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Chapters (46)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. About the Author
  4. Dedication
  5. Map
  6. Ancient Apothecary’s Oath
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. Nella Clavinger’s Apothecary of Poisons
  44. Historical Note
  45. Recipes
  46. Acknowledgments

Then, dipping the nib into the well of ink, I put it to the paper and wrote:

Thompson Amwell. Egg prep NV. 4 Feb 1791. On account of Ms. Eliza Fanning, aged twelve.

6

Caroline

Present day, Monday

I shook off the mud from my wet shoe and continued along the edge of the water. As I distanced myself from the rest of the mudlarking tour group, their quiet chatter disappeared, and the soft lapping of the gentle river waves urged me toward the waterline. I glanced upward to the sky; a bruised-looking cloud moved overhead. I shivered and waited for it to pass, but more followed close behind. I feared a storm was fast approaching.

Crossing my arms, I glanced at the ground around my feet, an unvarying band of gray-and copper-colored rocks. Look for inconsistencies, Bachelor Alf had said. I stepped closer to the water, observing the way the low waves seeped toward me and withdrew in a steady, even rhythm, until a boat rushed past, forcing a gush of water close. Then I heard it: a hollow popping sound, like water bubbles caught in a bottle.

As the water receded, I stepped closer to the sound and spotted a glass container, bluish in color, nestled between two stones. An old soda bottle, perhaps.

I knelt down to inspect it and tugged at the narrow neck of the bottle, but its base was lodged firmly between the stones. While I maneuvered it out, I spotted a tiny image on one side of the bottle. A trademark or company logo, perhaps? I pulled one of the larger rocks away, freeing the object at last and allowing me to lift it from its crevice.

The bottle stood no more than five inches tall—more of a vial, given its small size—and was made of translucent, sky blue glass, hidden beneath a layer of caked-on mud. I dipped the vial into the water and used my rubber-gloved thumb to scrub away the dirt, then held it up to inspect it more closely. The image on the side seemed a rudimentary etching, likely done by hand rather than with a machine, and appeared to be an animal of some kind.

Though I had no idea what I’d found, I thought it sufficiently interesting to hail Bachelor Alf. But he’d already begun walking toward me. “Whatcha got?” he asked.

“Not sure,” I said. “Some kind of vial with a little animal etched onto it.”