by Anne Renwick
Chapter Six
Brea, scribe of Hardwicke’s Leechbook. But was she also the author?
The Old English word could be translated both ways.
Evie’s heart pounded. Did she have before her an herbal created and used by a female medieval healer? Could it be? A discovery as rare as flying kraken?
Her hands shook as she turned the fragile pages, comparing the glosses with written passages nearer the end.
Careful documentation would be necessary, but the longer Evie studied the hand-bound manuscript, the more she was convinced that this was an undiscovered work. Rare and expensive, parchment was not to be squandered, but there were a number of clues that this missive wasn’t penned by a professional scribe. The handwriting was cramped, the lines didn’t quite run parallel and, in places, the ink was smeared. All evidence of a less-practiced hand and perhaps less than ideal working conditions.
“Such a treasure,” she murmured, “lurking in a private library when it should have been in a scholar’s hands being studied, analyzed. For example, this cure for sudden pustules—” She glanced up, searching for a fountain pen and reaching for the battered notebook that was always near her elbow. “If we include this in our presentation to the committee—”
“Evie.” Ash’s hand fell atop their project notebook, his calm voice reining in her runaway thoughts. “Three days. You—we—will analyze every single last word in this manuscript, but tonight, pustules and coughs and eye complaints are irrelevant. You need to focus on wen-salves.”
Wennsealfa. Ointments for tumors.
“You’re right.” She dropped her hand upon his. Only for a moment, lest another distraction occur. Some might label it a personal failing, but there were many wonders to be discovered falling down a rabbit hole. Not that she could allow herself to run after white rabbits tonight. If curiosity beckoned, she would need to resist its siren call. For now.
Heart brimming with hope, she flipped to the beginning of the book. “Front to back then, starting with the glosses, then working through the additional text.”
“Linear and logical.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, then turned back to the towers of books that had grown atop the reading room tables.
Like shiny baubles, Brea’s notations on various conditions beckoned, but she resisted her inner magpie and pressed onward. As she sank deeper into her work, time hung in a strange, suspended manner, neither marching forward, nor standing still. She fell into a rhythm where only wennsealfa recipes pierced her consciousness. Most were familiar and unaltered, with only a few comments penned by the manuscript’s original owner. Nothing earth-shattering, but nonetheless significant. She dutifully took notes recording any adjustments.
As if by magic, a cup of tea and a plate of shortbread appeared upon the table. Her stomach growled. Welcome sustenance.
“Thank you,” she said.
Ash left her to her work, turning his attention back to an enormous herbarium with pressed and dried plants mounted upon its pages, examining each with utter and complete concentration. But instead of following his example, Evie indulged herself by stealing a long glance at him while she sipped her tea. Later, when there was time to mount a full and detailed exploration of all his fascinating hard and angular parts, she’d demonstrate her full appreciation for the warm fire, tea and biscuits.
She, a city dweller, had never thought to find herself falling for a botanist, for a man who spent a good part of each day digging in soil and tending to plants. Though Oxford called to her mind, London anchored her heart. This romance, one snarled by conflicting desires and hopes, had all begun with the hunt for a flower. Amatiflora, a name comprised of two Latin roots. Amat, love. Flora, flower.
Mr. Thistleton, head botanist, had assigned one Mr. Lockwood, a man with an interest in medicinal plants, while Mr. Davies assigned one Miss Brown, a librarian with an academic specialty in ancient texts.
Evie would never forget the first time she’d laid eyes upon Ash.
Curious to visit the rooftop greenhouse—glimpses of which one could catch from the street when the great squares of glass braced by a skeleton of iron glinted and gleamed in the sunlight—Evie had taken it upon herself to initiate introductions.
That rare, sunny, fall day, she’d climbed the stairs to the rooftop, pushed at a door left slightly ajar, and stepped into a humid chamber of greenery where the air held more oxygen than did the entirety of Lister Institute. And so, so much light.
Though beautiful, the various libraries she’d haunted with their neatly ordered shelves of books were still and shadowed. Even those so fortunate as to flaunt arched windows throttled any rays of sun that attempted to penetrate thick panes of wavy glass covered by layers of dust and soot. At best, weak patches of light traced a sedate path across quiet carpets and polished wood floors.
But here in the greenhouse, a multitude of windows were clean and clear, permitting the sun to fuel a riot of growth. Table after table held lines of clay pots, each with its own seedling. About the distant edges of the greenhouse, larger plants dominated, turning the space into a forested, tangled wonderland. Vines twisted up trellises. Ferns rose and curved in great arcs. Bushes hinted at wonders behind the screen of their abundant leaves. And potted trees stretched out their branches, several dangling unusual and brightly colored fruit.
A tall, handsome man with a close-cropped beard caught sight of her. Dropping his trowel, he strolled over. “Can I help you, Miss…”
“Miss Brown.” She introduced herself, prim and proper, as was expected from a librarian. “I’ve been asked to liaise with a Mr. Lockwood.”
“You found him,” he answered, bowing. “How may I be of assistance?”
“I’m the librarian assigned to work with you, to hunt an unusual flower.” She waved the memorandum Mr. Davies had left upon her desk.
His fingers—rough and dirty from his work—caught the sheet of paper and tugged it gently from her hand. “Ah, yes.” He glanced upward to study the sky, and light glinted off golden highlights in his hair. “Only a few more hours of sun, then—”
“Later, of course,” she stammered, bowled over by an inexplicable attraction and an improper need to stare. It was the first time she’d seen a Lister employee without a cravat, without a waistcoat. Moreover, his shirtsleeves had been rolled to his elbows. Dark hairs scattered across his forearms beckoned, begging to be touched. But there was an audience. This was not the place to flirt. “Perhaps this evening we might meet, discuss our approach?”
A gardener or two cast curious glances in their direction, but Mr. Lockwood didn’t seem inclined to offer introductions. “A late night,” he asked, “heads bent together over books?” The corner of his mouth hitched upward when the thought of working after hours would have made another man frown. Did she dare hope the magnetic pull she felt toward him was returned at full force?
“A scholarly rendezvous. One involving pen, paper and dusty tomes.” A careful answer. After all, they’d just met, and she had no interest in scraping her dignity off the ground before making a swift escape. Still, she offered him an encouraging smile, one designed to give an interested man hope. “Unless you have other plans?”
“None that can’t wait.” His countenance brightened. So the attraction was mutual. “Shall we say six this evening?”
That night—with a wink—he’d passed her a branch of flowering honeysuckle to enliven the library desk. Smiling, she’d led him up the stairs to the balcony where they’d claimed a study alcove as their own. There, over dry herbals and the space of several meetings, their whispered words had often taken on a personal bent. Soon, she’d begun to entertain a fantasy of coaxing Mr. Lockwood deep into the stacks where he might forget to mind his manners.
Mission accomplished.
Evie blinked and found herself back in the library, warm beside a fire, and Ash’s steady gaze upon her. If she crooked her finger, would he come running? Most definitely. But, she reminded herself, three days. And
, of course, there was the matter of the letter. A sinking feeling overtook her stomach, as if someone had poked a tiny hole in her balloon, initiating a slow leak of the aether that kept her afloat.
She gave Ash a soft smile, then turned her gaze back upon the parchment before her. He deserved to know. She’d tell him. Later. For a glance at the clock had informed her that the evening—Christmas Eve, no less—was wasting.
Impulse made Evie flip to the final section of the book, to the section penned entirely in Brea’s hand. If anything unique was to be discovered, it would be upon these coarser sheets of vellum. Here all Latin and Greek words fell away, leaving nothing but Old English.
She dove deeply into the text where an overwhelming abundance of commentary and new formulae beckoned like shiny lures. But tonight there was only one ailment under consideration: Wennsealfa.
Turning a page, she forced herself to focus.
Flip. Flip. Flip.
As the end of the manuscript drew close, her heart sank, her shoulders slumped. Even the bioluminescent lamp seemed to give up hope, its blue-white light fading as the hour grew late. If there was a cure to be found for his carcinoma, it wasn’t within this library. When dawn arrived, she would go home empty-handed and paste a smile upon her face. For her nephews and her sister—for Papa, she would do her best to celebrate the holiday with cheer.
Flip.
Misteltán. Mistletoe.
The word caught her eye. A plant of contention between her two suitors. Not that there was any competition. For all of Dr. Bracken’s physical appeal, she was left with the distinct impression that something was rotten at his core. That his touch might send a slithering coldness across her skin. A certain botanist, however, had only to glance in her direction and the temperature in the room began to rise. His slightest touch provoking an escalating spiral toward spontaneous combustion.
She bent closer.
Curious. Did it say— Evie gave the Lucifer lamp a shake.
A cure from the sacred trees.
Misteltán. Mistletoe. Āc. Oak. Eow. Yew. Ellæn. Elder.
“Ash?” Her voice shook. “I’ve found something.”
“What is it?” Ash leapt to his feet and hurried to her side, staring at the manuscript, at the letters that marched in a row above her fingertip. They formed words, but not ones he could read. Those same words wrapped around a crude diagram inked onto the page. “You’ll need to translate.”
“A wen-salve,” she whispered. “Involving ingredients from three of the trees the Druids considered sacred. Mistletoe from an oak tree. Yew bark. And elderberries.” Briefly, she pressed her palms to her eyes, then stared down again at the manuscript, shaking her head. “I’m afraid to believe my eyes.”
The base of his neck tingled. Such was a combination they’d yet to encounter. “The mistletoe ointment worked for a time, did it not?”
“It did, but I’ve no idea of that plant’s origin. And this prescription isn’t exactly a salve. It’s a fluid. Brea instructs a healer to ‘drive it deep into the lesion using the sharp tips of needles that it might reach the source’ after which a compress soaked in the liquid is to be applied to the tumor. The treatment is to be repeated daily until the lesion is eradicated.”
“Ouch.” Daily use? Ash winced as he eyed the ink drawing of a wooden shaft into which some ten needles had been embedded. A casual onlooker could not be faulted in thinking it a medieval torture device.
“It rather appears a primitive attempt to perform a subcutaneous injection,” she said. “Much more efficient to use a hypodermic syringe to deliver the serum.”
“If not less painful.” Ash searched his memory. “Three ingredients. Easy enough.” Viscum album, Taxus baccata, and Sambucus nigra. His mind leapt to the sources he had immediately on hand. “We have both potted yew and elder bushes, one still producing berries. And this time of year? It grows late, but mistletoe is available on nearly every street corner.” He’d retrieve his coat, dash out, return with a bunch and—
“No.” She dropped a hand on his arm. “We’d have no idea of its origin. Better to collect it fresh.”
Well, that complicated things, but only slightly. For Evie, he’d venture into a park at night to climb a tree. “Mistletoe grows in Hyde Park.” It was near enough. “I’ve seen it in a lime tree or two—”
“No.” She shook her head. “Oak.” A certain stubbornness settled over her face as she tapped the page. “This recipe calls for leaves of mistletoe found growing in an oak tree. Crushed and steeped for a day. It’s then to be mixed with yew bark—dried and ground into a powder—and crushed elderberries. Here, I’ll copy it out.” She snatched up a fountain pen and translated the ancient text into modern English.
They had a problem, not with the last two ingredients for they were close at hand, but with the first. Ash dragged a palm down the side of his face. “Evie, mistletoe rarely grows in an oak tree, and the only one I know of is The Druid Oak.” His voice trailed off. Not because it was sacrilegious to consider a cure based on an ancient tradition rooted in the Celtic past, but because of the creature.
His lady intended to send him into battle. Not at all a romantic endeavor.
“Exactly.” She set aside the pen. “An English oak in Hyde Park, one guarded by a horrible monster.” Amused, she hooked two of her fingers, lifted them and made a chattering sound. “Mengri, clockwork attack squirrel. With beady eyes and long, sharp teeth, he scurries about the branches, chattering and screeching his warnings. Rumor holds that the gypsies possess the windup key, though no one has any evidence as to who its creator might be.”
“It’s not a rumor or a laughing matter. Haven’t you seen the contraption?” Ash threw his hands up. “People pitch peanuts at the thing just to watch it rip through the shells.”
“Do they?” She sobered, frowning. “I can’t recall the last time I visited the park. I know it’s a lot to ask. It’s dark, cold, and there’s the threat of snow hanging in the air. But perhaps at such a late hour on the eve of a holiday, the creature’s clockwork spring will have run down?”
A sound hypothesis, but he very much doubted it. Still there might be something to the healer’s insistence that the mistletoe be a plant that grew upon an oak tree.
To the druids, the tree was sacred and the plant a mystery. Suspended between the heavens and the ground, it possessed no roots. Modern botanical studies had revealed the hemiparasitic plant instead possessed haustorium, structures that would grow into its host tree, thus drawing into itself water and nutrients. Different trees produced different nutrients. So perhaps there was something important about the composition of nutrients that the plant removed from an oak tree.
He contemplated his leather boots. Should the squirrel attack, a swift kick ought to knock the contraption away. The perils he was willing to face for Evie knew no bounds. “Grab your coat.” With her father’s imminent departure, the one resource they couldn’t access was time. If there was something special about the plant’s growth on oak, then oak it must be. “That mistletoe plant is out on a branch some thirty feet in the air. I’ll need a climbing rope. There ought to be one in storage.”
Excitement illuminated her face. Leaping to her feet, she launched herself at him, taking flight to throw her arms about his neck. “Thank you!”
Skirts swirled about his legs, silky hair brushed his chin and her soft breasts crushed against his chest. She was far too tempting. Hands upon her corseted waist, he dropped her backward onto her heels. “If you wish to present your father with an ointment as soon as possible, we should go now. But it’s near to midnight.”
She shook her head. “Is that a problem?”
“Only if you mind returning by way of the service entrance. The entryway passes the morgue.” Where Dr. Wilson’s remains must lie. Though he left those last words unspoken, she shuddered beneath his palms. “Lister wished to allow the guards to spend the holiday with their families. Well, all but one.”
“Which is as it s
hould be.” Frowning, she glanced over her shoulder. “We’ll go, but what of the books? We can’t leave them in such a disarray. Mr. Davies would have my head.”
“Plenty of time to set them to rights later, while the mistletoe steeps. Grab your hat and coat.” The quick kiss he dropped on her lips brought back her smile. “We’ve a quest to undertake.”
He pulled her from the library, only releasing her hand that she might turn the iron key in its lock, then led her up the stairs.
Minutes later, having quickly retrieved his outerwear, they stood before the botany department’s storage room. Climbing a tree, an activity not generally pursued within the city, was a fairly simple task. A thick rope ought to be sufficient equipment.
“Pliny the Elder mentions a golden scythe was used to cut down mistletoe whilst wearing white vestments.” A certain lightness lifted Evie’s voice and there was a twinkle in her eyes as she glanced about the room.
“I’m afraid we’ve no white druid robes on hand.” He located a hand scythe and passed it to her. “And mere steel will have to do.”
“Close enough.” She sliced it through the air. “A deterrent should any pickpockets approach. What with that rope wound across your shoulder,” Evie slanted him a sideways look and tossed his red muffler over her shoulder before striding off down the hallway, weapon raised, “we don’t look like anyone I’d care to meet on a dark night in a park.”
Such was a side of Miss Brown—the spirited, enterprising woman who let nothing stop her—that sometimes overtook and subsumed the prim and proper librarian she presented to the world. Both equally enticing aspects of her character.
Grinning, he followed. Prepared to battle a mechanical squirrel to win his lady love.