The apothecary was much as she remembered. Dust from the abnormally still air settled into her lungs; the temperature dropped against her skin and Mariya coughed and let the heavy door of the shop swing shut.
Unnatural silence compressed against her; it assaulted her, thrumming from the dim corners of the store. For a queer moment, she felt she were back in the asylum.
She recognized the shuffling gait of the owner before she saw him. The assistant approached the counter and the snowy-white head emerged from the back space.
“Ahh, but if it is not Mariya Sokolova! Still working with Dr. Rodin, eh?”
He leaned toward her from his post behind the counter, and for all their familiarity, his milky eyes were no less disconcerting.
The assistant gave a nod. She tried to concentrate, to conjure an invisible barricade between herself and the unearthly ambiance. She was about to speak, had rehearsed the syllables on her walk over: Hydro-chloric. Hydro-chloric acid. Hydro…
But graying brows furrowed. And her focus dissipated under the gravity of the old man’s scrutiny.
He spoke slowly, his voice but a hush in the dust. “Have you noticed it? The evil in him?”
Mariya’s pupils shrank. “I beg…” The words were weak and it was all the young woman could do to wrench them from her throat. “I beg your pardon?”
But the old man merely smiled politely. “I asked if you’d noticed it. The genius in him?”
Mariya shook her head, as though attempting to throw a stupor.
“I—yes. I have. The doctor works so hard, and his breakthroughs—”
“Ah! So he is working, then. He has his periods. They cycle, you see. Like any genius, he goes from long stretches of inactivity to frenetic, almost manic bursts of industry. He must be in the latter phase. Of course,” he said, a pale, diminished finger rising between them. “I suspect he may have you to thank for that.”
Before she could reply, the apothecary owner rapped the table between them.
“Now,” he said, and he stepped back, extending his hands to make an offering of his wares. “In what may I interest you and the brilliant young doctor, today?”
Mariya wet her lips. She began asking for the acid when a coughing fit came upon her. It was surely the dust, she thought, as the spasm wracked through the caustic layer of phlegm in her throat.
The shop owner grew alarmed. He was about to voice concern when Mariya cleared her throat. She pressed her palms against the counter. “Another bottle of the…the hydrochloric acid, please.”
The man considered her. At last, the corners of his lips lifted tremulously. “Of course.”
He shuffled to the appropriate shelf. The man rose onto tiptoe, grasping the bottle in a strong, sure hand. The acid landed between them on the counter and the glass disturbed the thin sheen of dust. Her eyes watered.
The owner rang up the purchase. “I cannot help but wonder,” he mused. “Just what sorts of experiments the ingenious Dr. Rodin is running, these days. Such gifts often know no boundaries…”
Mariya recalled the corpse in the scientist’s basement. The shadows dancing in the man’s eyes, and the way he muttered to himself, when he was over-tired.
The owner’s words shivered down her spine. The baleful atmosphere was affecting her, and it deformed what her rational mind longed to dismiss as idle commentary.
The man wrapped up the bottle.
“You’ll want to be careful, with him.”
“Excuse—excuse me?”
The man’s eyes met hers, benign and unassuming. “I said you’ll want to be careful, with that. Don’t drop it—I’m afraid you’ll be sorry if you do.”
She exhaled. “Of course.”
The assistant lifted the bottle (and she had to grasp it tightly, as the breadth of it was just a shade too wide for her hands).
“Thank you. Will that…will that be all?” she asked.
His weathered face peered at her, and in that moment, she felt his stare pierce through the invisible plate of her veneer.
A flash of metal and stone, and she heard it again, the shriek of an asylum patient—
The assistant jerked backward, chemical in hand.
“That cough.” The apothecary owner’s voice was soft. “You’ll want to get it looked at. But yes. That must be all for now, I think.”
The chime on the door seemed almost vulgar, and she did not hear the man’s farewell as she dashed down the street. An unbidden sense of dread propelled her, ushering her swiftly from the unnerving sphere of the apothecary.
“Take care, Mariya Sokolova!” he had cried after her. But the high shriek of wind tore down the street and robbed her of his words.