“Biermann is a strange fellow,” Philip Hartmann said, “but he really knows what he is doing and tries to treat you fairly. Be sure you get to see the herb room-it’s huge.”
Nepomuk Biermann’s place was a narrow four-story gabled building that could have used a new coat of paint. Situated among patrician homes, it looked a little like a neglected stepchild. Magdalena passed under a sign that displayed the name of the shop in flowing letters. Opening a narrow but solid door, she was immediately enveloped in a cloud of fragrances-dried herbs and exotic odors that reminded her of their own medicine chest at home. She closed her eyes and inhaled the strange aromas, many of them from another world of plants and spices far across the ocean, from ancient forests where lions and other monsters dwelled, or from distant islands inhabited by cannibals and mythical creatures with feet attached to their heads. There was an aroma of cinnamon, muscat, and black pepper.
When Magdalena closed the door behind her, a little bell rang. Shortly thereafter, a man appeared. Stooped over, he was small and mostly bald, except for a fringe of hair around the sides like a monk. From behind an eyepiece resting on his nose, he stared out at the hangman’s daughter with a disgruntled expression. Evidently, he’d been occupied with something more important than the menial work of waiting on customers.
“Yes?” he asked, looking her up and down as he would an annoying insect. “How can I help you?”
“I was sent by Philipp Hartmann,” Magdalena said. “I’m supposed to pick up a few herbs.”
At once, the man’s expression changed. His toothless mouth broadened into a smile. “Hartmann, huh? Did the Augsburg hangman manage to get a woman, after all?”
“I’m…just helping him at present,” Magdalena stammered, handing Nepomuk Biermann the list of ingredients. Gripping his eyepiece, the pharmacist studied the piece of parchment. “Aha, I see,” he mumbled. “Ergot and artemisia, also daphne, belladona, and thorn apple. What are you going to do with this-send the hangman off into the other world or ride away yourself on a broomstick?”
Magdalena struggled for words. “I…uh…We’re expecting a difficult birth,” she finally said. “The child won’t come and the mother’s in great pain.”
“Aha, I see, severe pain,” Nepomuk Biermann said, holding the glass up to his eye again. “But be careful you don’t give her too much of it all at the same time, or the good woman won’t suffer any pain at all. Ever again.” He grinned and winked his right eye, which peered out like that of a giant fish from behind the eyepiece. “You know, dosis sola venenum facit-it’s only the dose that makes the poison. Even old Paracelsus knew that. Did the hangman tell you about Paracelsus, eh?”
Magdalena nodded quickly, and the little man left it at that. Nepomuk Biermann walked toward a low doorway that led from the shop counter to the rear of the building. He motioned for her to follow. “Come along, girl, you can at least help me collect the herbs.”
Magdalena hurried after him. She found herself in a room cluttered with shelves and drawers. High wooden walls divided the room into sections and doubled as shelves. Nepomuk Biermann scurried like a dervish through the narrow corridors, carefully opening labeled drawers here and there. He checked the contents of each drawer against the list in his hand, spooning out a portion and weighing it on a scale that stood on a marble table in the center of the room.
“Ergot, artemisia…” he mumbled. “Just where do I have the damned daphne…? Ah, yes, here it is.”
Biermann couldn’t help but laugh as he watched Magdalena, standing wide-eyed in the midst of the six-foot-high shelves. “Well, you never saw anything like this before, eh?” With a sweeping gesture, he announced, “This is the largest collection of herbs from here all the way to Munich, you can take it from me. Probably not even the venerable Paracelsus had an apothecary shop like this.”
He had just opened another drawer when the little bell up front in the shop rang again. He stopped, annoyed. “Please excuse me,” the little hunchbacked man said to Magdalena, placing the bag of herbs he had already weighed in her hand and scurrying out of the room. “I’ll be right back.”
The hangman’s daughter stayed behind and looked around in wonderment at the fragrant labyrinth.
It was the voice that caught her attention, the demanding voice of a man who was clearly annoyed; he was talking with the pharmacist, and this was not a friendly conversation. Out of sheer curiosity, she walked over to the door leading to the shop up front and listened in.
“I need the same thing that I got once before from you,” the stranger growled.
“The…the same?” Nepomuk Biermann asked. “You know it’s hard to get, and actually, I’m not supposed to sell it. That…could cost me my business.”
Magdalena could sense the pharmacist’s anxiety. Carefully, she stepped back against the wall in order to hear better.
“I’ll pay you well,” the man said to the sound of jingling coins. “But I’m depending on it really working right this time! The last time death came much too fast. This time it has to be slow so no one notices, or else…”
“You must always use it in small doses,” Nepomuk Biermann insisted. “If you use only small doses, no one will become suspicious, I swear by God!”
“Then swear by the Savior,” the stranger said, and laughed raucously. “Deus lo vult.”
Magdalena gasped when she heard these last few words-the same words the man in the crypt had spoken to her father shortly before they’d stabbed him.
Was it perhaps the same man?
Although Magdalena was aware of the danger she was in, she moved closer to the door. Sidling up to it, she slowly turned her head toward the front of the store. From here, she could see only a small section above the counter, but it was enough to cause chills to run up and down her spine.
Magdalena glimpsed a black cowl and, dangling from a golden chain, a golden cross with two crossbars. Not until now did she notice that a new scent had joined the mix in the apothecary.
Violets.
“I need something else,” the stranger said, scratching his chest. “Quicksilver. As much as you can get hold of.”
Nepomuk Biermann nodded. “I…understand. Give me until tomorrow-”
“I shall be here tomorrow morning,” the man interrupted. “The other preparations I’ll take along with me right away.”
The stranger reached out for a little silk pouch the pharmacist offered him, then without a further word, turned to leave, slamming the door behind him.
Magdalena hesitated briefly, then gathered up the herbs that Biermann had already packed for her and stuffed them into her linen bag. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed other herbs lying out on the table. Quickly, she grabbed these as well and put them in her bag. Who knows what I might be able to use them for? she thought.
With the bag in hand, she hurried back to the sales room and, from there, out the door.
“Hey!” Nepomuk Biermann called after her. His face was as white as a sheet, and pearls of sweat had formed on his forehead. “What are you doing? You have to pay! Stay here. That man is dangerous! You don’t understand…”
Whatever else he said was drowned out in street noise. Magdalena hurried after the priest’s murderer, past snowdrifts and astonished pedestrians. She didn’t know what she was going to do when she caught up with him, but she wouldn’t be a Kuisl if she allowed this chance to slip by.