Warrior Gentlemen

The Cold II

The nearest druggist was a fifteen-minute walk from their shophouse. Giles Murphy, the pharmacy's sole assistant, was stocking lavender salts onto an upper shelf when an oriental ghost floated in. Long white robes with swinging sleeves drifted in from the heavy oak door, accompanied by the sharp jingle of the door chime. Unkempt black hair tumbled to a willow waist and framed a pale face colored by ink black eyes. The shoes of this apparation were made of soft black cloth and moved soundlessly as the wearer walked.

In the feeble light of dying oil lamps mounted on the wall, tall mahogany shelves acquired a lacquerish hue. Reaching almost to the ceiling, each shelf was lined with glass bottles of a hundred shapes and sizes. Glistening in the dark, these containers were labelled with legibly cursive script, their contents ranging from benign herbal tinctures to one-night opium cures. The air had been perfumed with a vase of white roses, the owner's favorite, and the floor was thoroughly swept. All that was left was a box of lavender salts to be shelved on a upper shelf facing the door. The cardboard box hung on the assistant's neck by two cloth-bound cords and were almost fully unloaded. Quietly celebrating the end of a long day, this lad took one look at a white-clad ghost and nearly fell from his step-ladder.

"Careful!"

The oriental ghost spoke English. Flapping white sleeves in alarm, it asked if 'Sir' was alright. It, not he or she, for even a seeing man could not discern its sex.

"I'm quite alright..."

Now, it was the ghost's turn to be shocked. Climbing down from the step ladder, Giles revealed his strange form under the mystic glow of candle and medicinal bottle light. Twenty years of age, he was a lad five feet tall in a tawny jacket topped with a pink silk scarf. His reddish-brown mane fell to his shoulders in romantic waves, as a white ribbon gathered it into a short bushy tail. Two waves of red washed over his eyes, oceans of blue and green with dazzling specks of gold. It was this eccentric blend of red, blue, green, and gold, combined with an incongruent dusky complexion which made the white-clad ghost take a step back. 

"What do you need?"

The ghost, composing himself, told the strange boy that his friend was ill and needed cough syrup. Waltzing over to the shop counter, Giles removed his box of lavender salts and picked out a green bottle sure to stop coughs. The bottle was packed into a brown paper bag, crisp and neatly folded.

"Here. That'll be five shillings."

A translucent glass on the counter had been filled with white roses, fresh blooms exuding a soothing scent. Like a woman waiting for her lover, they reposed in voluptuous calm. A brass weighing scale sat atop a pile of medical manuals and pamphlets, each more intimidating than the last. More scientific texts sat on the wall shelves behind, arranged in no particular order. These likely belonged to the owner, a chemist by the name of 'Sebastian Scott' whose framed university degree was displayed on the topmost shelf. The shop name 'Scott & Sons' alluded to a family business. 

Adam called this place the 'Fairy Shop' and gave his friend precise directions for walking. The fairies who live there, he said, are not dangerous. Only sick with an incurable disease. For a fair price, the big one dispenses medicines to treat those with curable diseases. The small one is his assistant. Reaching into his left sleeve, Kyung retrieved an envelope to pay the pretty sprite before him. 

"You hide things in your sleeve?"

The oriental nodded and showed off his voluminous sleeve pockets. Giles widened his blue-green eyes and thought of how handy it'd be if their shirtsleeves were big enough for storage. Since it was the end of the day and he was bored, it didn't hurt to prod.