The Sweat of Secrets

Eleanor's apron was damp from nervous wringing. The third customer that morning leaned close, voice dropping to a whisper about her nephew's impossible survival.

"Eight hours of the sweat, miss. They carried him out limp, but breathing."

Master Aldrich's hand appeared on Eleanor's shoulder. She froze, prey-still.

"Just gossip," he said, voice deliberately low. "We must be careful not to—"

"All those who lived," the woman interrupted, "were treated as children. By Margaret Blackwood."

The name hit Eleanor like a fist. She hunched smaller, automatically. Wiped her hands again.

The bell above the door chimed as the woman left. Cheapside sounds filtered in—cart wheels, vendors, distant wailing from plague houses. The smell of dried chamomile and lavender couldn't mask the sharper scent of fear that had permeated the shop's walls.

"Eleanor." Aldrich checked the window before continuing. "Your mother's name draws attention we cannot afford."

"Perhaps I'm mistaken, but—" Eleanor started, then stopped. The apology died on her tongue.

She'd heard the pattern three times now. Three impossible survivals.

That night, when Aldrich's snoring echoed from above, Eleanor lit a single candle. The ledger book felt heavy in her trembling hands. She turned pages carefully, scanning entries from twenty years back.

There. Margaret Blackwood's precise script, listing remedies and patients. Eleanor's finger traced down the names, cross-referencing against what the customers had whispered.

Every survivor had received the same childhood tincture.

Her breath came faster. The candle flame wavered. Nine years she'd buried this curiosity, nine years of deliberately fumbling formulas to avoid notice. Nine years of making herself invisible.

The mortar and pestle sat on the counter, coated in dust. Eleanor touched it once, remembering her mother's confident grinding motion. Then she turned to the cabinet behind it.

The false wall. She knew it was there—had known since Aldrich took her in. Had never dared touch it.

Her hands moved before fear could paralyze her. The panel slid with a hollow sound that seemed impossibly loud. Behind it, wrapped in oilcloth, sat three leather journals.

Margaret's journals.

Eleanor's fingers brushed the cracked leather. The smell hit her—her mother's workroom, beeswax and ink and something sharper. Rosemary. Protection.

"Nine years," she whispered.

Her shoulders, habitually hunched, began to straighten. She pulled the journals free. Set them on the counter. The pages were covered in cipher, symbols she didn't recognize, patterns that meant nothing yet.

The shop around her felt different suddenly. Not safe. Suffocating.

Truth or invisibility. Investigation or survival.

Eleanor opened the first journal. Her hands still trembled, but they no longer moved to wipe themselves clean on her apron. The dried herbs' scent mixed with something else now—not fear, but awakening.

She chose truth.