The Apothecary's Apprentice

London, 1640

To heal or to harm, to serve or to steal.

To cure or to kill, to be revered or to be feared.

Only a fine line separates a mender from a murderer.

Everything has its fatal dose; it’s the dose that makes the poison. The margin of error is so small and unforgiving. Of course, there are substances more innocuous than others, but nothing is without risk.

These thoughts permeate my mind as the steam screams from the kettle.

"Alice!" Lady Bellecote yells from the front room of the shop.

Snapping back to my task, I quickly grab the kettle and remove it from the flame. I blink, bringing myself back into focus. Just the slightest deviation could result in disaster. Although, maybe not in this particular case. One could not easily overdose on tea.

I pull an old porcelain teacup from the shelf, the shelf with glassware and dinnerware designated for food and drink only. Steam flows over the edges of the cup as I pour the boiling water from the kettle. I pick up the measuring spoon, uncap the glass jar containing Lady Bellecote's homemade blend, and add a spoonful to the teacup. I have done this every day for the past four weeks, and yet the ingredients dissolve like magic before my eyes.

I stir the tea as the water transforms into a blush pink and head to the front of the shop where Lady Bellecote stands perched at her desk. She bends over the register splayed out on the splintered wood. Her swan feather quill dances across the page with each stroke as she scratches the paper with the details of her recent customers.

I gently clear my throat as not to startle her. "Your tea, my lady."

She sighs, placing her quill back into its jar of ink. She wipes her hands on her apron before taking the hot cup of tea from my hands.

"Thank you, Alice."

Her straw-yellow hair curls and frizzes around her face, framing her flushed cheeks and tired slate-blue eyes. It's midday and strands of her neatly pinned hair have started to rebel. Her unkempt look makes her seem less intimidating, unlike the day I had first met her.

-

Four weeks ago, I walked the overcrowded streets of London on a stifling summer day, the thick, muggy air settling like lead in my lungs. The long linen sleeves of my dress clung to my skin like sodden paper, my hair plastered to the back of my neck. I couldn't decide which was more suffocating: remaining inside my family's impossibly tiny flat filled with shouting children that pierced my ears and mounting filth that singed my nose, or escaping outdoors to join the dreadful drudges swarming the soiled streets.

Mamma had her hands full with my four younger siblings without my help, but she encouraged me to go out and look for work. She knew it was time for me to leave the nest and explore the outside word, however gloomy it may be.

During the midday hours, I strolled the streets, looking for postings, inquiring at different shops, but I didn't fill the requirements for most. Most employers were looking for men, not a mousy young girl of only sixteen with an unremarkable name and tattered clothing. I walked until my feet ached, straining against the worn leather soles of my shoes, now too small for my growing feet. Every day, I returned home exhausted from my search, having barely a minute to breathe before falling into household duties.

On that day four weeks ago, I had stopped on the corner just before St. Paul's Cathedral to catch my breath. My lungs burned as if a match had been lit in the depths of my chest. Leaning against the jagged stone wall, my gaze fell down the alley to my right. I had walked this route many times, but had failed to notice this particular alley. A shiver crawled down my spine like a fleeing spider despite the heat. Rats skittered in the shadows across the cobblestones. I looked further and saw a single wooden sign hanging at the end of the alley. I gulped and decided to take my chances.

My pace quickened with every step, and I prayed I would not regret my decision to enter the darkness of the shadows. I nearly screamed as a rat ran across my shoe when I realized I had reached the end of the alley.

I stopped in front of the lone wooden sign. Bellecote's Apothecary. A piece of parchment posted in the grimy glass window; the shop was looking for an apothecary's apprentice. My breath hitched, my interest piqued. I had helped my mamma with countless remedies for my younger siblings. The power of healing from nature had intrigued me from a young age. I knew I had found my calling.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed through the heavy door. The shop was empty, save for one woman standing behind an old wooden desk. She was a striking woman, well-dressed, her yellow hair curled and coiled tight. She drew my attention immediately and I could not look away.

"Good afternoon, Miss. May I help you?" Her voice was laced with honey and her eyes were a warm blue-grey sky.

Like vines, my nerves entangled my tongue and I stumbled on my words. "I...I came to inquire about the posting. For the apprentice..." I gestured to the paper in the front window.

"Ah, yes."

She rounded her desk to stand in front of me. Her gaze lingered as she mulled over my presence. Her appearance opposed my own; her dress neatly pressed, not a wrinkle in sight, her shoes polished. My faded grey dress was an ill-fitted smock in comparison. My dull brown hair pinned in haste at the nape of my neck, loose and clinging to the moisture on my skin.

This was not a place for a mundane girl. My hopes crumbled into dust, joining the soot lining the stone floor beneath my feet.

Before she could speak her words of rejection, I stammered, "It was a foolish fancy for me to ask. I apologize for taking up your time." I turned to leave, but she spoke.

"Miss, wait," she said. She offered a small smile as she wiped her hands on the apron covering her crimson dress, smearing dark streaks of ink across the white linen. "What is your name?"

"Miss Milton. Alice Milton," I replied, shuffling my feet and averting my eyes from her scrutiny.

"Miss Milton, what a pleasure to meet you. I am Lady Emeline Bellecote." She paused, sensing my hesitation. "Please stay for tea. It gets awfully lonely running this shop on my own. Please sit and I will tell you about the position."

With a trembling hand, I removed my hat and bowed my head forward in agreement. "Thank you, my lady."

Lady Bellecote motioned to the small wooden table with two chairs at the back corner of the shop. "Please, rest your feet," she said. "I will be back with tea in a moment."

She disappeared into the small room behind the main desk and porcelain clinked as she readied the tea.

I sat in one of the chairs, wringing my hat in my hands, surveying the shop as I waited for my tea. The shop itself was quite small and rather dark; however, bursts of color came in the form of blooming flowers displayed in exquisite vases dotted throughout the room. Purple pansies, yellow daffodils, pink roses. The aroma was delightfully floral with a touch of citrus, a blend of lemon and orange. Candlelight flitted along the jagged stones jutting out from the walls. Several wooden cabinets faced with glass doors lined the perimeter of the shop. Only a handful of tinctures, pills, and salves were presented on the shelves of each cabinet. Each was contained in its own unique vial, bottle, or tin. Everything was curated with such care and perfection.

Lady Bellecote caught me admiring her impressive design. "Lovely, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's extraordinary," I replied, accepting a steaming cup of tea. "Thank you."

"No matter," she said, taking a seat across the table. "I must say, the shop is much brighter and warmer than it was. It was such a ghastly sight just a few weeks ago. If only my Simon could see it now." She let out a muffled laugh, followed by a sorrowful sigh.

My eyebrows knitted together as I tried to piece together her story.

"I apologize, my dear. I speak to you as though you already know." Lady Bellecote gently placed her teacup on the table, keeping her hands wrapped around the porcelain. "Simon was my late husband. He passed not more than a month ago." Her voice dropped to a soft lament. "May God watch over his soul."

My hand covered my lips. "My deepest apologies, my lady."

"You are too kind. I suppose that is what happens when we women marry men so many years our senior in perilous times such as these. We are destined to be widows from a young age."

I offered her a weak smile and nodded, unsure of what to say.

With a quick shake of her head, Lady Bellecote said, "Never mind all that. Let me tell you about the position. I've had that posting up for more than a fortnight and yet you are the first person to inquire about it." She paused. "Not many people trust a woman who's been accused of poisoning her husband," she joked with a clipped chuckle.

I blinked, nearly choking on my tea, my ignorance revealed. I had not heard this. My stomach clenched. Perhaps I had, indeed, made a mistake.

"Ah, so you do not know of the rumors?" Her eyebrows arched over the edge of her cup as she sipped her tea.

I shook my head, my heart racing in my ears.

"Lucky for you to be outside of the vile words spilled by London's finest," she said, setting her cup down on the table. Lady Bellecote's expression suddenly hardened, her eyes instilling authority. "I give you my sacred honor, my dear girl, everything that has been said is in fact fictitious. Those tainted words hold no truth. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"Good. Not many people believe my side of the tale, which is why I've found myself alone these days. Are you still interested in the position?"

Her blue-grey eyes were persuasive. I understood the danger, but craved it simultaneously. Up until now, I had lived a customary life, acting as a secondary caregiver to my siblings after my father succumbed to the wretched illness that lurked among the shadows, striking swiftly. Two of my siblings were taken as well. Miraculously, the rest of us had survived. I feared we would not be so lucky the next time around.

This apprenticeship would be the only excitement in my life, and could end up saving my family from devastating losses in the future. If Lady Bellecote proclaimed her innocence, who was I to say otherwise?

-

Now, several weeks gone, I find myself standing in the still room of Bellecote's Apothecary. The still room is a rather large room adjoining the main shop, but is separated from the shop and the small tea room by a heavy wooden door that is locked every night. The tiny windows punctuating the stone walls are barred and protected from any curious intruders or mischievous thieves. Despite its size, the still room seems as though it is a detention cell in a dank dungeon. However, it is the ever-flowing scents of herbs and spices and flowers that makes the room the most inviting. If I close my eyes, I am standing in a luscious field of bergamot, lavender, and sage on a bright summer's day.

So far, I am limited to menial tasks, like rearranging supplies, taking inventory, and preparing the simplest recipes. Lady Bellecote had explained that she would slowly teach me the more complicated preparations with time. She was kind enough to lend me the Pharmacopoeia Londinensis, which would give me the knowledge I needed to be a successful apothecary's apprentice, and eventually a certified apothecary, recognized by the Company of Apothecaries. Every night by dim candlelight, I studied the bountiful pages of the book. It was astounding! The content fascinated me beyond the midnight hour and most mornings I would wake with the book open across my lap.

I am on my feet today, like every day, busying myself with my tasks while Lady Bellecote speaks with the customers. Glass jars and bottles and vials of all sizes crowd the wooden benches lining the walls, and I try to organize them while the chamomile infusions simmer and the yarrow decoctions steep.

The preparations are kept on a tight schedule, so I ready the next set of herbs and spices with haste. I walk over to the inventory shelves where rows upon rows of bottled materials, from basil to thyme, are stored and pull the dill and rosemary. Grabbing a clean mortar and pestle from the equipment bench, I add measured amounts of the dried herbs into the porcelain mortar and grind the herbs with the pestle until a fine green powder forms. I reach across the bench to fetch an appropriate vial and, in my gracelessness, knock a large glass bottle onto the stone floor.

I curse under my breath and to my relief, the bottle is empty and does not shatter. Bending over to retrieve the fallen bottle, a subtle draft turns the bare skin at my wrist to gooseflesh. I pause, crouched on the floor, confused by the movement in the stagnant, tepid air.

Holding my hand out into the air along the floor, I follow the draft to the impossibly narrow space tracing the stones of the wall and the edge of the wooden cabinet housing the carrier oils and alcohols for tinctures.

I stand up, staring at the wooden cabinet. Curiosity overpowers caution as I push on the cabinet and it begins to give way with a groan. My breath catches. What in heaven's name...?

Glancing back towards the shop, I listen to Lady Bellecote's voice, muffled by the heavy door which remains closed. She must be with a customer.

My pulse rushes with the current of the River Thames on a tumultuous day. I hold my breath with my heart fighting its caged existence within my chest and turn back to the cabinet. I push, harder this time, and the cabinet lurches forward into a dark void. I create enough space for me to step inside, the candles in the still room casting dim light into this grim and forbidding space. As the light falls into the space in front of my eyes, I begin to make out the outlines of odd-shaped vials. I lean closer, squinting to read the faded labels. I gasp.

Arsenic. Black Henbane. Mandrake. Ricin. Meadow Saffron. Hemlock.

These are not the ordinary vials used for remedies. These are the vials used for much more sinister purposes.

My body turns to stone, a statue, becoming one with the unforgiving cobbled floor as the unmistakable creak of the still room door echoes.

"Alice?"