The Apothecary's Curse (40 page)

Simon's warning tugged at him. But this . . . this was like a chemical reaction, churning in a crucible as it raced toward equilibrium. It astonished him, even as he tried to ignore it, even as he warned himself that she meant only danger to him, perhaps his ruin.
The mantra. Remember that bloody mantra: professional distance.
He muttered it under his breath, hopefully too quiet for her to hear.

They needed a real test of the book. Not the simple magic trick of a Diana's tree, but a genuine medical recipe. He showed her a complex drawing, another ouroboros design. “This is to create a pain medication, on its face, a simple formulation by today's standards, yet here it is, in a book hundreds of years old. But here”—he pointed to another part of the page, a text boxed in blue ink—“here, it refers back to an image on an earlier page, a flower, something I would have missed had I not already translated that page. The specific elements I need to create the painkiller are on a different page. And the catalyst on yet another. But it is not consistent. That is why it is so important to follow it through step-by-step in proper sequence.”

“Show me.” Anne tried to follow his reasoning as he translated on the fly, asking questions about everything. “Salicylic acid!” she said, finally. “The properties of this formulation, taken together . . . aspirin! But how?” She shook her head, looking completely flummoxed and amazed.

The book proved something to Gaelan he had long believed about the alchemists in the family and why they always worked their trade as apothecaries. This was less a text on the alchemists' dream of making gold from lead or discovering some holy grail of life eternal, and much more about healing sickness. It was as Paracelsus said.
“Many have said of alchemy, that it is for the making of gold and silver. For me such is not the aim, but to consider only what virtue and power may lie in medicines.”

The next page described what seemed to be the symptoms of a Streptococcus infection. Anne, peering over Gaelan's shoulder, pointed to a series of small brightly colored circles within an elaborate rendering of fairies and gryphons. “Have I been so transported by all this that I can only conclude that those small circles represent cocci-shaped bacteria? Yet, it isn't possible for a centuries-old book to contain such images, not when microbiology was literally unknown until van Leeuwenhoek in the seventeenth century? I must be imagining it, yes?”

“Honestly, I don't know any more.” Gaelan rubbed at his eyes and absently reached for a mostly empty beaker of solvent and missed, nearly tipping it over. Anne grabbed it before it fell to the floor. “I must be bloody exhausted. I could've sworn that was my coffee mug. And I could do with some caffeine, to be honest.”

“Oh dear, we
have
been working at this for hours—
you
have been at this for hours; I have been a spectator in the cheap seats.”

“No. You have been a help. My knowledge of medicine is limited at best—”

“Still, the tireless translations; you
are
exhausted. I can see it. Your hands are shaking. I must let you get some rest. Look. It is half five now; let's stop for the day. We can resume in the morning—”

“No. Please. I feel an urgency to do this right now . . . that I am close to—” He stopped himself.

“To what that can't wait until you've rested? Look. I'll take the book and your notes and type them into the computer—”

“No. Please. Do not take it from me.” Gaelan had not meant to plead. “I'm sorry. I . . . I could not sleep even if I wanted to. The idea that I am so close—” He'd been good so far, not revealing much, despite his exhaustion and the thrill of rediscovery.

“Fine. Then I have a proposition for you. I shall stay here whilst you rest. Your flat is upstairs?”

“It is.”

“Then let's go up there, and you can nap. I shall order us some dinner and type up the notes. I have my laptop right here. And then we can resume once you've had some rest—whether that's later this evening or tomorrow. You, sir, are on the verge of collapse, and that is my opinion as a physician.”

“Very well.” He stood too quickly, and the room spun. Too much coffee, not enough to eat, and no alcohol for two days had driven him right to the edge. Anne helped him catch his balance as he led the way to the stairs.

Finally, in the flat, Anne settled Gaelan onto the sofa. “What happened here?” she asked.

“I suppose it wouldn't do to tell you it's meant to be like that—organized chaos? An experiment in entropy?” She didn't look convinced. Or amused. He shrugged.

He'd had neither the time nor energy to tidy the mess from that horrible night. Papers and folders, books and electronics still lay scattered all over the living room floor: small piles, large hills . . . a disaster. He had no inclination to explain the outburst that caused it. “You might find my library interesting,” he said, trying to divert her attention. “And I could use some coffee.”

“Coffee is the last thing you need.”

He watched her peruse the bookshelves.
Good.
“My personal collection. None of these are ever for sale.” He stood, stretching his arms, before going into the kitchen. “I have an excellent selection of small batch beans from a local roasters,” he called from behind the pass-through counter as he rummaged in the cabinet above it. “What do you like? Guatemala Fair Trade? Perhaps Sumatra—the beans are already ground.”
Sumatra it is
. He tapped several spoonsful of the grounds into a large capsule and set the pot on in place.
Five cups, I think.
He pushed the brew button and waited for the machine to do its magic as he watched Dr. Shawe continue to ogle his collection.

“Bloody hell!” she said finally, turning around and joining him at the counter. “Newton, Galen, Boyle, Huxley, H. G. Wells, Paracelsus! What an incredible . . . Where on earth . . . ?” She beamed excitement at the discovery. “I had no idea that H. G. Wells wrote anything other than science fiction.”

“Wells wrote several biology texts. I have three of them—two of them unpublished manuscripts.”

“How did you acquire this incredible collection? It must be worth a fortune!”

“One at a time. Can't remember, not really. I suppose over a period of years,” he said evasively. How could he admit that each of the volumes had been a gift, a few autographed to him personally? Perhaps this was not such a keen idea, after all.

Gaelan poured two mugs of the aromatic brew, offering one to Dr. Shawe. She waved him off.

“And you definitely do not need any more caffeine, Mr. Erceldoune.”

Ignoring her, Gaelan took two sips and thought better of the idea, leaving the mugs on the counter. She was probably right.

He propped himself on one elbow as he lay on the sofa, vowing not to sleep as he watched Anne discover his collection. He'd never had a woman up in the flat—or any flat, for that matter. Not since Caitrin. Decades upon decades living like a monk. Too complicated to get involved, too easy to fall in love and . . . what then? Much better to remain aloof. Keep his distance.
Yes, keep your bloody distance, Erceldoune! Do not let her get under your skin.
It was Simon's voice in his ear. God, he was tired.

“I find it incredibly hard to believe you're single,” she said, again refocusing the direction of their conversation.

“I'm . . . I'm a widower.” He hadn't meant to disclose that bit of information.
Fuck.
He was drifting, growing too comfortable with her up here.

“Oh. Sorry. I mean . . .” She looked stricken.

“Don't worry. It was . . . She's been gone for many years now.”

Anne looked completely bewildered but didn't, fortunately, press the issue. “I should order dinner. But you should try to rest awhile, until the food arrives at any rate.”

“Pizza place . . . number's on the fridge.” He was nearly asleep when he heard the distant ringing of a phone.

CHAPTER 47

It was Paul Gilles.

“It's him, Annie. It's that Miracle Man bloke. From the accident. I have proof. Did you ever find him?” His voice was a sickening sing-song; she could visualize the Cheshire Cat grin plastered across his face.

“What are you talking about, ‘It's him'?” Her heart sank.

“There's a daguerreotype, luv. Stuffed into one of the diaries.”

“A what?”

“One of those old-fashioned sepia rotogravure things. And I'm holding it up right next to his photograph—Miracle Man's photograph. It's the same person; I'd swear to it in court.”

“Paul, whatever are you talking about?”

“You bloody well know what. And you're hiding something. I know you; I know that voice. You've met him, haven't you? But the question is, why haven't you told us?”

“You're mad. I haven't . . . and I haven't found him. To be honest I never looked very hard. I managed to look at his charts—and don't ask me how—but that's the end of it. And you are aware I can't disclose anything from them without his permission. And until—”

“Bollocks. What is it? You want the discovery for yourself? Well, never mind. Doesn't matter. We've got him. That photo is a dead ringer for the Miracle Man. Mr. Gaelan Erceldoune of Evanston, Illinois. And if you're holding back from us—”

“Paul. I wouldn't; it's just that . . . you know, American legal bollocks. I cannot—”

“And his hand? The one with the missing fingers? Severed. It was the final experiment done by the physician at Bedlam on the ‘the patient,' as the mad doctor calls him. Our Mr. Erceldoune, AKA Miracle Man. There was only one more entry beyond that. Some sort of screed on the injustice of gentlemen in medicine not wanting to get their hands dirty with lunatics and such. Methinks the mad doctor was a
mad
doctor.”

“Don't be daft. Erceldoune would have to be at least two hundred years old, if this man was an adult when he was tortured. It's a reckless leap, and you know it. Have you discarded your scientific good sense along with your ethics?” But was it really such a stretch, given the latest research? If a human could regenerate tissue infinitely, was infinite life possible? She thought of her T. nutricula research—her immortal jellyfish. But tissue regeneration did not ordinarily suggest any sort of immortality. Salamanders die, despite their physical capabilities. Extrapolation to humans . . . well, could it be? She shook off the thought as fanciful, and Paul's wishful thinking for untold riches.

“I don't happen to think it's such a leap,” he said. “And, even if it is, there's plenty of evidence to suggest further exploration.”

“The photo cannot be very good if it's genuine and that old. Likely faded, easy to mistake. Don't jump the gun, Paul. I know you're good at it . . . being quick on the trigger,” she added to emphasize the dig. “But I'd hesitate if you value your professional career. Does Lloyd know where you're going with this?”

“He does, and I'm on a flight to Chicago tomorrow night. Mr. Erceldoune has won a trip back home to the UK. He is coming to London. With me.”

Oh God.
She glanced at Gaelan's sleeping form. More peaceful than she'd seen him these last few days. But she needed to wake him up and warn him.

“You're making some awfully big assumptions, Paul. First, you have to find him, and then what if he doesn't want to go to the UK? Will you kidnap him? Would he even have a passport?”

“We'll figure it out when I get there. By the way, make any progress on getting hold of the contact I gave you—on that book of yours?”

“I don't need him. If you must know, I've found quite a brilliant scholar. And Mr. Er . . .”
Bloody hell.
Anne couldn't believe she'd nearly said his name. She tried to think of every possible other letter combination to make Er . . . “Sorry, not mister,” she stammered. “
Dr
. Eric Luther.”
Oh holy fucking mother of God
. Paul prided himself on knowing her so well. She hoped he was as wrong about that as he was right about everything else. The silence on the other end of the phone line dangled for endless seconds.

“Ah, so you have met him. And collaborating with him. Excellent. I knew you were hiding something. You were always a terrible liar, my love.”

And then she heard it. At first, it was a low whimper, a cry, like a child trying to avoid a beating, getting louder. She clicked “End” on her mobile.

Then pleas, begging whoever it was to stop. “No. Not again. Please!” A low wail. Anne watched Gaelan thrash on the sofa, wondering briefly if he was having a seizure, but then she realized. Not a seizure, but some sort of waking nightmare—his eyes were wide open in terror.

Kneeling beside Gaelan, Anne softly called out his name, trying to engage him, whispering at first, then raising her voice very slightly. Nothing.

His forehead creased with tension, his mouth drawn into a tight line between his screams. The nails of his right hand bit into his palm, drawing a small trickle of blood.

The thrashing stopped, but now he was trembling. She wanted to pull the blanket up around his shoulders, but knew she shouldn't—it could make matters worse if she alarmed him. He must come out of this. Slowly and on his own.

An idea: perhaps she might sing to him, a low, lulling wordless tune, ancient, its twists and winds, lilts and trills almost harp-like, from the fairy folk themselves. It had always calmed her as a child when her grandmother would coo it into her ear.

Gaelan blinked, and slowly, slowly the tension receded first from his forehead, then his jaw; his grip loosened enough to let her apply pressure to the wounds on his hand, but when she looked, the wounds had vanished, leaving only incongruous streaks of dried blood running from the middle of his palm to the wrist. She shook her head in disbelief.
Bloody hell!
Rapid tissue regeneration—in a human? Had she really witnessed it? Proof seemed to stare her in the face, yet her scientist's mind wondered if she had only imagined it, and the dark streaks were simply inks from a very old book that had left their mark on his arm.