in.
But this man said:
“Ah! ’Twould be McBride. Heesh a . . . ” His hand waved in front of him for a bit, as though he was clear ing a fogged windowpane in order to see his next word. “ . . . a possecary,” he finally produced triumphantly. Spittle rained out with the s . “’E ’as a fl ash ’ouse, ’e ’as.”
Madeleine brushed the spittle out of her eyes in a businesslike fashion and said nothing. She seemed at a loss as to what a possecary might be. Colin was at a loss as to what a flash ’ouse might be.
“An apothecary?” Colin translated, winning a look of surprise from Miss Greenway. But if there was any thing he knew well, it was gin-speak. And whiskey-speak, and ale-speak, and champagne-speak, and the like.
“S’what I said, sir.”
“Where can we fi nd McBride?”
“’Ave yer another penny?” he asked shrewdly. “Me dove?” he added fl irtatiously.
“Sadly, no.” She said this with no hint of regret. “But I may bring another to you if you tell us.”
“ ’Tis sad t’ be wi’out pennies, ’tisn’ it?” the man commiserated fervently. “Verra well. McBride, ’eesh in the nexsht street. Near the lass wi’ the . . . ” Another el oquent swipe of the hand through the air, as though he were trying to catch an elusive butterfly. “ . . . posies.” A fresh shower of spittle emerged with the p .
This time it was Madeleine Greenway who under stood what he meant, because she stood upright imme diately, brushing her eyes.
She looked at Colin, the tall man with his improb ably clean shirt and the secondhand hat pulled down over his forehead.
“We’ll just have to brazen it,” she said, half to her self, half to Colin. She sounded grim.
Madeleine and Colin ventured out of the alley and merged into the lively if dirty and monochromatic crowds of St. Giles. They sidestepped more puddles, were nearly knocked over by a pig and then by the three boys chasing it, walked by a crowd singing about Colin Eversea, and had dust rained over them by a woman beating a carpet from the upstairs window of an ancient lodging house, which rather solved the issue of Colin’s offensively clean shirt. He shook off the worst of the dust, and Madeleine shook her fist up at the woman, because to do otherwise would be almost to call undue attention to them.
“Sorry, lass,” the woman called down unapologetically.
“Head down,” Madeleine reminded Colin on a hiss when he looked as though he might look up. She was unnervingly aware of his height
“It is down,” he muttered. “Because that’s where all the more interesting piles of things are.”
It was Madeleine who kept her eyes on the front of buildings, crammed together as tightly as a crowd at a hanging, filthy and weather-beaten as the denizens of the rookeries.
The girl with the basket of paper-wrapped violets stood out nearly as vividly as the soldiers. Their eyes bounced from the girl up to a sign swinging on a pair of chains, the word apothecary ornately lettered on it.
Madeleine and Colin dove into the shop with some relief.
Inside, it was pungent and dark but for a pair of tall globed lamps burning like the moons of Mars on opposite ends of a wooden counter. They illuminated very little, but did a marvelous job of casting eerie shad ows, which was doubtless the point. Things in varying stages of preservation—green-leaved stalks, roses and chamomile and lavender and hellebore and other herbs she had no hope of ever identifying—were bound with bits of string and suspended from the ceiling or fl oating in labeled jars lining the shop walls up to the ceiling. Other unidentifiable things bobbed in jars on the upper shelves. Eye of newt? Dragon’s teeth?
Small skeletons and skulls belonging to animal spe cies Madeleine also had no hope of identifying were posed on shelves or suspended on cords from the ceil ing, their empty eyes and harmless teeth somehow more poignant than eerie.
The proprietor stood behind the counter and
But this man said:
“Ah! ’Twould be McBride. Heesh a . . . ” His hand waved in front of him for a bit, as though he was clear ing a fogged windowpane in order to see his next word. “ . . . a possecary,” he finally produced triumphantly. Spittle rained out with the s . “’E ’as a fl ash ’ouse, ’e ’as.”
Madeleine brushed the spittle out of her eyes in a businesslike fashion and said nothing. She seemed at a loss as to what a possecary might be. Colin was at a loss as to what a flash ’ouse might be.
“An apothecary?” Colin translated, winning a look of surprise from Miss Greenway. But if there was any thing he knew well, it was gin-speak. And whiskey-speak, and ale-speak, and champagne-speak, and the like.
“S’what I said, sir.”
“Where can we fi nd McBride?”
“’Ave yer another penny?” he asked shrewdly. “Me dove?” he added fl irtatiously.
“Sadly, no.” She said this with no hint of regret. “But I may bring another to you if you tell us.”
“ ’Tis sad t’ be wi’out pennies, ’tisn’ it?” the man commiserated fervently. “Verra well. McBride, ’eesh in the nexsht street. Near the lass wi’ the . . . ” Another el oquent swipe of the hand through the air, as though he were trying to catch an elusive butterfly. “ . . . posies.” A fresh shower of spittle emerged with the p .
This time it was Madeleine Greenway who under stood what he meant, because she stood upright imme diately, brushing her eyes.
She looked at Colin, the tall man with his improb ably clean shirt and the secondhand hat pulled down over his forehead.
“We’ll just have to brazen it,” she said, half to her self, half to Colin. She sounded grim.
Madeleine and Colin ventured out of the alley and merged into the lively if dirty and monochromatic crowds of St. Giles. They sidestepped more puddles, were nearly knocked over by a pig and then by the three boys chasing it, walked by a crowd singing about Colin Eversea, and had dust rained over them by a woman beating a carpet from the upstairs window of an ancient lodging house, which rather solved the issue of Colin’s offensively clean shirt. He shook off the worst of the dust, and Madeleine shook her fist up at the woman, because to do otherwise would be almost to call undue attention to them.
“Sorry, lass,” the woman called down unapologetically.
“Head down,” Madeleine reminded Colin on a hiss when he looked as though he might look up. She was unnervingly aware of his height
“It is down,” he muttered. “Because that’s where all the more interesting piles of things are.”
It was Madeleine who kept her eyes on the front of buildings, crammed together as tightly as a crowd at a hanging, filthy and weather-beaten as the denizens of the rookeries.
The girl with the basket of paper-wrapped violets stood out nearly as vividly as the soldiers. Their eyes bounced from the girl up to a sign swinging on a pair of chains, the word apothecary ornately lettered on it.
Madeleine and Colin dove into the shop with some relief.
Inside, it was pungent and dark but for a pair of tall globed lamps burning like the moons of Mars on opposite ends of a wooden counter. They illuminated very little, but did a marvelous job of casting eerie shad ows, which was doubtless the point. Things in varying stages of preservation—green-leaved stalks, roses and chamomile and lavender and hellebore and other herbs she had no hope of ever identifying—were bound with bits of string and suspended from the ceiling or fl oating in labeled jars lining the shop walls up to the ceiling. Other unidentifiable things bobbed in jars on the upper shelves. Eye of newt? Dragon’s teeth?
Small skeletons and skulls belonging to animal spe cies Madeleine also had no hope of identifying were posed on shelves or suspended on cords from the ceil ing, their empty eyes and harmless teeth somehow more poignant than eerie.
The proprietor stood behind the counter and
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