The Apothecary Page 0,23

with the other, and headed into the parlour. I followed.

“The very fascinating thing about this herb,” Benjamin told the Shiskins, through the towel, “is the way the smell changes, over time. It starts out very sharp and exhilarating. Here, please try.” He held the cup out.

Mr Shiskin leaned away. “Why do you cover your face?”

“I’m getting a cold, sir. Please, smell the tea before it changes.”

“You smell it first. It might be dangerous.”

“Oh, I’ve already smelled it,” Benjamin said.

“And you are sick!”

“An unrelated winter cold. I don’t want to infect you.”

Mr Shiskin crossed his thick arms over his chest. “We are Russian. We don’t get colds.”

Sergei said something imploring to his father and the older man finally sighed, uncrossed his arms, and leaned over the diminishing steam from the cup. He seemed startled by the smell, and looked up sharply at Benjamin.

“Where did you get this plant?” he asked.

“In—in the park.”

Mr Shiskin lunged from his chair towards Benjamin, surprisingly agile in spite of his size and his wooden leg. “Chush sobach’ya!” he said. “You smell it, and then tell me again where you found it!”

I backed into the kitchen, and Benjamin backed up after me, holding the teacup in front of him like a weapon. Mr Shiskin seemed even bigger and more powerful now that he was angry.

Sergei was mortified. “Leave them alone, Papa!” he said. “They’re going to let me on their science team!”

“They are not your science team!” Mr Shiskin said.

Sergei ducked in front of his father, arms spread wide, and stood protecting us. “Three years we have lived here,” he said, “and this is the first time my friends ever came to visit, and now you chase them out!”

“They are not your friends,” his father said, pushing him aside. “They invent this to get to me.”

I stumbled backward in a panic, and my sleeve caught the silver spout of the samovar. I tried to steady the urn, but it crashed to the floor. The hot water spilled out of the teapot, and the whole kitchen was filled with the bracing, minty smell of the leaves. There was no avoiding breathing it in.

“Where did you get this plant?” Mr Shiskin asked again.

The giddy feeling came over me: the compulsion to blurt out the answer. I bit my tongue until it hurt, but I couldn’t stop myself. “At the Chelsea Physic Garden,” I said. “From the gardener.”

He turned to Benjamin, who still had the towel over his face. “This is true?”

“No!” Benjamin said, his voice muffled. “I don’t know what she’s talking about! She doesn’t know what she’s talking about!”

“It’s true,” I said. “On Sunday, you passed a message to Benjamin’s father. Then those men came for him. Who are they?”

Mr Shiskin stared at me. His face turned an ashen grey as the blood drained from it. Then he switched on a radio on the kitchen counter and turned up the volume. “Stupid children!” he hissed, under the sound of cheery dance music. “You think no one is listening?”

I knew about houses being bugged, but it hadn’t occurred to me that this one might be. Shiskin was right: We were stupid children. How had I thought we were equipped to conduct an interrogation?

Under cover of the music, Shiskin whispered, “This is where I have seen you—in the park. Is Marcus Burrows your father? Take down this ridiculous towel.”

Benjamin lowered the towel. “He is.”

“Who else knows you have connected him to me?”

“Only the gardener.”

“Did you see your father taken?”

“We were hiding in the cellar. We heard German voices.”

“Did you see a man with a scar?”

“We’re supposed to ask the questions here!” Benjamin said.

“You have no idea the danger you are in!” Shiskin whispered hoarsely.

“The man with the scar was there,” I said. “Who is he?”

“He is a member of the Stasi,” Mr Shiskin said. “The East German secret police. But he is working under the command of Soviet security, the MGB. They must have discovered the apothecary.” He slumped into a chair and put his head in his hands. His eye fell on the dented samovar on the floor.

“You know what other thing ‘samovar’ means, in Russia?” he asked. “It is a word for the soldiers who lost their arms and their legs in the war, from shells and exploding mines. Because they look like teapot with no arms and legs, you see? The Soviets sent them to Siberia so people would not see them and know how terrible is the war. My brother was one of these, until he