Free The Lion's Courtship: An Anna Kronberg Mystery by Annelie Wendeberg

woman’s other problem is her reputation. A conspicuous itch on the pricks of her customers would result in her being branded a wasp — a prostitute infected with venereal disease. There is little that can be worse for business.
    ‘Would you help me make the ointment?’ she asks Barry, knowing the boy is only too eager to leave.

Ointments

    S he holds out the bucket to Barry, who grabs it and dashes out of her room. When he returns, she has already stoked the fire and arranged a variety of items: a small pot, jars and bottles, and a polished oak stick are waiting on the kitchen counter.
    The boy pours the water into the washbowl, rolls up his sleeves as far as they’ll go, and offers Anna the soap. She scrubs her hands and forearms, then it’s Barry’s turn. He’s so dirty that the water turns a dark grey, as does the towel he uses to dry himself off.
    Silently, he watches and waits for her instructions.  
    Anna pours almond oil into the pot, sprinkles two tablespoons of dried calendula petals into it, and places it onto the stove. She turns the handle to Barry. ‘It needs to be warm, but mustn’t get hot.’
    ‘How warm?’ the boy asks.
    ‘Warmer than your hand, but you should be able to touch it without burning yourself.’
    The boy nods, wraps a towel around the pot handle, and gently swirls the oil, holding it a bit higher above the flames.
    Anna breaks small bits off the compressed honeycomb she keeps in a jar on her kitchen cupboard, then adds them to the oil. ‘Once the wax dissolves, you can take the pot off the fire.’
    They watch the petals release their yellow pigments into the potion while the honeycombs begin to shrink. Barry is all focus and removes the pot when he believes it’s time. He sticks his cleanest finger into the liquid, frowns, and walks to the washbowl to lower the pot into the tepid water. A soft hiss and the cast iron loses its heat.
    After a minute of swirling and sticking-in fingers, he’s satisfied and places the pot on the counter.
    Anna observes the boy, his silence, his avoiding of her gaze. She knows his mind craves the distraction, while his heart is ashamed. It isn’t logical to feel ashamed for a mother; one cannot choose one’s family. But as usual, the heart doesn’t care much for logic. Besides, the boy knows enough about tradition and inheritance to be afraid of ending up like all the other wretches.
    Anna wipes off the spoon and sticks it into another jar containing a thick golden paste.  
    ‘Lanolin,’ the boy murmurs, as though to tick off the list of required ingredients. He likes the smell of it. It makes him think of the countryside, that exotic place far away from London, far from the grime and poverty of the slums, so far that he had never seen it and probably never will.
    She hands him the spoon and he stirs the paste into the oil, scrapes the remains off with the oak stick, and keeps mixing and stirring until all the lanolin is dissolved.  
    Meanwhile, Anna places several empty jars into a row, picks up a small sieve, places it next to Barry, and asks, ‘How does the calendula look?’
    ‘Looks ready. All limp and mushy,’ he answers and, upon her approving nod, begins pouring the warm liquid into the jars, straining calendula petals and three pale bee larvae that had perished in the honeycomb. Within the hour, the mixture will harden to a smooth paste.  
    Anna tightens the lids. ‘Tell your mother that if she wants to put the paste on the inside, she should use only little of it. But she should use it several times a day until the burning is gone. And this…’ She fills a small paper bag with camomile blossoms and selects a jar with ribwort leaves in honey. ‘…is for the girl with the cough. Make camomile tea with this honey and take care she drinks it and no one takes it from her.’
    The boy nods, then makes to leave, but his hand hesitates over the doorknob. Anna knows that gesture. She points to the key on the dresser and says,