If You Lingered
If you wanted medicine, the kind that village doctors wouldn’t provide, the kind made only with rare magic, then a wary local might guide you to a door in a nondescript alleyway. Squished between a pub and a cobbler, visitors to the town often missed it, but the locals knew exactly how to find it and exactly who owned it.
Albert’s Apothecary—plain in name but not in wares—was run by a man named Thomas, son of the late Albert and a far better apothecary than his father ever dreamed of being. A better apothecary he may be, but a better man he was not, according to the locals of the town.
There was nearly always a warning when you asked around town for such medicine. Thomas was the most impolite man they’d ever met, they’d say. He was known for his rudeness and would make awful comments about the state of one’s clothing, if you bothered to ask the mayor’s wife about him. But, they’d admit, he was good at what he did. Good at controlling old magic.
Rumours had surrounded Albert’s Apothecary for longer than Thomas had been there. The daughter of the family had disappeared when she was a teenager. Gone in the night without a word. Most believed she had left to find a better use for her abilities than a cramped alleyway.
When Thomas arrived months later, a supposed bastard son already trained in the art of making medicine and ready to take up his father’s mantle, the townsfolk whispered. That Thomas had killed the daughter, and decided to play at being family with Albert. Or that Albert had grown desperate after the loss of his daughter—anyone would take the kind of money he had. Some mentioned how similar the son looked to the daughter—almost identical, in fact—but they were drowned out by the cries of cruelty against such a young and dainty soul, that someone so vicious should take charge instead of her.
And yet, they went to him anyway. Because while the rumours were hideous and vile, Thomas was more skilled than most.
When you walked into the store, you’d always be treated to the same sight: dim lighting, shelves upon shelves of jars and herbs and overgrown plants, and a man at a counter, mixing substances together in one of many bowls. Thomas would take a moment to notice you, and wouldn’t greet you the way a shopkeeper usually would. He’d wait until you spoke.
Thomas hummed as he worked, this strange man with a youthful face and jaded eyes, face in a permanent scowl. You might not notice the way he tapped at his wrists as he grumbled and growled, taking your order with the promise to deliver as soon as possible.
You might linger, stare at the jars and ask questions. If you got a response, it would be stilted and guarded, until he let fly with a flurry of explanation on plants and the way magic coursed through them. Perhaps you understand him, or perhaps he’d look at your confusion, glare, and turn back towards his work.
You’d leave the apothecary believing all the unpleasant rumours, but the vitality that coursed through your body when you drank his medicine would make it worth it. It always did.
Later, you’d join the rest of the townsfolk in their whispers, describing your encounter with the strangest man in town. The others would agree with you, tell their own exaggerated stories about the things he’d said to them. All would agree that they would never like to be around Thomas for longer than necessary, but they had never felt better in years.
If you happened to wait in the alley until the store closed, which no one ever did, you’d see Thomas slowly clean up the day’s mess. He’d hum to himself again, not smiling but seemingly happy with his work. It would take him a little more than an hour, but he always looked calmer than he ever did when the apothecary was open.
Most days, if you waited long enough, another man would unlock the front door and step through. The apothecary’s front window didn’t provide much of a view, but if it did, you would see him approach Thomas with bags full of herbs and supplies. You might expect the man to turn and leave like everyone else, but he wouldn’t. He never did.
If the view was good, if you cared enough about Thomas to linger and watch, you would see him smile in a way no one ever expected from him. You would see them share a kiss. Perhaps you run then and tell everyone of what you saw, spreading more and more rumours until the whole town forgot there was a person behind them.
But if you didn’t, if you stayed, you would see them head upstairs to the home above the store. You’d hear Thomas rant about all the ways he could use the new herbs he’d been given. You’d see the man smile, fond and gentle. You’d see Thomas reach for him, speak kindly, act so differently that you wouldn’t believe he was the same person.
Later, they would lie in bed together and Thomas would share all the things he was too scared to speak of to anyone else. The man would listen as Thomas’s hands flapped in time with his words. It would look calmer than anything you had seen in your life. It might look like happiness.
Of course, the view through the window wasn’t very good, and it wasn’t as if you were watching anyway. So you, like everyone else, would never know any of this. You would return to pick up your medicine and roll your eyes at the gruff man before you, the one who’d probably murdered a woman near identical to him. You’d whisper and judge, no matter how grateful you were that your maladies were so easily cured.
Your opinions would matter little to Thomas, as they always have. But in that nondescript alleyway, squished between a pub and cobbler, he would head upstairs, where the man is cooking dinner for them both, ready to listen to his partner’s stories and waiting for his smile.
© 2024 Matt Richardson
About the Author
Matt Richardson (he/they) is a queer fiction author and editor from Australia, whose stories experiment with points of view and the lives of queer characters. They are an editor with Swine Magazine, Other Terrain Literary Journal and Meridian Australis. Their previous works can be found in Apparition Literary Magazine, TL;DR Press charity anthologies, and Swine Magazine.