Chapter 8 - The Local Apothecary
The iron gates of the estate clicked shut behind me, the heavy bars swinging back into place with a definitive, echoing thud that severed my connection to the cold silence of the house. Morning mist still clung to the asphalt of the county road, blurring the distant silhouettes of the pine trees that lined the property. My left hand throbbed beneath the tight white gauze wrap, the fabric stiff against the healing flesh whenever I flexed my fingers. Julian’s direct questions and Elena’s calculating glance hung in the air of my mind, but out here, beneath an open gray sky, the pressure of the dining room receded just enough for me to draw a clean breath.
I walked the mile down the winding shoulder to the edge of town, my black housekeeping shoes clicking against the cracked concrete sidewalk. Main Street was quiet at this hour, save for a delivery truck idling outside a grocery store and the faint smell of roasted coffee beans drifting from a diner down the block.
Nestled between a dry cleaner and a hardware store was Miller’s Pharmacy, its green-trimmed wooden door bearing a hand-lettered sign that said Open. A brass bell chimed softly as I pushed the door inward, the interior smelling faintly of rubbing alcohol, wintergreen, and old paper.
An older man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses looked up from behind the cash register, his hands resting on a ledger. He took off his glasses, his gaze dropping instantly to my bandaged left hand before rising to meet my eyes.
"Morning," he said, his voice raspy but kind. "You look like you've had a rough go of it. What can I get you? Silver sulfadiazine ointment? Extra gauze?"
I stepped up to the counter, resting my uninjured right hand on the worn wood. "How did you know?"
"Seen that particular shade of white bandage too many times on folks coming from up on the hill," Mr. Miller said quietly, walking over to a shelf behind him and pulling down a jar of heavy medical cream. "You work for the household at the summit. The estate."
"Yes," I murmured, glancing toward the front window to make sure the street outside remained empty. "I need something that won't irritate it. The first application... it didn't heal right."
Mr. Miller unscrewed the jar, checking the seal before sliding it across the counter toward me, along with a fresh roll of sterile padding. "Burns from an oven rack or a steam line usually leave a horizontal stripe across the knuckles or the palm. Yours wraps around the entire back of the hand. Deep, too. That wasn't a cooking accident, was it?"
I didn't answer immediately. The silence in the pharmacy felt heavy, weighted by the kind of small-town discretion that usually kept people safe.
"You aren't the first girl from that house to walk in here with skin like that," Mr. Miller added, his tone dropping to a low, guarded register. He leaned against the counter, looking down at his ledger as if turning over old memories he’d rather forget. "About a year ago, another young woman came in through that door. Quiet girl. Dark hair, too. She had burns on both wrists. Said she tripped near a boiling stockpot. But she wouldn't look me in the eye either."
My chest tightened. "Did she stay?"
"No," Mr. Miller said, looking up with a somber expression. "She packed her bags three days later and left the county altogether. Said the lady of the house—the one in the red dresses, the one who runs that place with an iron fist—liked to test the staff. Pushed her hand against a hot copper sauté pan when she dropped a crystal vase. Told her if she reported it, nobody in this town would ever hire her again."
The air in the pharmacy seemed to grow thin. Elena’s calm, chilling interruption in the dining room—*She burned it in the kitchen*—echoed in my mind with terrifying clarity. It wasn't an offhand remark to cover for me; it was a practiced excuse, a cover story she had used before, polished through repetition.
"She keeps track of everything," I whispered, the reality settling heavily over my shoulders. "Every mistake. Every perceived slight."
"She protects her image," Mr. Miller corrected, sliding a small paper bag over the medical supplies and pushing them toward my hand. "And anyone who gets in the way of that image becomes a liability. You watch yourself, girl. That man in the tailored suit—the one she's engaged to—he might ask questions, but he doesn't know the half of what happens behind those closed doors. People like Elena don't change their habits; they just find new ways to hide them."
I took the bag, the weight of the ointment and gauze grounding me against the sudden surge of fear. I reached into my pocket for my wallet, but Mr. Miller raised a hand, shaking his head.
"No charge for the supplies today. Just... make sure you have a plan to get out of there. Don't wait until the damage is permanent."
May you like
I nodded slowly, gripping the paper bag tightly in my right hand as the brass bell chimed once more, signaling my departure back out into the gray morning light.
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