The Apothecary's Curse

by Barbara Barnett

  He took in the remainder of the page, vaguely aware he almost seemed too expert at a manuscript he’d supposedly never before seen. He brushed off the feeling. “I wonder . . .” he said almost to himself. “An ounce of pure silver in aqua fortis—that would be nitric acid in our terminology—then diluted with distilled water. Add to that, two ounces of mercury. From this solution, it says, will grow a living tree, thus proving that life itself originates in the minerals.” He shrugged. “I suppose that is true in a sense, since everything is composed of minerals at some elemental level, and . . . ?”

  Wait a minute! What if the illuminations weren’t only decorative? What if they were actual ingredients embedded within the page’s design? It was a completely mad idea, but what else would explain the precise layout of the page—and the particular colors chosen for the design? Of course, there existed illuminated manuscripts using metallic inks, but not to this extent, at least not in his experience. He’d never heard any such claim about alchemy texts, but this book was unique—in the extreme. Fucking brilliant—a complete apothecary, or an alchemist’s laboratory—completely portable. And completely invisible to all but the few who held its key.

  Then what had been the point of his father’s apothecary box, all those jars with the odd symbols? Now, Gaelan’s mind nearly exploded with the possibilities. Might they have been concentrates or raw materials to create new inks as they depleted from the page with use? He’d never considered it. Of course not; the very idea he was considering was completely absurd. But if true . . . He needed to stop the speculation and return to earth. Immediately.

  He closed the book gently. “Dr. Shawe,” he said calmly as he could, “you said, did you not, that you discovered this book in an attic? Discarded and forgotten? You know nothing, then, of the book’s origins? How your family happened to acquire it?”

  “I—” Her phone rang. “Please excuse me.”

  “The signal is better outside, so—”

  She nodded as she opened the door, leaving the book with Gaelan.

  CHAPTER 42

  There was a chill in the early April air, and Anne wished she’d brought her jacket. Fucking Paul. Again. She affected her best “piss off” voice possible. “What do you want now?”

  “What’ve you learned about our Miracle Man?”

  Our Miracle Man? Just who the hell was pulling the strings? She hadn’t said anything to Lloyd, in fact, been completely noncommittal about even looking him up.

  “Nothing at all. Why?”

  “Hammersmith wants to know.”

  “Who appointed you his bloody surrogate?”

  “Don’t evade the question.”

  “I never said I was going to find out a bloody thing about him. I’ve no interest in your project, Paul, in case you didn’t already know. If you’re so interested, you track him down.” She stopped herself before letting slip her intention to resign from Transdiff altogether. Once I’ve put the bloody lot of you out of business!

  “Then why have you not shown up in La Jolla—”

  “I’m hanging up, Paul. You’re not my boss, and what I do on my own time is of no interest to you, most particularly.” She thought a moment. “I’m seeing an old boyfriend. A professor at University of Chicago. There. Satisfied? My. Own. Business. Now piss off.”

  “Look. Fine. That bloke who’s interested in your book? In Chicago. How’s that for coincidence? At least you should look him up whilst you’re in town. Maybe he knows something and can help you with it—even if you’re not interested in selling.” She wasn’t about to tell him that she’d found someone perfectly capable of deciphering her manuscript, much less that it was the Miracle Man Paul Gilles and Lloyd Hammersmith had been pursuing. She needed not one bit of assistance from Paul—or anyone else.

  But she had to throw him some sort of bone, if only so he’d bugger off and leave her the fuck alone. “Fine. Send me his e-mail address and phone number. If I’ve a chance, I’ll ring him up, but I’m leaving for California day after tomorrow.”

  There was a silence on the line.

  “Anne. Don’t hang up yet. We’ve found something. In those Bedlam diaries. A pretty good description of the patient. It appears the man was missing three fingers on his left hand. I’m telling you, luv . . . you should locate him. . . . Fame and fortune await us all.”

  “The book person?”

  “No, the Miracle Man, darling. Don’t purposely misinterpret what I’m saying. I’ve seen his photo. Like our Bedlam inmate, he too, happens to be missing three fingers. From his left hand.”

  What was Paul suggesting, that Gaelan Erceldoune was somehow connected to his nineteenth-century lunatic? That he was that man? “You can’t seriously be thinking those diaries have some connection to that poor sod who crashed his motorbike.”

  “I didn’t say he is our guy. I’m only just saying, luv. Find him. Talk to him. Please. Maybe there’s some sort of genetic defect. Maybe he’s a descendent. Maybe along with the regenerative ability comes a genetic deformation of the left hand. Just find him!”

  “You can’t be bloody serious, Paul!” A genetic mutation that causes both a congenital malformation and rapid wound recovery? “It’s science fiction.”

  “Who the hell knows? It’s an odd coincidence, and don’t deny it. And we’ve seen weirder stuff. Much. That’s all I’m saying. And what if there is a connection? Aren’t you at all curious about what Mr. Gaelan Erceldoune’s telomeres tell us?”

  Anne couldn’t tell if Paul was being at all serious. She hoped not, but knew his—and Transdiff’s—latest obsession. She wished she’d never heard the word telomere, nor proposed the idea that infinite cell regeneration was theoretically possible in humans. No cell death. No death. Live forever. Infinite tissue repair. Immortality—unless of course you got decapitated. Or bled out before the cells could regenerate. Ridiculous. Bollocks. Humans were not jellyfish, and her research had no human application. That, if ever, would be years away. But how, then, to explain Gaelan Erceldoune? Paul wasn’t wrong about that. She was more curious than she’d dare let on to him.

  “Good-bye, Paul.” She knew him well enough to understand that if he really thought he was onto something, he would soon be on his way to Chicago to investigate for himself. She shuddered, feeling unexpectedly protective of the man on the other side of the shop door, so guarded and wary of her, yet when he opened that book, he’d changed completely. She couldn’t let Paul near him. The poor man would be consumed whole.

  Anne clicked “End” and opened her e-mail app to write a preemptive note to Hammersmith. That should stall them for a day or two at least. “Dear Lloyd, Investigating Miracle Man. Very difficult to locate, despite hospital records. Have read his file. Extraordinary tissue regenerative abilities. Never seen anything like in a human. Refuses consent for DNA testing. Will let you know if I can find and convince. Give me a few days. Annie.” She opened the door and returned to Gaelan Erceldoune.

  “Dr. Shawe.” Gaelan ushered Anne back to her seat with a sweep of his hand and the most charming smile he could muster. The interruption had been welcome, a chance to gather his wits—and rehearse his best pitch. It was worth a shot, although he doubted she would part with the thing. “I very much would like to buy this book from you.” He did not wait for her response before continuing. “For my personal library. I’d never sell nor trade it. Not ever. I have longed . . . longed for one of its sort—for years. I have examined it whilst you’ve been on the phone. Although it appears at first glance to be an alchemist’s bible, I believe it is more than that.

  “It is . . . the sort of work . . . a . . . collector . . . an aficionado of medical antiquities, as I am, seeks his whole lifetime. I would love to take a stab at it . . . analyze . . . deconstruct . . . rudimentary, I’m certain, but . . .” He gazed at the volume, now open between them, hoping he would not give away his desperate longing for it.

  “I hope you might entertain an offer to sell it. Price is no object, and I am willing t
o pay you much more, I am certain, than you would receive from any other buyer.” He would sell his entire library—worth millions—to have it, if that was what it took.

  “It is not for sale. At any price.”

  “Be assured, I will translate it for you, every page, annotate it in readable English, so you, given your own interests and background, might also benefit immensely from its contents. It is a fair trade. Just name your price.” It was too much; he’d pushed too hard. She would suspect something.

  But she did not react, simply reiterated her refusal to part with it. “It’s not for sale. I am sorry if you misunderstood my intention. I would, however, greatly appreciate your assistance both in deciphering the pages and helping me to understand its origins—if that is even possible. I would pay you, of course, as a consultant—whatever your going rate is. Name your fee for helping me. Beyond purely academic interest, I have a feeling that this manuscript might be a clue, however slight, to my own family’s history. So I offer you a collaboration; we shall both benefit from it. But, I’m afraid, it’s not for sale.”

  Gaelan was mute. He rose from his seat, struggling against quickly gathering resentment. Dr. Shawe was right in her decision. Who would part willingly with such a prize? He felt it slipping through his fingers.

  The book had literally fallen into his lap, yet would now be lost to him forever? Inconceivable. There must be a way. . . . He stepped behind the counter so she could not observe the depth of his disappointment.

  “Here, Mr. Erceldoune,” Dr. Shawe said finally, breaking the silence, beckoning him back to the table. “What do you think this means?” She pointed to an image of a crow with an olive branch in its beak.

  “I have no bloody idea!” he snapped petulantly. He refused to be treated as some sort of interloper. Consultant? Indeed not! “I would have to have more time to study it.” Calm yourself, Erceldoune. It would do no good if she walked out now, with that book. He’d never see it again if she did that. But if he was, indeed, the only one who could help her, why would she bolt? No, she was as determined to untangle the manuscript as he was to possess it.

  “That olive branch. Does it not look to you like a strand of DNA? They’re everywhere if you look closely enough!”

  Gaelan could not help himself, and he returned, looking over her shoulder at the image. “Surely you must be aware, Dr. Shawe, that you are projecting your own modern scientific training onto a work hundreds of years old.”

  “But the question remains. Why that shape?”

  “I rather more think,” he said, still annoyed, but unable to contain his interest, “it is an infinity symbol, and far more likely that the author was in some way seeking, as did most of his brethren, the answer to life itself. Did it lie in minerals—a philosopher’s stone, as some would call it? Some alchemists, even apothecaries, spent their lives in search of it. Even Sir Isaac Newton was obsessed with the idea of solving the mystery of eternal life within the minerals found in plain sight on this earth. Why not an infinity symbol?”

  Gaelan grinned, recalling the heated debates he’d had with Sir Isaac back home in the Apothecaries’ Hall over the healing properties of one herb over another shortly before the man’s scholarly pursuit turned to matters of mathematics and physics. But it had been Newton’s insistence on contextualizing alchemy with the spiritual world—the occult—that rankled, causing a rift between them. Gaelan knew all too well that the physical ramifications of “life eternal” had little to do with God or the afterlife.

  “But it is interesting,” Anne continued, pressing the issue, “that the symbol for ‘infinity’ here so resembles what we now know to be the double helix of DNA. What a coincidence, given my research! Like it was somehow meant to be.” She blushed. “Forgive me. It’s silly, I know. But somehow at this moment I can’t help but feel that it was somehow my destiny to unearth this book.”

  The passion with which she spoke and the inquisitiveness in her eyes kindled a spark he’d thought long dead. It both warmed and terrified him.

  “And then there is you. A man who by all accounts has an inexplicable ability for wound repair, unheard of . . .”

  Ah, there you are. Reality. What she’s really after. The book was a tangent. He was the prize. Do not forget this simple fact. Exactly what was needed to remind him of his mantra: professional distance. Do not allow yourself to be sucked in. “Just what are you suggesting?”

  She scowled. “More coincidence . . . more destiny, that’s all. You don’t feel it?”

  “Not at all, but point taken,” he said, coolly, hoping to redirect the arc of their debate. He dismissed her argument with feigned disinterest. “Getting back to the matter at hand, I think that connecting a medieval manuscript with a field that would not be discovered for centuries to come is more than a bit of a stretch.”

  How could a text credited to Airmid—to mythology—incorporate sophisticated, modern, science? It was as impossible as . . . as what? An immortality formula? A recipe to cure plague?

  Her cloak, before her father scattered it to the wind, contained upon it the secret to healing through herbs and minerals all of the ailments known and unknown to humankind.

  What if this book was, for lack of a better term, Airmid’s “backup copy,” and Lord Thomas of Erceldoune the convenient repository? Given to him to conceal from her father—to preserve it for all time?

  Gaelan nervously raked a hand through his hair, contemplating his options, coming up nil. “I tell you what, Dr. Shawe. I will help you. But I would need it—need to borrow it—for some time. Perhaps two weeks, perhaps two months.” Perhaps forever. Gaelan was far from certain whether, once back in his possession, he could let anyone wrest it from him without violence.

  “Why do I feel I would be doing you as much, if not more, a favor by letting you have at it?”

  “I would be lying to tell you that I don’t covet the thing—”

  “After that admission, I insist we do this together or not at all. There is no way I shall let this book out of my sight. Surely you’d vanish with it, and I’d never see you or the book again!”

  Perhaps it would not be so dreadful, after all, to have her nearby. Her expertise would be far from a hindrance, but he’d need to redouble his guard.

  “The entire way!” she insisted. “I want to know what you are doing as you interpret the manuscript and your reasoning. I want to understand this legacy of mine—destiny or not—nearly as much as I am interested in your unusual regenerative abilities. I’ve not forgotten that, of course.”

  Of course not. And he would do well to never forget it.

  Her face was flushed with excitement and mirth. It would be a challenge not to be disarmed by her eagerness or the warmth of her smile, which had already eaten away the edges of his guard.

  He would give nothing away, rebuff all questions, be ever vigilant. Professional distance. Academic interest. Repeat on the hour. Every hour—as long as Dr. Anne Shawe was around. Gaelan nodded, his lips drawn tight. “Understood. But if I might have it overnight to get a head start, keep it in my possession whilst we work on it, I might make faster strides in deciphering it, do you not agree? I promise to keep not one fact, one idea, from you. I tend to work at odd hours. Even tonight. I . . . I seldom sleep, and I’ve a mind to get through this book quick as I can. And mind, I intend to move on from this area, and soon. I hate publicity, and I’ve had more than my share these past days. Soon as I’ve sold this property, I’m gone, so I’d best get to my task, do you not agree? Feel free to sleep upstairs in my flat if you’d like.”

  She seemed to hesitate, consider the proposition. Gaelan hoped she would simply take him at his word and return to her hotel. “I am exhausted. I’ve not slept either . . . and my jet lag . . . I give up. Very well, but I shall be back tomorrow morning nine sharp. And you must promise to be ready for a day’s work—together.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Good Lord. Look at the time! Okay, nine. Sharp. I’ll bring coffee.”

  Gae
lan ushered her to the door and watched as she disappeared from sight. Finally alone with the book, he leapt upon it, heart pounding. He hugged it to his chest—a long-lost love. And he wept.

  I do not know, my dear ancestors, what trick of fate has brought this manuscript back into my hands, but at long last I have the means to right a wrong and end my friend’s life. It is all he desires in the world. And what of me? Shall I disappear and begin again, reborn? Or is it finally time to put an end to my own nightmares? It struck Gaelan, harder than he thought possible, that with Simon gone, he would be truly and finally alone. And it terrified him.

  LONDON, 1842

  CHAPTER 43

  “Well, Erceldoune, tomorrow is an eventful day for you,” Simon declared as he took his leave for the night. More than a week had passed, and Gaelan was finally fit for his voyage across the sea. As much as he knew he needed to vanish, part of him longed to stay here, with Eleanor. But with every passing day, the risk of discovery increased.

  The murder of Lord Richard Braithwaite was a notorious crime, and it would not do for the executed murderer to turn up living. There was little choice but to leave. He presented no viable future for Eleanor. She should remarry, forget the horror of Lord Braithwaite, enjoy the inheritance of his riches, and never give another thought to the apothecary Gaelan Erceldoune.

  “I have booked you first-class passage to New York, and you head for those exciting shores with a full bank account and our deepest gratitude. I am heading up to my rooms, so I will bid you both a good night.”

  “The money, Bell, is wholly unnecessary; I did this for myself, as much as for your sister, as you are aware. I should have killed him when he first walked into your home—”

  “But it is necessary.” He pulled Gaelan out of Eleanor’s hearing. “I full well expect that you will use at least some of those funds to locate that book. I hold you to it, and to restoring me to my more mortal self. Do not, therefore, think of it as either a gift or charity.”