Free Summoned by Anne M. Pillsworth

The bell had to be electronic, which jarred the mood, but the anachronism of silent yet powerful air-conditioning was sweet after his run from the Arkwright House. Seeing no one in the pharmacy, Sean peeled his damp T-shirt from his belly and basked in the arctic breeze.
    Apart from the electronic bell and the AC, the inside was as old-timey as the outside. To the right of the entrance, separating the shop from a private back area, was a wooden counter. Frosted-glass panels stretched from countertop to ceiling its whole length, so all Sean could see of the regions beyond was vague shadows. At the nearer end, the glass panel was framed to slide back, and the shadow behind it was unmistakable: an antique cash register. Like a priest taking confession, Geldman could open the panel to deal with customers. With Sean’s luck, he’d be an old dude who hated kids.
    Sean decided to look for the powders himself.
    At the back of the shop was a soda fountain right out of a classic but colorized movie: Besides the rainbow of syrup bottles doubled in the backsplash mirror, its countertop was bubble-gum pink, its stools spearmint green.
    In the middle of the shop aisles of oak shelving were loaded down with bottles and boxes and tins, with paper sacks taped shut and cloth bags secured with drawstrings. Like in a regular drugstore, signs hung over the aisles, frosted glass like the counter panels—Geldman must have had a fetish for the stuff. But etched on them weren’t the usual ANTACIDS or DEODORANTS or FEMININE PRODUCTS (stay away). Instead they read: LIVER, STOMACH, LUNGS, BOWELS, FEMALE PARTS (the “Feminine Products” after all).
    Still fanning his belly with his shirt, Sean wandered down EYES/EARS/NOSE , then up FEET/BACK/JOINTS , which put him next to the window with the hanging urns. Could he dip right into the colored liquids, or was there wax over the surface, like on Rachel’s homemade jam? He was reaching out to poke the nearer urn, the red one, when he heard a soft cough and about jumped out of his skin, or at least his T-shirt. Pulling the shirt down, he turned.
    The man behind him was a couple inches shorter than Sean, but he stood so straight so easily that Sean had the odd impression he was looking up at the guy. His hair was a bushy and glossy brown, kind of young-Einsteiny. Although his pale skin was otherwise unlined, he had crinkles at the corners of his eyes, which were as black as uncreamed coffee, and his smile exposed teeth as white as his lab coat, on which he wore a tag inscribed: “Solomon Geldman, Apothecary.”
    “How do you do?” Geldman said. He had a slight accent, German maybe, or East European. “A hot day, isn’t it?”
    “Real hot, sir,” Sean said. “Not in here, though.”
    “No. Excessive heat would be bad for the stock. Is there something I may help you find?”
    Since there weren’t any aisles labeled SORCERY SUPPLIES , asking Geldman for the powders looked like the only option. “I was looking for some stuff. This guy told me you’d have it.”
    “What might this stuff be?”
    Though Geldman didn’t sound sarcastic, “stuff” now struck Sean as a stupid thing to say. What was the word the Reverend had used? Materia. Lots more professional. “Materia,” Sean said firmly, like he said it all the time. “The Powder of Zeph and the Powder of Aghar.”
    Geldman’s eyes fixed on Sean as if they wanted to swallow him whole, but only in a nice way; they’d be sure to spit him out afterwards as good as new. Sean took a step back, hitting bottles on the nearest shelf with his elbow. They rattled a protest.
    Geldman took no visible notice. He smiled again. “Ah. I regret, young man, that your friend was mistaken. I couldn’t supply you with those items. Something else, perhaps? A cooling drink? I recommend our sarsaparilla. Let me offer you a glass on the house, since I’ve had to disappoint you.”
    Sean watched the man head toward the fountain bar. After a second, he