Lech’s potion was almost complete. The courier boy had dropped off the last ingredient, an attar of cubicular nightshade, twelve minims of which he dripped into the mixture before boiling under reflux for half an hour.
“This is supposed to effect the most sublime headache,” he told his friend, whom he’d called for the occasion. “I have my doubts about it being of truly supreme quality, though I think it really shall be something I’ve not experienced before, which is the true gift to a connoisseur.” And at that a lengthy draught of the liqueur, accentuated by a smirk of bitterness, and complemented by a serene countenance.
“Do take up some paper,” he asked his friend. “There is a pen just inside that drawer, if you please. Shall we retire to the parlor? I’ll have Justine read to us awhile and when it comes you can take down my impressions.”
Justine had been promoted from the scullery as Lech’s fortune dwindled—indeed, her refinement and education were a great part of his day, and she so bent to his will, she allowed him to take up needle and thread, or scour to pot, while she recited her lessons. The sketches, which he did in inkwash, he recompensed her handsomely for.
She read standing from a volume of Qinippas. Quite admirably if a little mechanically, Lech’s friend thought. In the midst of the fifth sonnet, on the helmsmen and their wives, Lech reached out a hand to his friend. “It’s started?”
“Indeed, some minutes, only I wanted to be sure it was of the new invention.” Lech’s brow was furrowed and he stooped in his chair. His voice, still serene, had cracked a bit. “The onset was unimpressive, some aching about the temples, a minor clavus in the occiput.”
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