Nella crossed her arms, a look of disbelief on her face. She knew I was lying; she knew there was something else, some other reason for not returning home. Nella looked to the clock, then the door. Whether she was waiting for someone to arrive or waiting for me to leave, I did not know—but if I could not tell her about my bleeding, I needed to find another way to stay, and quick.

I clenched my hands, ready to say what I’d practiced on my walk here. My voice trembled; I could not fail, or she would send me away. “I’d like to stay with you and help with your shop.” The words rushed from me in a single breath. “I would like to learn how to shred roots that kill wolves and how to put poison into an egg without cracking it.” I waited, judging Nella’s reaction, but her face remained blank and this gave me a surge of courage. “Like an apprenticeship, only for a short while. Until Mrs. Amwell has returned from Norwich. I promise to be of great help to you.”

Nella smiled at me, her eyes creasing at the edges. Whereas I believed, a moment ago, that she was hardly older than my mistress, now I wondered if perhaps Nella wasn’t forty, or even fifty years old. “I do not need help with my tinctures, child.”

Undeterred, I sat up taller. I’d come prepared with a second idea, in case my first plea did not work. “Then I can help you with your vials,” I said, motioning to one of her shelves. “Some of the labels are faded, and I have seen the way you hold your arm funny. I can darken the ink, so you do not hurt yourself.” I thought of my many hours and days spent with Mrs. Amwell in the drawing room, perfecting my penmanship. “You will not be disappointed with my work,” I added.

“No, little Eliza,” she said. “No, I cannot agree to that.”

My heart almost burst, and I realized I never dreamed she would say no to this, too. “Why not?”

She laughed in disbelief. “You want to be an apprentice, an assistant, and learn to brew poisons so middling women can kill their husbands? Their masters? Their brothers and suitors and drivers and sons? This is not a shop of sweets, girl. These are not vials of chocolate into which we place crushed raspberries.”

I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to remind her that only days ago, I cracked a poisoned egg into a skillet and served it to my master. But I knew from writing Mrs. Amwell’s letters that the things a person most wanted to say were often the things they should keep tucked away inside. I paused, then said calmly, “I know this is not a shop of sweets.”