Page 62 of Box of Frogs
For one thing, it was large. It might have looked like a tumbledown shed from the outside, inside of which you’d be lucky to swing your hair let alone a cat, but from this vantage point it was massive. It stretched back almost as far as my eyes could see and there was a long narrow room beyond the bar. Each wall was covered in shelves and each shelf was laden with bottles in myriad colours and shapes and sizes. It was as if I’d strolled into Aladdin’s cave; the sight was genuinely dazzling.
The aroma was equally alluring; heady spices mingled with florals and earthy smells. The combination should have been sickly but it made me want to inhale as deeply as possible. It was exotic and delicious. I shook my head in amazement. This was what being a faery should all be about. Forget the grey streets of Manchester and trailing after Morgan or Rubus or whoever happened to be on the menu; I felt like I could settle in a corner and stay here forever.
To my left, there was a small wooden table with elaborately carved legs. A silver bowl lay on top of it containing a heap of small, jewel-like sweets. I reached for one.
In a flash, Artemesia was beside me and slapping away my hand. ‘Those are for customers,’ she snapped.
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ I said. ‘That makes me a customer.’
‘You couldn’t afford my rates.’ She tossed her head and glared.
I examined her. ‘Is the look you’re going for that of a clown? Because I’m not sure they’re very popular these days. More people are afraid of clowns than amused by them. Not that you’re very scary, but your hair and your clothes and your—’
‘Enough, Madrona.’ Morgan did not sound pleased.
There was a flicker of hurt vulnerability in Artemesia’s eyes and an odd feeling rose inside me. Gasbudlikins. Was that guilt?
‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘I’m under a lot of stress right now and my mouth has a mind of its own.’
Artemesia blinked at me. ‘Good grief,’ she said. ‘You really do have amnesia.’ She looked over her shoulder at Morgan. ‘You know it doesn’t mean that she’s changed. She just can’t remember. And when her memory returns, which it probably will, she’ll go running back to Rubus.’
Actually, I didn’t think I would. Whatever reasons I’d had before for being with him, there was no indication that he was the sort of person I wanted to spend any time with now. Whether I was truly evil or a secret hero, a girl had to have some standards.
‘We need your help, Arty. You should listen to what she has to say about when she woke up. I think there might be something there.’
‘Memory loss or not,’ she told him, ‘if I do this it’s for you, not for her. You know having her here means I’ll have to move again. Otherwise my uncle will find out where I am and I’ll end up screwed.’
I looked at her. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I don’t suppose you do.’ She stepped back, as if the very air around me was tainted, and swept around her arm. ‘This is my shop. I’m an apothecary. All my family are. My uncle and I were here collecting ingredients when the border closed and both of us were trapped. Once it became clear that it wasn’t going to open again any time soon, we opened up a new outlet.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘Under the auspices of Rubus. The things he asked us to do and the potions we were told to make were not … pleasant.’
I had a sudden epiphany. ‘Dust,’ I breathed. ‘You created pixie dust.’
‘To help faeries like us, not to hurt them. To ease the homesickness and lessen the ache.’
I raised my hands irritably. ‘Why doesn’t anyone believe that I sold pixie dust for the very same reason?’
Her mouth turned down. ‘Because my uncle took my recipe and adapted it. My intention was for it to be a good thing, not a concoction designed to hold faeries up and down the country in thrall to Rubus. Not to create addicts. You sell dust and you know full well what effect it has on us.’ Her tone left little doubt as to what she thought of me.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘right now I don’t know much of anything.’
Artemesia frowned at me. ‘Well you’re here now,’ she said eventually. ‘Let’s hear the story.’
Morgan, who’d been watching our exchange carefully but without interfering, jerked his chin at me. ‘Tell her what you told me, Maddy. About how you felt when you woke up with no memory.’
I sighed. ‘Sore ribs. Pounding headache. Stiff limbs. Rotten taste in my mouth. I cut my finger on a rowan-poisoned sword and didn’t receive treatment for it until it was almost too late.’
Artemesia bit her lip. ‘I need more detail.’
I shrugged. ‘It was long and pointy. I only gave myself a small cut but—’
She glowered. ‘Not about that. You’re not poisoned by rowan now,’ she said, as if I possessed the intellect of a wet paper bag. ‘The taste in your mouth. I need specifics. Tell me more.’
Slightly confused, I clicked my tongue. ‘Do we really have time for this? Shouldn’t we be doing something to help Julie instead of worrying about my taste buds?’
‘Just answer Arty,’ Morgan drawled.
I would have snapped at the command in his voice but something about the stiff, unyielding way he held himself gave me pause. He’d also focused on the foul taste I’d described on my tongue. I reminded myself that I was like a minnow floundering in a world full of knowledgeable sharks. What the hell did I know about anything anyway?
