The Gorgon's Blood Solution (3 page)

Instead, he was surprised to find that Algornia’s granddaughter, Teresa – she of the shrewish temperament – was cutting a slice of bread off a loaf that smelled fresh out of the oven.

“Oh, hello,” Teresa paused as if trying to remember Marco’s name, though he knew she knew the name perfectly well.  She wasn’t happy with him happening to observe her doing any type of work in the kitchen he knew; he’d heard her often complain to her grandfather about the fact that her mother forced her to do some chores in the kitchen, which she felt was beneath her dignity.  She wasn’t a scullery maid, was she, she had plaintively asked her grandfather.  For Marco to see her cutting her own bread slices would aggravate her sense of being imposed upon, he knew, and he grinned inwardly at the thought.

“Hello Teri,” he answered, knowing that she disliked the nickname.

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” she instantly blurted, unconsciously holding her bread knife high as though it were a weapon to threaten him with.

“I’ll remember your name better when you remember mine,” Marco said.  “Is there anything to eat?” he asked, ready to move on to the matter at hand.

He recognized that there was no good reason for he and Teresa to have their unspoken feud; the girl was considered to be a nice person by everyone who knew her, and she was the apple of her grandfather’s eye.  She was a very nice-looking girl as well, though Marco wouldn’t ackn
owledge her attractiveness.  Yet she was ever ready to dismiss him as a thoughtless, insubstantial being who took up her grandfather’s time and space, getting in the way of her opportunities to watch her grandfather carry out his mysterious trade.

“There’s some cold porrid
ge in the pot,” she use the knife to point.  Marco sauntered over to the designated pot and saw the congealed remains of the breakfast mainstay; in his opinion it had been unsavory when it had been served warm, and had declined in its minimal appeal to Marco once it had cooled.

“What else is there?” he asked.

“Go out and get a meal from the vendors if you have such high tastes,” Teresa responded tartly.

Marco grunted and shook his head, then used a spoon to scoop some of the porridge into a dingy bowl.  He walked away from Teresa as he hurriedly ate the glutinous mass, then left the bowl and spoon for her to clean
as he went back out the door and across the yard.

“Hey, you come back here!” she called as she realized what he had done, but Marco didn’t stop or turn around as he returned to the work that remained to complete the philter.

He stood in the workshop doorway and examined his space.  Four compounds remained.  One was a liquid, one was solid, and two were powders.  There were steps involved in carefully mixing them together, and then he needed to treat the final product, but Marco estimated that he would be finished by early afternoon.  And then he would have a syrup-like concoction that Angelica could use to make someone fall in love with her – if he had done everything correctly.

Marco took his seat at the work bench and began to mix the two powders together, repeatedly sifting them until the blue and red grains were so thoroughly intermixed that only a purple blend sat in the bottom of the bowl.

That led to the next step; Marco poured the liquid syrup over the dark black mass of congealed solid ingredients, then began to pound the two together – carefully, so as not to splash any drops of the liquid out.  As the two merged, the solid melted, and the liquid grew magically thinner, not thicker, so that in half an hour’s time Marco held a bowl of thin liquid, thinner than Sarah’s chowder, and a bowl of the purple powder, the final two components of the philter.

He settled into his seat and began to slowly dribble the powder into the liquid, a few grains at a time, making sure that each grain was saturated and dissolved into the dark liquid substance.  Slowly, as more and more of the purple entered the darkness, the color began to change, and Marco watched in fascination as the color of the combination began to lighten into a creamy hue, while the texture thickened slightly.

“It looks like a salad dressing,” Marco muttered aloud to himself as he finished mixing the last of the powder into the final product, and closely examined his creation while he stirred it.

“While we generally don’t know, ask, or concern ourselves with the disposition of our wares after we sell them,” Marco jumped as he heard Algornia’s voice close behind him.

“As it happens though, Countessa Haubertine did question me about the characteristics of the philter, and mentioned that it sounded as though it could be mixed with a salad dressing and served to its intended recipient,” Algornia told him, as he reached forward and gently took the bowl of love philter from Marco’s hands, subjecting it to a close examination.  “So I’m sure she’d be delighted to hear your assessment.

“It looks very good, my boy,” Algornia added approvingly.  “You’ve surprised and pleased me.  This appears to be very well made, and I frankly wasn’t sure you had the focus and concentration to produce a philter,” his words made Marco’s cheek grow warm as he blushed with pleasure at the appreciative words from his master.

“Perhaps there is a future for you in the trade after all,” Algornia told him.  Marco seldom heard praise from the alchemist for his work – there were occasional words of encouragement, but Marco didn’t usually perform well enough (and he knew it) to deserve praise.  This time though, under pressure, he had somehow managed to focus on his task and carry out the critical assignment.

“If you do a job like this more often, we’ll have to start considering a field to specialize in,” Algornia said.  “Phillippe is reading the available scraps of Hermes
’s book on the alchemy of health right now, for example.  There’s always going to be a strong market for cures and wellness, plus the boy enjoys the field,” he added.  “I’ll keep an eye on you and try to find any specialty that seems natural for you.

“But that’s in
the future, and today I just want you to know that I appreciate the work you did on this philter,” Algornia’s short speech wound down.  “I’ll see that you don’t have to do any work this evening, so that you can go out and enjoy the city’s festivities with your friends, after one more simple task.”

Marco’s eyes shifted to look at Algornia attentively, signaled by something in the older man’s voice, a slight hint of stress that suggested something wasn’t quite right.

“My daughter-in-law,” Algornia began, speaking of Teresa’s mother, Abrianna, married to his son, Gionni.  Abrianna was a slightly unusual woman in that she owned and operated her own business, a fashionable dress shop on the Square of Blue Waters.  Few women had such highly-visible business activity, but Abrianna relished the business and the chance to exercise her flair for fashion.  Her shop was directly next to Gionni’s leather goods shop.

“Abrianna is apparently having a fashion display this afternoon,” Algornia continued.  “She is inviting many noble ladies to come to the shop to see some of the new gowns she and her assistants have designed.”

Marco sat, puzzled, wondering why Algornia was telling him of the fashion display.

“it appears that due to illness and some other problems, Abrianna doesn’t have enough models to wear her gowns for the ladies to see, so I’d like for you to go over there for a bit this afternoon and wear a couple of gowns to help her in a pinch, and then you’ll be free to enjoy the rest of the evening,” the alchemist explained his assignment without looking directly at Marco.

Teresa!  Marco needed less than a heartbeat to suspect who was behind the humiliating plan.  He looked at Algornia without saying anything, hoping that the master of the shop would look him in the eye and face up to the terrible assignment he was punishing Marco with immediately following Marco’s success on his behalf.  Algornia would not make eye contact however, and so Marco could only sit in silent, mounting rage.

“You better get going,” his master said a minute later, as he took the bowl with the love philter and began to pour it into a clear glass flask.  “Phillippe!” he called.  “Phillippe, come get this when you’re done with your task, and deliver it to Countessa Haubertine at her town home on the Grand Canal.”

Marco got up from his seat and skulked out of the workroom.  He walked into the empty front room of the building, the shop, and stopped, then leaned back against a wall and closed his eyes.

He would get revenge on Teresa for her clever entrapment, he swore to himself.  The girl had her grandfather wrapped around her little finger, and had manipulated the old man into betraying Marco, but Marco laid little of the blame – a small portion, perhaps – on Algornia.   This was the plot of Teresa, mad at him for leaving his dirty dish upstairs where she had had to wash it, a small task that he had felt sure he was entitled to skip while working on the important philter assignment.

Marco heard the door open, and felt a slight breath of a breeze moved through the room.  There was a hint of fragrance, and he knew that Teresa was in the room with him.  He wanted to disappear, to steal away from the troublesome girl; he didn’t want to speak to her, or listen to her, or see her.  There was the sound of a slipper scraping on the floor, and the hint of air movement continued.  With a heavy sigh he opened his eyes and looked at where Teresa stood in the open door, poised for flight if needed.

“Mother will need to fit the gowns to your build before the display, so you better head over there now,” she directed him, with a shadow of a smirk on the face that he momentarily wanted to shove forcefully out of the room.

“I’m just leaving now,” he said instead with an exercise of great self-control, and stepped towards the front door.  He lifted the latch and pulled the door open, then exited the building without looking back.   He walked across the pavers of Chemists Square, oblivious to his surroundings in the open space as he steamed over Teresa’s successful humiliation, and tried to figure out a sufficient revenge with one part of his mind, while the other part actively began speculating on what was immediately ahead of him in the fashion show.  Would they stuff cloth on his chest to fill out the bust line, or would he have to wear a wig?  Perhaps he would be unrecognizable, a small degree of consolation as he hoped his friends would not happen to see or identify him while he walked in front of the noble ladies.

His friends were unlikely to be at a fashion shop, he told himself w
ith practicality, making him feel better, right up until the moment he ran into Filipo and Bianca, running down the warehouse street towards him just two minutes later.

“Marco, when will you be free this evening?” Bianca asked as the pair stopped to meet him on the street.  “Are you ready to go now?  We’re going to go watch a puppet show!” she said enthusiastically.

“I’ve got a couple of errands to run,” Marco hedged.  “I’ll find you when I’m done with everything,” he promised.

“We’ll see you later then,” Filipo answered quickly, clearly anxious to be on his way.  He grabbed Bianca’s dainty hand and the two started trotting along the street, rapidly disappearing from sight around the next corner.

Marco began moving too, while wondering what puppet play his friends would get to see without him.  He loved to watch the zany puppet shows that were put on around festival times throughout the year; even though many of them were overtly preachy and carried lessons, most of them were entertaining.  He expected that even if he missed the afternoon performance, he’d get to see the same puppeteer or another put on a show later in the evening.  The nighttime show was likely to be the bawdier one anyway, he consoled himself.

He rounded a corner and passed over the Bridge of Kisses without thinking about it, then crossed another canal, and came upon the street that led to Fashion Square.  The square was fronted by goldsmiths, jewelers, millinery and dressmaker shops.   It was a part of the city that Marco rarely visited, unless upon an errand.  Now he was back – not on an errand, but to serve a sentence, it felt like.

Other than the lines of chairs, some already holding their patrons, the front of Abrianna’s shop looked quiet and peaceful as it came into view, and Marco had a fleeting moment of hope that perhaps the fashion show had been called off.  He knew there was no realistic chance that he was going to receive such a reprieve though, and he continued to walk towards the shop, his steps slowing down as he drew nearer.

When he reached the front door he saw through the multiple small panes of the windows that behind the fashions on display, a quartet of women and girls were bustling about inside the shop, carrying materials and tools to and fro frantically.  He stood at the door and watched the agitated activity as the women jostled and swapped items, working with one another, snapping at each other, focused exclusively on just the few square feet of countertop where all their efforts were focused.  He watched them work, and saw the passion they put into their efforts, and felt a small portion of sympathy for them, working so feverishly so close to their deadline.

With a deep breath, Marco pressed against the door and opened it, then walked into the shop.

“We’re closed!” three voices yelled at him simultaneously as his foot entered the precincts of the dressmakers.

“I was sent over from Algornia’s shop,” he replied as he stopped on the threshold.

“Why?” Abrianna looked up.  He recognized Algornia’s daughter-in-law; he’d delivered items to the shop before, and even if he hadn’t, the resemblance between the mother and her daughter, Teresa, was evident even to Marco.