Page 26 of The Devouring Time

When I’m done, I dry off and wrap myself in the robe. Bracing myself, I look into the mirror over the sink, forcing myself to meet my own gaze.

Every muscle clenches…then relaxes when I see my familiar features staring back at me.

I’m a mess, my eyes red and puffy, my hair a disgrace. I spend the next half-hour dabbing cold water on my eyelids, then attempting to do something with my hair.

When I emerge, dressed only in my robe, Adrian is sitting in my chair. Upon seeing me, his eyes widen slightly, gaze finding the exposed triangle of my skin below my neck. Then he blinks rapidly and looks away. “I, ah, searched your bedroom and the living room. There’s nothing. In fact, there’s so little it’s suspicious. No correspondence, no books, not a single slip of paper anywhere.”

“My address book is gone?” Not that I had many written in it, but even so.

He nods. “Get dressed. I’ll look around in the bathroom.”

“Have a bath while you’re at it.” At least the porter on the train had been kind enough to brush the worst of the mud off our clothing. “I’d offer to lend you a fresh shirt or pair of trousers, but, well…” I gesture vaguely in the direction of his broad shoulders, which would burst the seams of anything in my wardrobe.

He smiles, and for some reason it feels genuine to me. “I will. Thank you.”

I retreat to my bedroom and try very hard not to think about the fact that Adrian is stripping down to his skin on the other side of the wall. Thankfully, all of my clothes seem to be in place, though in my madness I seem to have neglected to buy so much as a single new sock, so everything is a year out of date. I choose a gray worsted suit with a diamond weave, and pair it with a blue striped tie.

Feeling a bit more myself, I settle in my chair in the front room, only to remember I don’t have anything to read. When Adrian emerges from the bathroom, it’s to find me sweeping the floor. “Housework?”

“I like to keep busy. I don’t suppose you found my secret diary concealed behind the medicine cabinet, where I wrote down everything I did over the last year?”

“Sadly no.” He straightens his cuffs. “I suggest visiting the pharmacy, considering it’s nearby.”

The rain has returned, so we take a taxi despite the relatively short walk. The pharmacy stands on the corner of Waverly Place and 10th Street and is open due to the blue laws exemption for essential services.

As such, it’s a popular place today. Men and women crowd the soda counter, while children plead for sweets. A line of people stretches from the register; most of them seem to be picking up their weekly pint of “medicinal” whiskey. A girl peers at some toys through the glass of one of the mahogany display cabinets, while her mother peruses the magazine rack. Old men study liniment tins, and an elderly woman is arguing loudly with her daughter in front of the bulk herbs.

I look around uncertainly. “I hope you have a plan, because I’m not certain what we can learn here, or how to go about finding it.”

“Mr. Caine!” exclaims a voice I don’t recognize. I turn to see a middle-aged fellow in a pharmacist’s coat making his way from behind the counter toward us, a welcoming smile on his face. “We weren’t expecting you, but of course it’s a pleasure—always a pleasure!—to see you, sir.”

18

We’ve come here expecting to find an ally of Hart’s, but this man seems ridiculously happy to see me.

As for myself, I’ve never seen him in my life that I can remember, which means he isn’t glad to set eyes on me per se, but the lunatic version of myself who had quit the bookstore and gotten rid of all of my own reading material.

Perhaps we’ll learn more if he thinks I still remember him? “Of course,” I say, and hope he doesn’t follow up with any awkward questions I can’t answer.

Thank God, Adrian steps in by extending his hand to the pharmacist, a pleasant smile on his brown face. “Luke Miller,” he says, and I pray I can remember his alias. “You must be Dr. Davis.”

Davis’s smile fades, and he glances questioningly at me. I don’t know what he’s asking exactly, other than it must have something to do with welcoming Adrian, so I just give a small nod in return.

His smile returns, and he shakes Adrian’s hand vigorously. “Always nice to meet another horologist.”

Oh lord, did my alter ego quit the book trade for some new, even more esoteric, hobby? Do I have a secret second apartment somewhere, filled to the brim with clocks and watches?

“Likewise,” Adrian says, as if this is the most natural conversation in the world.

“But where are my manners? Come, come.” He scurries deeper into the shop, catching the attention of the overwhelmed man at the cash register. “Harris! I have business to attend to in the back. We are not to be disturbed for anything short of the building catching fire, do you understand?”

Harris nods, though he doesn’t look happy about being abandoned to deal with the customers by himself.

Davis leads us through a door at the back of the store, which opens on to what appears to be the pharmacy’s storeroom. We navigate through the boxes, barrels, and crates to yet another door. He takes out a set of keys, unlocks it, and turns on an electric light to reveal a set of sturdy stairs leading down.

At the bottom is another well-lit storeroom, though this one is uniformly filled with wooden crates of the same size and shape, all labeled CHRONO-FLAV SYRUP. I’ve never heard of the brand; maybe Davis makes his own syrup for soda fountains.

Seeing Adrian eyeing the boxes, Davis pauses and pats one, his chest puffing proudly. “As you see, Chrysalis production is coming along very nicely.”