Chapter 10: Rhododendron, Part 1

Stregoni woke with a jerk, disoriented, fumbling automatically for his spectacles even as he heard the noise which had woken him - a frantic banging upon the front door of the apothecary.

Someone was in trouble.

Shoving his spectacles on his nose, he threw back his blankets and slid naked from bed, shivering as he fumbled in the dark for his clothes. He'd just buttoned his breeches and pulled on a shirt when his bedroom door flew open.

His mother was in her sleeping gown, a night robe thrown hastily over it, the belt loosely tied. Her long curly hair glowed like embers in the light of the candle she held. "Stregoni."

"What is it?" he asked, taking note of the trembling, shadowy figure behind her. "I'm nearly dressed." He sat down in a nearby chair to pull on his stockings, then fumbled for his sturdiest boots and stamped into them.

"It's Louis, from Blackfield," his mother said, stepping back as Stregoni finally emerged.

Out in the hallway, closer to the light, he could see now it was indeed Louis. A footman for the Blackfield family now, his parents still lived only a few houses down from the apothecary. He was a few years older than Stregoni, but they had always got on growing up, when their paths crossed.

"What's wrong?" Stregoni asked, stifling a yawn. He had never been very good at waking up, despite the fact both his parents were bright, early risers.

"It's Tony," Louis said, and Stregoni could not tell if he was shaking from fear or cold - probably both. "He's taken a nasty turn, but Lord and Lady Blackfield won't summon anyone. They're too taken with that new 'expert' of hers from the city." His lip curled, despite the trembling.

"What expert?" Stregoni asked sharply, suddenly much more awake. "Lady Blackfield mentioned nothing to me about it; she did not even write to cancel my regular visits." A quack, if that curled lip was anything by which to judge.

He bit back a few expletives of his own. This would not be the first time he'd run across a damned quack and their so called miracle cures.

Striding down the hallway, he threw open the door which led to the front half of the building, given over entirely to the apothecary his family had owned and operated for three generations now. Stregoni often felt guilty there would likely be no fourth generation.

He could not, in good conscience, attempt to love and lie with a woman when he was so stupidly -

Cutting off the distracting thoughts, he moved quickly to gather all that he would need for an impromptu journey to the Blackfield Estate. Normally, he would not be due to make a trip there until early next week. He had only returned a few days ago from his stay with Carmilla.

Thoughts of Carmilla invariably led to thoughts of Gilles and François, and so Stregoni shoved them ruthlessly away once more. He would not be distracted when he was needed.

He frowned as he picked up a tin and discovered it was empty. "Mother, do we have any more chamomile?"

"Yes, dear," his mother said in her gentle way. No matter how crazy things might get - and in their occupation, life was seldom anything but - her voice was always calm. Even his father's death she had taken quietly and calmly, though he suspected she had not been that way once her bedroom door was closed.

She rifled through an assortment of cases and tins, then came back with his refilled, kissing his cheek briefly. Turning away, she took up a few more bottles and tins and boxes, tucking them neatly into his bag. "Go quickly, but do not be too reckless. If you can, stay there until the snow clears. It has only gotten worse since we went to bed."

Reaching out, she combed through his hair, mouth pursed in worry. "You did not even fetch a collar," she said, clucking in gentle disapproval, but there was a faint smile in her voice that took any sting from the words. "Go on with you then, and be careful."

"Yes, Mother," Stregoni said, and kissed her cheek. "Louis, remain here until the snow clears." He held up a hand to forestall protest. "I can travel faster alone." Without another word, he strode to the entryway, snatched up his cloak, then headed outside and down to the public stable where he kept his horse.

It took only minutes to saddle his horse, though he did it with much yawning and fumbling and shivering.

Finally he led his horse outside, then mounted and took off as quickly as he dared down the street. The snow here, thankfully, had mostly been tamped down or brushed away.

Beyond the town, the going was much more difficult. The best Stregoni could do was urge his horse on while burrowing deep into his cloak, pulling a scarf up over most of his face. His spectacles he finally had to tuck away, though he hated not being able to see clearly - but they were so covered in snow, he couldn't see anyway.

Trusting the horse, knowing where and when to guide it, shivering in the biting, bitter cold, he pushed onward.

The going got much easier once they reached the cover of the forest. As they reached a fork in the road, he reluctantly guided the horse to the right, rather than the left.

It was dark, the hour indeterminable, though he suspected it was some wretched hour of the early morning. With the snow and the dark, the screaming quiet brought by both, he felt as though he traveled through a dream.

He wanted nothing more than to take the left path, stumble into the kitchen of the Sangre mansion, find a cup of tea and a good breakfast, maybe find Aubrey or Carmilla to talk for a time.

Instead, he pushed on toward Blackfield, hoping that all he had before him was a simple argument, a quack who would be easily routed.

What was probably only an hour, but felt like a day, later he at last saw the dark stone blur that was Blackfield Manor. The long drive was lined with the blackthorn bushes that gave the manor its name, and more of the same were clustered around the house itself. Come spring, they would burst with green leaves and white flowers, but right now they were nothing but dark, twisting, barren branches.