“Thank you,” I said, and then sneezed. “But my stomach is fine.”
The boy reached up for a packaged product and pushed the small box toward me.
“Good for colds.”
“Thank you.” I sniffed. “But I’m actually not here for a remedy for myself. I’m interested in the man who came here yesterday.”
The phone rang and the old man picked it up, speaking in Cantonese to the person on the other end of the line.
While we waited, I noticed one of the jars. On a square white label, beneath the Chinese characters, was writtenMandrake root. I was no slouch when it came to botanicals, myself, and I was familiar with the mandrake root. In fact, I had used it to make a mandragora—a sort of household imp—for Aidan. I made a mental note to ask Aidan whatever happened to the little guy.
“What is the mandrake root used for?” I asked when the old man hung up the phone.
The boy translated: “He says it is poison.”
I nodded. “I know. That’s why I asked what it can be used for.”
The boy conferred with the old man, who spoke for a long time. Finally the boy turned back to me and said simply: “It’s complicated.”
“Seriously?” Patience rolled her eyes.
I smiled. Whether the boy hadn’t understood what the old man had said, or simply didn’t want to bother to translate, or whether the old man wasn’t willing to give away his secrets, I understood. Like practitioners of magic, those involved in health care had to be careful about sharing their rarefied knowledge.
We were about to leave when I had another thought. I didn’t have a photo of Tristan Dupree, but I carried one of Sailor—a wallet-sized copy of the one that sat on my bedside table. I pulled my billfold out of my bag and flipped it open.
In general, Sailor avoided having his picture taken. This was common for magical folk; after all, if the photo fell into the wrong hands, it could be used for hexing. But with Sailor I thought it had more to do with something else. He didn’t enjoy people telling him how handsome he was. Even me.
But I had talked him into letting me take his snapshot with my antique Brownie camera. I hardly ever used it, but when I did, I loved how imperfect the results were. The photo was black-and-white, fuzzy around the edges, with a streak of light that might have been an orb, but was more likely the result of light exposure from my flawed camera. Sailor was sitting on his bike, his arm resting on his helmet on the gas tank. He looked relaxed, but also happy. Or at least as happy as Sailor got, which was limited. There was the slightest smile playing on his lips. The look in his eye was a little bit lustful, a little bit tender, a little bit cynical.
I wondered what he was doing now, and hoped and prayed that he was all right. And that I could figure this thing out soon and hold him, breathe in his scent.
Patience snorted, pulling me out of my reverie. I realized she was looking over my shoulder at the photo. I didn’t know how long I had stood there staring at it, but the old man and the boy were gazing at me as well.
“Sorry,” I said, clearing my throat and holding the wallet out to them. “Have you seen this man here?”
Both sets of eyes widened. The old man spoke for a moment, seeming agitated. The boy nodded, then turned to me and said, “He used to be a good customer. But now we would like him not to come back, please.”
“Why? What happened?”
“He was asking forChuan Wutea,” said the boy. “But raw.”
“What kind of tea is that?”
“Sometimes it is used for pain. But if it is not processed properly, it is a deadly poison.”
“Do you know what it’s called in English?”
The man looked something up in an old catalog, then showed it to the boy. “Here, it says monkshood, or wolfsbane.”
“Those are aconite plants,” I said.
“Yes.” The boy nodded. “It is a poison. Last year a lady died after drinking some tea that was improperly prepared.”
“This man asked for that?” I said, holding up Sailor’s photo again.
The boy nodded. “But... he didn’t look nice—he didn’t smile like this. He was sort of whack.”
“Whack?”
