Free Summoned by Anne M. Pillsworth Page A

followed—what else could he do? Either the Reverend had put him on about Geldman’s or, like Horrocke’s, it kept the good stuff behind closed doors. Whoever seeks, enter.
    Maybe Sean hadn’t sought hard enough yet. Maybe he had to prove he was a legitimate customer. He sat on one of the spearmint stools and watched Geldman pour black syrup into a glass. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Geldman?”
    Geldman began to jockey the lever of a brass spigot shaped like a horse with a curled-under fish tail for hind legs. It hissed soda water into the glass. “Yes, young man?”
    “The guy who said I should come here? His name’s Redemption Orne.”
    Geldman’s only reaction was to pause in stirring the sarsaparilla. For a second, he stood absolutely still. Then, as gently as before, he plied his long-handled spoon, swirling tendrils of syrup through the fizzy water. “Reverend Orne sent you, did he?”
    “Yeah, Reverend Orne.”
    Geldman set the glass on the pink countertop. “The sarsaparilla,” he said, not smiling, not frowning. Neutral. “It will take me ten minutes to compound what you want. And how much of each?”
    Once again, seeking had paid off. Sean had to stay businesslike, though. “Like, three pinches?”
    “A half ounce of Zeph and the same of Aghar should do. And am I to put them on Reverend Orne’s account?”
    The Reverend really came here? Came here a lot, too, because otherwise why would he have a private account?
    “Young man?”
    Geldman was waiting for an answer, and his steady gaze added to Sean’s confusion. Okay, if Geldman wanted to put the powders on the Reverend’s account, that meant Geldman assumed they were for the Reverend—Sean was just the delivery boy. If Sean told him the truth, would Geldman refuse to make the powders?
    That would suck, so Sean blurted: “I guess you could put them on the account. If you think the Reverend wouldn’t mind.”
    “If he sent you, I’m sure he’d wish it.”
    Geldman moved soundlessly to the counter. He opened a door Sean had overlooked, half wood, half glass panel, and vanished into the back. The door closed soundlessly behind him.
    Sean took a nervous sip of the black drink Geldman had left him. It was like root beer, except more bitter and at the same time more sweet, and immediately after swallowing he did feel cooler. Sipping, he looked at the nearest bank of pharmaceuticals. STOMACH things, but no Alka-Seltzer or Pepto-Bismol in sight. Everything looked homemade, and there, practically in his face, were tall green bottles labeled “Patience Orne’s, #6, for dyspepsia, one tablespoon at need, no contraindications.” Patience was the real Redemption’s wife, a witch. Geldman must have named a medicine after her because wannabe witches shopped at his pharmacy. Or did “Patience Orne’s, #6” mean it was her own recipe?
    Sean finished the sarsaparilla and roamed the aisles. There were more medicines labeled “Patience Orne’s.” Others were labeled “Dame Eliza’s,” “Hungry Tom’s,” “Dante Salvatore’s,” “Kokokoho’s.” Kokokoho was the Nipmuc shaman who’d been friends with the real Redemption. Cooler and cooler. The most common label was “SG’s,” which had to stand for “Solomon Geldman’s”—since all the labels were hand-printed, he’d probably gotten sick of writing out his name. Another “Patience Orne’s,” this one for “general biliousness.” The Reverend had to be kind of weird, didn’t he, hanging out in a place like this? Maybe he was as big a nutcase as Eddy thought. It was one thing to have an alias on the Internet, where everyone used screen names, but apparently the Reverend used his alias with Geldman and even had an account as Redemption Orne. Or maybe Redemption Orne was the Reverend’s name, because Mr. and Mrs. Sadistic Orne had decided to name their kid after some ancient preacher. If that was the case, the Rev could naturally get obsessed with his namesake.
    Too bad Eddy