I tested my weight on the step. Mo came over and steadied the ladder as I climbed up about halfway. It wobbled and creaked and I grabbed the shelf, glancing down at Mo.

“You gotta hold it still,” Mom said.

“This thing is rickety as hell,” Mo huffed. She planted her foot next to the small wheel at the bottom.

When I was sure she had a handle on the ladder, I leaned over and plucked a big glass jar with a silver lid from the shelf. I read the peeling, faded label aloud. “Wintergreen.” I set it down and examined the labels on the other jars. “Winter’s Bark. Witchgrass. Witch Hazel.”

“Witch what?” Mom asked.

“Witch hazel,” Mo said. “Comes in a liquid. You can use it for hemorrhoids.”

Mom scrunched up her nose. “Excuse me?”

I laughed. “I mean, you’re not wrong. It’s a natural anti-inflammatory.”

“Okay. But what’s witchgrass for?” Mom asked.

I shrugged. I wasn’t entirely sure. I continued up the ladder, reading labels as I went. Thyme. Spiderwort. Orchid. Myrrh. It went on and on in reverse-alphabetical order. There had to be two hundred jars, and most of them were full.

“What is this place?” I asked. Whatever it was, it felt familiar.

At the top of the ladder, I stepped onto a narrow platform that wound around the top part of the room, allowing access to the highest shelves. A sturdy mahogany banister was anchored to the balcony-like structure. I gripped it as I shuffled along the walkway, examining the rest of the jars. A nondescript built-in cupboard sat in the wall near the end of the walkway. I slid the door open. Inside were three shelves, all lined with glass jars, painted black, obscuring their contents. I pushed up my glasses and picked up the container closest to me.

Water Hemlock Root.

I fumbled the jar but caught it before it crashed to the floor below.

“You good?” Mo asked.

“Yeah,” I said as images of the dissected hemlock root flashed in my mind. “It’s just more dried plants.”

I read the names on the other jars to myself as my heart threatened to beat out of my chest. Oleander Leaves and Stalks, Wolfsbane, White Snakeroot, Angel’s Trumpet, Rosary Pea, Little Apple of Death, Castor Oil Beans.

They were all poisonous.

Deadly.

I shook the jar. I didn’t think there was anything inside, but I didn’t want to chance opening it. My stomach twisted into a knot. I closed the cabinet door and climbed back down on unsteady legs.

Mo rummaged through a drawer under the counter. “Look. There are labels, bags, twine, like we have at the shop. Were the people who lived here selling this stuff?”

“It’s an apothecary,” Mom said. “I think. Or some kind of old school natural medicine dispensary. My grandma used to go to a place like this when I was little.”