I nod, rifling through my satchel and handing him the vial.
His eyes perk at the sight of the tar-black liquid, and he extends his open palm. Once I hand it to him, he unstoppers the vial and gives it a sniff, his long nose scrunching in distaste.
Then he restoppers the vial and hands it back to me.
“That’s it?” says Charlie, clearly unimpressed. “That’s what you call looking at it for us?”
“Can you recreate it, though?” I ask, trying to tamp down my friend’s response slightly, lest we lose the privilege of buying any contraceptive from this man.
“I could recreate it, but you wouldn’t want me to,” he says.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because what you’ve got there is essence of mandrake,” he says.
“And?” says Charlie.
The man leans over his desk, resting himself on his forearms as he smirks.
“And. Essence of mandrake is a fertility enhancer.”
“What?”asks Charlie, swiping the vial from the apothecary. “No, that can’t be right. I was told this was the premier contraceptive.”
For once, instead of my mind blurring with shock, it runs as clear as stream water.
“I’m afraid you’ve been peddled,” says the apothecary.
“No,” I say, and Charlie stares at me, disbelief draining her face of color. “No, a peddler would have given us something innocuous. Sugar water, or nectar. Something that would do nothing.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” says Charlie. “You’re telling us that not one, but two separate apothecaries in different cities gave us a fertility enhancer instead of a contraceptive?”
“Poor luck, indeed,” says the apothecary. “Have you considered a draft for reversing bad fortune spells?”
“That will be unnecessary,” Charlie says through gritted teeth.
“Charlie,” I say. “The apothecary who sold you the potion in Shrinedale—what did she look like?”
Charlie throws her hands up. “I don’t know. I could hardly see her face. She was wearing a cowl.”
My heart goes cold.
“Ah, purchasing important potions from people who wish to hide their appearance. Wise,” says the apothecary.
“Did she have blue eyes?” I ask. “Ones she lined with kohl?”
Charlie’s cheeks sink as her eyes widen. “Oh, Winds.”
“The Middle Sister,” I say, so breathless I have to lean against the counter.
“I thought she looked like she was made of shadow,” says Charlie.
“She does, and I can’t explain it, but she has to be behind this somehow.”
“Winds, I’m so sorry.”
We make eye contact, and it’s excruciating. Charlie doesn’t have to speak for me to know she’s thinking about our conversation from only a few minutes ago.
“If you’d like,” says the apothecary, “I do have a brew to reveal whether a woman is with child.”
