The shop was narrow and dark. A bell above the door rang when he entered. The smell hit him first, much like his mother’s stillroom: dried things, beeswax, oil of clove. Shelves ran floor to ceiling on both walls, packed tight with jars and bottles and bundles tied with string. A counter stood at the back. Behind it, a man.
The man was perhaps fifty, thin, stooped at the shoulders. He wore a brown apron and was measuring powder into a jar. He did not look up.
“Be with you in a moment.”
Henry crossed the floor. The boards complained beneath him. He did not stop at the counter but went around it into the man’s working space and ran his eye along the shelves behind. A tabby cat asleep on a wooden chair raised its head, saw him at close quarters, and shot from the chair with a shriek.
The shopkeeper whipped around. “Sir!”
“Your Grace.”
The brass scoop dropped out of his hand and rolled half a turn before it stopped. “I—I beg your pardon?”
“I am the Duke of Iredell.”
The man bent at the waist, hands clasped at his chest. “Your Grace. I am honoured—”
“Was it this one?”
Henry held a jar between them.
“I don’t—I don’t understand—”
“The lady you turned out of your shop four days past was my wife.”
The blood went from the man’s face.
“No need to apologize to me, good man. Tell me. Did you sell her this one?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“A pity.”
Henry let the jar fall.
It struck the boards and burst. A dark powder bloomed across the floor. The shopkeeper jerked forward to catch the glass, then jerked back, remembering who had dropped it.
“Your Grace.”
Henry was already reaching for the next. He held it in his hand and turned it once. The label was in a careful hand. The paper was yellow with age.
“Was it this one you sold her?”
“Please forgive me, Your—”
“Was it?”
“No, Your Grace.”
He opened his hand. The jar burst on the boards. A smell came up at once, sharp and green, and clung to the air between them. The shopkeeper had a hand at his mouth.
“This one?”
“Please!”
“Tell me!”
“No, Your Grace.” His voice had gone thin.
