Free Beauty and the Beast by Wendy Mass Page A

know I’m here.”
    â€œI doubt that,” he grumbles, reaching up for the string. I giggle. He knows her already.
    I get to work pulling out the drawers and ordering them correctly. Each time I rest a drawer on the counter, Clarissa peers inside. “What is nutmeg for? What does mandrake do? Why would someone use sassafras root?” The apothecary gives her one-word answers until finally he says, “If you are so interested, you might as well make yourself useful. Go wash your hands in the sink.” Clarissa heads over to the sink, which I know she had been eyeing earlier. Our old house had a sink with running water in it, but our new one does not. She allows the water to pour over her hands until the apothecary tells her that is quite enough. He then places a mortar down before her, pours little red seeds into it, and hands her a pestle. “Grind this to a fine powder.”
    â€œYes, sir,” Clarissa says, pushing up her dress sleeves. She begins to hum as she works, and within moments, the apothecary is humming along. When he catches himself, he mutters something about needing to pull some nettle roots from the garden and disappears out the back door.
    After Clarissa has completed her task (and quite well), she sets out to wander the marketplace. She says she is just going to admire the wares, but I think she is trying to find any of her old friends. I know she misses her active social life. She is not gone more than a few moments when an elderly woman comes in and asks if her order is ready. She points to a box on one of the shelves, full of jars labeled with different people’s names. The apothecary had not told me what to do in case this happens.
    â€œI am sorry, but this is my first day. Let me go ask Master Werlin.”
    Before she can reply, I hurry out the back door. I find myself in a small garden, as colorful as the powders and seeds and oils and minerals inside. The garden is fenced in on two sides, and reaches all the way up to the back wall of the store on the other. Master Werlin is nowhere to be seen.
    I duck back inside to ask the woman to come back later, but now she is gone, too. Six shillings rest on the counter, gleaming against the shiny surface. I guess she found what she needed. I hope she did not leave with anything else! I take one last look in the garden for the apothecary, then sweep the coins into the top drawer of the apothecary’s desk.
    Two more customers come in, one complaining of a bumpy red rash on his shoulder (which, of course, he had to show me, although I told him I can do nothing to help), and another whose grandmother’s cream for “rosy cheeks” had run out and she needed more. I am able to convince them both to come back later, but they are not particularly happy about it.
    I have made it all the way up to Nutmeg before the apothecary finally returns, through the front door. Unless they are stuffed in his pocket, he does not have any plants with him. I am about to tell him of the customers when two well-dressed men step in right behind him. All three seem quite anxious.
    â€œAre you certain, Master Werlin?” the taller of the two men ask. “His wife reported that he was a customer of yours.”
    â€œEveryone in the village is a customer of mine,” he replies as he pulls down one of the clumps of herbs, now dry, and lays it on the counter. “When did you say he was last seen?”
    â€œTwo days ago,” the man replies, “at the mill. Some farmers reported seeing him there. They recalled his silver cloak.”
    I am wondering when someone will notice I am in the room, but no one takes the slightest interest.
    â€œI have not seen him for at least a fortnight,” Master Werlin says, pulling the stalks off the herbs and tossing them into a large yellow bowl. “He had a toothache, which I offered to pull. He declined. He paid me two pence for a handful of poppy seeds to chew on, and I have not