placed her hand on his temples and felt his cheeks. He did feel warm to her touch. “You will become parched if you do not drink. My mother believes one must drink to keep the river flowing inside.”
She found a cup and poured John some ale from the cask they had gotten from the Dim Dragon Inn. “If you have a fever and you are losing your water to perspiration, you must drink.” She reached for her pillow and wedged it behind John as he sat up.
“Where have you been?” he asked. His eyes closed as if he hadn’t the strength to keep them open.
“I collected the retorts I bought from Amice.” She watched John take a sip of ale. She could not expect him to gulp it down—only the most brave could guzzle that tavern’s brew. “I thought I would have to ask Goodwife Tenbrook to let me into his rent. But when I got there, she was dead.”
“Small favors,” said John. “At least you were spared the inconvenience of having to convince her to unlock the room.” John finished the ale and handed the cup to Bianca. “I know you wanted to collect those retorts. However, now that you have them, I see no reason for you to return to Ferris Stannum’s alchemy room. The place seems to have a dangerous effect on anyone spending time there. I am rather fond of you and would prefer that you not drop dead. Now, if you have no objection, I shall rest.” He removed the pillow propping him up and dropped onto his back.
“Are you having difficulty breathing?” asked Bianca, but John’s breath had already lengthened into slumber. Bianca sat on the edge of the bed and watched him rest. His current fatigue was disturbing. True, the heat sapped everyone’s strength. All of London operated at a more sluggish pace.
Bianca began to think about a tincture to cure the illness. Or, if not cure, then at least ease its ugly symptoms.
In the meantime, John’s complaint took precedence. Bianca took down a bunch of dried feverfew from her collection tacked on an overhead beam and decided to make a poultice for his forehead. If he could sleep restfully he might be able to ward off the disease should it be trying to wear him down.
Finding her mortar and pestle, she ground the aerial parts until they were a fine powder. To this she added a measure of water and honey to make a paste. She slathered the mixture on a piece of thin muslin and laid it on John’s forehead. Much to Bianca’s disappointment, he did not stir when she put it on his skin.
If this was the precursor to the sweating sickness, she must be prepared. The shortness of breath that Barnabas Hughes spoke of could mean the victim’s lungs were filling with phlegm. If the secretions were thick and yellow, a “hot” phlegm, she could use silverweed and elder. She had never combined the two, but the silverweed could help dry perspiration. Elder was an expectorant, so mixing them together should help with the copious secretions that the disease was known for.
But as Bianca checked her shelves for elder, she remembered that elder could induce sweating. It would counteract the drying effect of silverweed. The two would not mix. Disappointed, Bianca ran through other combinations of ingredients.
The black cat roused from its nap beside John and jumped to the shelf in front of Bianca. “If I had Ferris Stannum’s elixir of life, I wouldn’t have to figure this out.” She stroked its back while thinking. Looking the feline in the eyes, she said, “I hope you don’t mind living forever—though you have no choice in the matter.” The cat butted her head affectionately as if in agreement.
“Morus alba,” said Bianca, snapping her fingers. She reached past the black tiger and felt around on the shelf behind it. “Ha!” she said, pulling out a chunk of mulberry root and sniffing it to be sure. She had seen the tree growing near a field in Horsleydown and had insisted John help her dig for some roots. He had not taken kindly to her using his knife to saw off bits of the stubborn plant, grousing that he had just sharpened it and now he would have to do it again.
“I can dissolve this and add the silverweed tincture to make a tea,” she told the cat.
Confident she had the basis for a remedy, Bianca found the tincture of silverweed and made a decoction of root bark. Soon, a pleasant smell filled the room and Bianca hoped John might notice and sit up to comment. Instead, his sleep grew increasingly restless. He tossed about, briefly lying still before flipping over again, dangling his leg off the edge.
Bianca retrieved the feverfew poultice and asked if it had helped the pounding in his head. When he didn’t respond, she shook his shoulder and spoke in his ear. His eyes blinked open and he moaned what she took to be an “aye,” then turned away from her.
The tea finished steeping and Bianca wondered if it would benefit him if he took it now. However, doing so before symptoms appeared might be premature. The tea was not made as a preventative, and giving it too soon might have an undesired harsh effect on his system. So Bianca strained the infusion and set it aside, ready in the event that John’s health declined
.
Ferris Stannum’s empty bottle of wine lay on the table, and Bianca picked it up and ran it under her nose. Bianca tipped back her head and closed her eyes. Spirits were always difficult for her to evaluate. The alcohol often dissolved and masked any questionable additions—such as ground apple seed or rat poison. She turned the bottle upside down and a single drop landed in her palm. She sniffed it. No notable smell hinted that it was off. She touched it with the tip of her tongue. Nothing. If someone had laced the bottle with poison and given it to Ferris Stannum as a gift, she could not detect the offending substance. It did not mean that it was not there, but she could not tell what it was.
But who would do such a deed? Bianca tsked. Smile and give a gift that kills. Several had reason to wish ill on Stannum—Tenbrook, Tait the lender, Amice, or rather her husband, Gilley. And there was Thomas Plumbum. But why would Plumbum want his old friend dead? To steal his journal of alchemy and claim glory as the discoverer of the elixir of life? Given his unscrupulous manner, it was entirely possible. Which led Bianca back to the question—where or from whom did Ferris Stannum get the bottle of wine? And when?
John rustled in bed and settled. Bianca poured herself some ale and settled on a stool next to the board. She watched John while she sipped, resting her chin on her fist.
Ferris Stannum and Goodwife Tenbrook could have died from ingesting something in common. They had both partaken of the wine. But so had Thomas Plumbum, she remembered. He had taken a hearty swig from the bottle. Unless, perhaps, it only appeared that he had taken a drink.
If the wine was laced, Stannum’s death could have been planned, but Goodwife Tenbrook’s death appeared accidental. Bianca pondered the similarities, but there were a couple of differences in their deaths that troubled her.
Bianca had found dried blood that had run down each temple from the corners of Goodwife Tenbrook’s eyes. Weeping eyes was not a symptom mentioned by Barnabas Hughes when asked about the sweat. However, Ferris Stannum did not have dried blood on his face. It was on his pillow, indicating to Bianca that Ferris Stannum had been smothered.
If Goodwife Tenbrook had died from tainted drink, say, perhaps the wine, and if Ferris Stannum had not been smothered, would he have eventually died from poisoning, too? But neither of them showed overt signs of poisoning. There was no vomiting, no inflammation of Tenbrook’s mouth. Bianca took another sip of ale. Perhaps it was a subtle poison. One she was unfamiliar with. But if the wine was not tainted, what did Tenbrook die of? Was the coroner correct in his diagnosis of sweating sickness?
Finding the tumbler with the blue glaze, Bianca tipped it toward the light to examine the remnants of tincture stuck to the bottom like dried sap. She recalled the physician’s quip when Tenbrook asked if he was poisoning her. “I would not be so obvious,” he had said.
Bianca pursed her lips. “Indeed,” she said cynically.
A pan of water sat on the table and she stuck her fingers in and dribbled a few drops in the cup, swirling the tincture until it dissolved. She found a small dropper and rinsed it clean. Drawing up the residue, she held the dropper to the side of a cage, allowing a rat to lap it dry. She set the cage on the table and waited for the rat to react.
The lousy ale made her sleepy and she fought the urge to lay her head in her arm. She forced herself to think of another remedy for the sweating sickness. The only way to know if the tea would work was if John came down with the disease.
Of course, if Meddybemps came by, she could make more tea and send him off to sell it at market. Bianca propped her fist against her cheek and watched the rat push its nose against the cage. She stood and stretched her arms over her head, noting John’s snores filling the room. The black tiger cat leapt to the windowsill.
Bianca wandered beneath the sprigs of herbs hanging from the beams. The sprays took up a large portion of the room and were unlabeled, but she knew what each of them was and where she had gotten it. She gazed up at the hyssop and goldenseal. Both were possible ingredients for a remedy. She snapped off a sprig of meadowsweet and ran it under her nose. The fragrant herb was another possibility. They all had varying effects on lung secretions. Bianca gazed up at the dangling display. She strolled along the herbs, running her hands under them. She was pondering what combinations might work when her toe stubbed on a lump in the rush.
A bound package wrapped in linen lay directly in front of the window. Bianca went to the opening and looked out. The lane was empty of anyone who might have just tossed it through without her noticing.
“Sudden do you sneak up on me,” said Bianca, bending over to pick up the parcel. “What are you?” She turned it over, running her hand over a slash in its linen covering.
Thinking she was addressing it, the black tiger leapt down from the windowsill and strode over. It followed her back to the table and jumped up to investigate the curiosity along with its mistress.
Bianca unwound the linen from the parcel. She sat down and blew out a long breath. “You never made it to Cairo.”
CHAPTER 18
Bianca ran her hand along the binding, sniffing the leather imbued with fifty years of experiments. She slid her fingers under the cover, noted a thin slit, and opened to the first page, knowing even before she’d read his signature that this was Ferris Stannum’s alchemy journal. He had not hidden the book from her when he had mentored her, nor had he chided her for studying a page as it lay open on his dais. In fact, he had shown her his Decknamen for gold. The reverence she felt to have his entire life’s work at her disposal, in her hands, left her momentarily awed.
She carefully turned over the pages. Pages filled with his Decknamens, his drawings and methods. Some she recognized, and followed his process through putrefaction and calcination—stages she had grown familiar with as a child watching her father. Occasionally, Stannum had taken the time to create drawings using inks and paint to color the figures. She marveled at the fanciful renderings of mythical green lions devouring blood red hearts, the animated moons with sleepy expressions. The suns with wise faces sprouting dagger-sharp rays.
With no consideration, the black tiger walked across the treasured pages. It ran its back under Bianca’s nose, waiting for her attention. Petting or scolding, either would be fine.
Bianca pushed the shameless egoist off and kept the little nuisance at bay as she hefted the pages over to the end, where she believed Stannum’s latest and greatest work must be. She was not disappointed.
The final page showed a glass vesicle shaped like an onion bulb. Within the vesicle stood a woman with her arms outstretched. A gesture of disclosure. The woman could be Eve, the giver of life. From her waist down she was submerged in water—symbolic of amniotic fluid. A drawing of a peacock rich in hues of green and blue stood to the side, its head turned toward the woman in the flask. Bianca knew from her father that peacocks represented immortality. She stared across the room. This was Stannum’s visual interpretation of the philter of life. The more she thought about it, the more she was certain. This drawing represented the elixir of immortality.
She turned back a page and studied the drawings, interpreting them to be about congelation. She turned back another few, trying to find the beginning of his final experiment—the beginning of the process to create the elusive elixir.
As she scanned the carefully written text, her fascination with the noble art displaced her long-seated contempt for it. For years she had denied its validity. She blamed her father and his obsession for her family’s financial strife. For all the rancor and resentment, she could not deny alchemy’s occasional usefulness.
And now she was presented with the recipe for concocting the elixir of life. She sat back and contemplated what that meant. Death was the end of a person’s physical existence. But was it the end of that person’s spirit? At the moment of death, some people claimed to have seen the spirit leave a body, though Bianca had never seen it happen.
Faith in God was no different from believing in the spirit. There was no physi
cal proof of either. You could not touch God like you could a flower. You could not touch the spirit. Some argued that God was everywhere, that God was the flower. Then was it true for the spirit?
What was spirit? Was it simply—life? Or the memory of it? After a person died, his spirit remained with the living in memories. But as time reached into the future, the memories diminished. With each succeeding generation moments were forgotten, stories were lost, until finally, the memory was extinguished. And, if someone was remembered, that memory was reduced to a name. But was there eternal life elsewhere for that soul?
If the soul was immortal, why can’t our physical bodies last forever?
Bianca wanted to believe that the soul was immortal. There was no proof for believing it so. It was not based on any rational proof. But if life, if existence, consisted only of the time we had on earth, what was the use in following a moral path? If there was no reward at the end of it, was life itself irrelevant?
Bianca shook her head. “Life has relevance because we die.”
John turned over in bed. He kicked off the sheet, complaining again of the heat. Bianca left the journal along with her thoughts about alchemy and immortality and went to him. Halfway there she smelled the putrid stink of sweat.
Her first thought was a plea that this could not be the sweat. But she knew it served no purpose to hope that it wasn’t.
“John,” she said, shaking his shoulder. “You must sit up. If you become short of breath, you must stay upright.” But he did not seem to hear or care. His hair stuck to his scalp and his skin was drenched with an unnatural, offensive smell. She stood over him, holding the brewed tea.
Would he become suddenly short of breath? She had never seen the characteristic symptom of the disease. A symptom rarely overcome. The sweat chose its victims randomly, and who could say why some were spared while others were not?
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