The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [8]
“Sybil…” whispered the bird in warning.
“Shhh,” said the girl as she opened the door and stepped inside.
2
The apothecary’s shop was a small, crowded room walled with shelves that bore bottles and jars containing roots, like ginger; herbs, like mandragora; spices, like cloves; powdered minerals, like lead; ointments like spikenard.
Opposite the doorway was a low trestle table upon which had been placed a mortar and pestle plus a copper balance scale. An oil lamp provided meager light. A little mirror hung on one wall. Behind the table stood Mistress Weebly, the apothecary.
Everything about Mistress Weebly was small: small body; small face; small, gimlet eyes; small nose. Her smallness was emphasized by her being dressed in an overlarge, soiled gown of green that reached her ankles—sleeves pinched at her wrists, apron over all, wimple on her head. It was as if she had been dropped into a dirty sack and was spying out from it. Indeed, the woman’s only largeness was her curiosity.
Standing next to her was Damian Perbeck, her apprentice. He was plucking rosemary leaves from stems and chopping them into tiny pieces with a small knife. The boy was fourteen years old. He was somewhat plump; his fair hair had been clipped round his head like an inverted bowl. His red, splotchy face bore sleepy eyes, turned-up nose, and turned-down lips, all of which he marshaled to provide a mask of indifference.
“Good morrow, Mistress Weebly,” said Sybil, closing the door and cutting a curtsy. She noticed the boy, but she made no greeting.
“Ah, Maid Sybil,” returned the little woman, her voice squeaky and shrill. “How fare you this cold morning?”
“Chilly, Mistress,” said Sybil, her eyes cast down as befit her station.
“And how,” said the woman, “does your master’s health bode this morning?” She brought her small hands together as if in prayer.
“Mistress Weebly,” began Sybil in a low voice as she embarked upon the speech she had prepared, “I fear my master is gravely ill. And—”
“God grant him a speedy recovery,” interrupted the apothecary.
She turned to Damian. “You, now,” she said, abruptly boxing him on the ear. “Get away from here. Continue your work in the back room. Go!” She all but pushed the boy out the door at the back of the shop. Only then did she turn back to Sybil.
“Now, then, my dear maid, I should like to pray for your master’s good health. But it’s difficult to do so without knowing his name. Would you be kind enough to share it with me?”
Sybil, taken by surprise, stammered, “It’s … Master Thorston. But-”
“I’ve never heard of him, I fear. Has he been in town long?”
“I don’t know. But-”
“These things you purchase for him, Maid Sybil, they’re most unusual. Just between us what does he do with them?”
Odo moved uneasily on Sybil’s shoulder, his talons digging into her.
“I know nothing of such matters, Mistress Weebly,” returned Sybil in haste. “I’m but Master’s house drudge, there to moil his filth and cook his swill.”
“Are you his only servant?”
“I am, Mistress.”
“And is your Master Thorston young or old?”
Sybil, feeling she was losing control of the conversation, whispered, “Very old.”
“Alas,” said the apothecary, “advanced age and illness oft step the dance of death. Is he near his end?”
“Oh … no … I assure you—”
“But you did say he was sick. Perhaps I can provide useful physic.”
Sybil hardly knew what to say.
“Maid Sybil,” pressed the apothecary, “I must say this: within my little head lingers a lengthy list of your master’s requests: fire-lizard’s tail, hairs from a Manx cat’s tail, unicorn tears—among other such oddments. Pray now,” said the little woman, leaning forward in conspiratorial fashion, “could he be dabbling in the alchemic arts—making gold?”
“Please, Mistress,” whispered Sybil in great alarm, “I assure you, I know nothing of such things.”
Mistress Weebly, enjoying Sybil’s discomfort, smiled. “But if your master should die,” she said, “hasten