Free The Apothecary's Curse by Barbara Barnett

me . . . something—” With trembling fingers, Simon withdrew the phial. “I have acquired, my darling, a . . . medicine, powerful enough to treat . . . to vanquish . . . the tumors.”
    Sophie rolled her eyes, holding up a hand. “Simon!”
    They had been in this place too many times. He strode to the railing and gripped the wood with both hands, looking out over the central foyer, turned away from Sophie’s gaze. “Please, love, hear me out at least.”
    â€œOh, Simon. Don’t be nonsensical,” she said, an indulgent mother admonishing a little boy bearing a gift of flowers stolen from her own garden.
    He pivoted to face her just as she stood, stumbling in the attempt. Two steps and he was kneeling by her side, setting her in the chair. She cradled his face in both her hands, lifting his face to hers.
    â€œI have, my love, made peace with my death, as I beseech you to make yours. I would rather my life end now than for you to continue this futile search for something that exists only in some misguided fantasy realm.”
    â€œDo not say this! If anything remains at my disposal to forestall . . . I must at least consider it, as outlandish as it may seem to you! Or to James! Please allow me this occupation, lest I go completely mad.” Her willingness to leave him was too much to bear.
    â€œStop,” she said, tender but resolute. “My love, hear me! False hope does me little good, and you less. I know you feel impotent to save me. Simon Bell of the celebrated medical family, honored and knighted, peerages for service to the Crown since the Tudors reigned. This I know! But an apothecary’s tonic? Can you not comprehend how profoundly ridiculous the idea?”
    He had no desire to row, to waste what little time they yet had. But she failed to comprehend the elixir was for his sake, not hers. Yes, it was selfish, but what if it worked? They would then have years, not days, or weeks, but a lifetime!
    â€œSimon, my darling,” she whispered, her strength waning. “It is my time; acknowledge it, so when it finally comes to pass, be it tomorrow or next month, you shall be prepared.”
    He refused to hear her. Cupping her cheek with a trembling hand, he drew a thumb down the arch of her cheek, confessing now to her the earnest truth. “When I beheld you lying in your bed this week, so still, so weak, my mind could only evince the end, an end I am with little power to forestall. If you die I shall be lost, and my only and most ardent desire shall be to join you in the grave.”
    Sophie dropped her head into clenched hands. “Do not dare say this to me, Simon Bell. You—” She rose, her rebuke dripping with indignation. Tripping on her gown, she swooned into Simon’s arms.
    He carried her back to the boudoir. “My God, love, you’re light as a feather,” he whispered into her hair.
    She must take the elixir—and soon. It was the only chance remaining to save her. Yet, in the end, could he trust Erceldoune? Indeed, the apothecary had changed; he was so very bitter and angry. Perhaps due to the deaths of his wife and young son. Or had it been something harbored through the ten years they’d known each other, only now come to the surface?
    Simon withdrew the cobalt phial, studying the label, its small, neat script, his thumb coming to rest upon the scarlet skull. Simon pushed from his mind the notion that Erceldoune would determine to get his revenge on the whole of medicine by harming an innocent woman, yet suspicion gnawed at the edges of Simon’s thoughts. No, Erceldoune is honorable amongst his fellow tradesmen. Surely, he would not . . .
    Yet . . . the cobalt phial and its elaborate label obscured the contents. Why? What did Erceldoune not want him to see? Simon bounded the stairs from the gallery to his laboratory to examine the