Page 24 of The Scent of Intuition
“Hmpf!”I made the ointment here in England, from the extract of the same tea I brought you every day.
“It was dreadfully bitter and smelled rather medicinal.” She sighed. “But there was this kind young man in India who brought me honey to sweeten it.”
That was me, Bea. I brought you the honey. I’d bring you everything you desired in this world if I were allowed.
But he wasn’t.
“Do you wish to go back?” he asked.
“To India? Oh, yes, well actually, anywhere! The farther the better!”
“Why?”
She furrowed her brows, and she opened her mouth to explain, but then seemed to think the better of it, and instead she said flippantly, “To get away from the beast. Or what causes it.”
She must think that the trigger for her condition wouldn’t follow her—or perhaps she didn’t want to admit it to herself. How could she? She called it “the beast” and it was slumbering within her.
His heart sank with pity. Oh how he wished to explain that he’d been there before and that he didn’t mind what she called “the beast”—nobody was less beastly than her. If only he could tell her that he’d thought of her every single day since he’d left India. And yet, he’d vowed discretion to Master Varier, and he was only an apothecary. She was a lady. He wasn’t allowed to cross the line.
Back to the task at hand. He suppressed a deep sigh and waved his hand over the beaker containing his mixture, sniffing the scent that wafted up to his nose. So far, it was but an approximation. More work was needed to capture the irresistible essence of Bea.
He considered his notes and the lowest part of the sketched beaker.
“The low notes, deep and resonant, anchor the fragrance, infusing the senses with a bouquet that persists, a lasting memory of the experience.” He turned his notes over to her and she trailed her finger over his writing.
The fir was next, its delicate fragrance rising like a whisper from the distillation apparatus standing proudly on the wooden counter. According to the flower girl who’d delivered the fir, the needles had been picked in the cool, early morning when their scent was most potent. Alfie poured the fir distillate carefully, the refreshing notes bringing a lightness of a gentle breeze to the blend.
Finally, he turned to the lily of the valley, the preserved buds dried to perfection, retaining their essence and promise. He crushed them gently in his mortar and pestle that was always ready on his counter, releasing their oils and fragrances into the air. The scent brought the promise of better times, and the warmth of spring to the mixture. Perfect, just like Bea, for she was the promise of a better life.
Except that she wasn’t meant for him.
Alfie worked precisely, measuring each ingredient on his scales before combining them in a crystal flask. He mixed them with a practiced hand, stirring the concoction with a glass rod, watching as the colors and scents melded into something new, something extraordinary.
As he worked, the light played across his tools—the gleaming scales, the polished mortar and pestle, the array of vials and bottles—each reflecting the light in its own way, each an essential part of the alchemy taking place. The carrier oils he chose were as important as the scents themselves. Jojoba and almond oil provided the perfect medium, their own subtle aromas adding depth without overpowering the delicate balance he sought to achieve.
After he’d filtered the mixture and poured it into a simple glass vial—a British understatement to the potency within—a drop of it got onto his right index finger, and he rubbed it in and smelled it.
“Does it smell like me yet?” She reached for his hand and brought his finger to her nose.
His breath hitched, and he couldn’t take his eyes off those delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist. Oh, how he fought the impulse to open his palm and cradle her lovely cheeks in his hand—but it was prohibited. Plus, she trusted him to create a potion for her; she was there as a customer.
“It’s close, but not wholly you.”
She furrowed her brows and let go of his hand as if she’d been burned.
Perhaps it was for the better because they’d left every modicum of propriety behind this late in the day at the apothecary, creating a way for her to entice a prince… he mustn’t think about it.
Something unique and exotic was missing, the spirit she’d stifled as a lady, but that Alfie knew all too well a good lover could bring to the surface.
From the bottom right drawer of his wall of treasured substances, he retrieved a thin tube with a waxed cork.
“May I see?” Bea reached out again, her curiosity seemingly getting the better of her.
“This is irreplaceable. I’ve saved it for a special mixture.” With great care, he held the tube upright and removed the cork, then let the dark orange drop fall into the vial—oil of guava.
When the potion glowed amber in the candlelight, its scent a complex tapestry of desire and longing, of earth and sea and blooming gardens and ripe fruits of womanhood, Alfie sealed the flask carefully, his fingers lingering on the glass, feeling the warmth of the liquid inside. He knew this was not just a perfume but a weapon of femininity. He’d used his understanding of the natural world and its hidden language to give her something so powerful that the prince couldn’t resist.
Then why did it feel so bad and unsatisfying to create this masterpiece?
