The Lost Apothecary by Sarah Penner
About the Book
In this addictive and spectacularly imagined debut, a female apothecary secretly dispenses poisons to liberate women from the men who have wronged them—setting three lives across centuries on a dangerous collision course. Pitched as Kate Morton meets The Miniaturist, The Lost Apothecary is a bold work of historical fiction with a rebellious twist that heralds the coming of an explosive new talent.
A forgotten history. A secret network of women. A legacy of poison and revenge. Welcome to The Lost Apothecary…
Hidden in the depths of eighteenth-century London, a secret apothecary shop caters to an unusual kind of clientele. Women across the city whisper of a mysterious figure named Nella who sells well-disguised poisons to use against the oppressive men in their lives. But the apothecary’s fate is jeopardized when her newest patron, a precocious twelve-year-old, makes a fatal mistake, sparking a string of consequences that echo through the centuries.
Meanwhile in present-day London, aspiring historian Caroline Parcewell spends her tenth wedding anniversary alone, running from her own demons. When she stumbles upon a clue to the unsolved apothecary murders that haunted London two hundred years ago, her life collides with the apothecary’s in a stunning twist of fate—and not everyone will survive.
With crackling suspense, unforgettable characters and searing insight, The Lost Apothecary is a subversive and intoxicating debut novel of secrets, vengeance and the remarkable ways women can save each other despite the barrier of time.
Sarah Penner is the debut author of The Lost Apothecary, to be translated in
eleven languages worldwide. She works full-time in finance and is a member of
the Historical Novel Society and the Women's Fiction Writers Association. She
and her husband live in St. Petersburg, Florida, with their miniature
dachshund, Zoe. To learn more, visit slpenner.com.
Author website: https://www.sarahpenner.com/
Facebook: @SarahPennerAuthor
Instagram: @sarah_penner_author
Twitter: @sl_penner
My Thoughts
The Lost Apothecary by Sarah Penner is a dual-timeline novel told from the point-of-view of three women. I found this to be an engaging historical
novel. I was transported back to London
in 1791 where Nella has a small hidden apothecary shop. Nella catered to women who needed a certain
man in their life removed. She only
catered to women who wished to harm men.
Eliza Fanning arrives one day on behalf of her mistress who needs help
taking care of her husband. Eliza is
fascinated by Nella’s workshop and asks dozens of questions. A friendship of sorts develops between the
pair. Caroline Parcewell is in London on
what was supposed to be her tenth anniversary trip. The night before departure, Caroline
discovered her husband has been cheating on her. She takes the trip to give herself time to
think away from home and her husband. Caroline
goes mudlarking on her first day and discovers an old blue apothecary bottle in
the Thames. Caroline sets out to find
out more information on the bottle and where it came from. It was fascinating learning more about an
apothecary shop and what it contained. A
small amount of an item can be helpful, while a large amount can be deadly. I admit that I enjoyed the historical time-period
more than the modern storyline. Personally,
the book could have excluded Caroline’s story and been even better (less
repetition too). However, I did like how
the three storylines tied together. The
Lost Apothecary is a well-written, developed story with great characters and a
fabulous, dark atmosphere. It has a
spooky quality that I loved. The Lost Apothecary is a dark, mysterious tale that captured my attention and
imagination. Sarah Penner created an
intriguing debut novel and I look forward to reading Sarah Penner’s next creation.
Excerpt
Nella
February 3, 1791
She would come at daybreak—the woman whose letter I held in
my hands, the woman whose name I did not yet know.
I knew neither her age nor where
she lived. I did not know her rank in society nor the dark things of which she dreamed
when night fell. She could be a victim or a transgressor. A new wife or a
vengeful widow. A nursemaid or a courtesan.
But despite all that I did not
know, I understood this: the woman knew exactly who she wanted dead.
I lifted the blush-colored paper,
illuminated by the dying f lame of a single rush wick candle. I ran my fingers
over the ink of her words, imagining what despair brought the woman to seek out
someone like me. Not just an apothecary, but a murderer. A master of disguise.
Her request was simple and
straightforward. For my mistress’s husband, with his breakfast. Daybreak, 4
Feb. At once, I drew to mind a middle-aged housemaid, called to do the
bidding of her mistress. And with an instinct perfected over the last two
decades, I knew immediately the remedy most suited to this request: a chicken
egg laced with nux vomica.
The preparation would take mere
minutes; the poison was within reach. But for a reason yet unknown to me,
something about the letter left me unsettled. It was not the subtle, woodsy
odor of the parchment or the way the lower left corner curled forward slightly,
as though once damp with tears. Instead, the disquiet brewed inside of me.
An intuitive understanding that something must be avoided.
But what unwritten warning could reside
on a single sheet of parchment, shrouded beneath pen strokes? None at all, I
assured myself; this letter was no omen. My troubling thoughts were merely the
result of my fatigue—the hour was late—and the persistent discomfort in my
joints.
I drew my attention to my calfskin
register on the table in front of me. My precious register was a record of life
and death; an inventory of the many women who sought potions from here, the
darkest of apothecary shops.
In the front pages of my register,
the ink was soft, written with a lighter hand, void of grief and resistance.
These faded, worn entries belonged to my mother. This apothecary shop for
women’s maladies, situated at 3 Back Alley, was hers long before it was mine.
On occasion I read her entries—23
Mar 1767, Mrs. R. Ranford, Yarrow Milfoil 15 dr. 3x—and the words evoked
memories of her: the way her hair fell against the back of her neck as she
ground the yarrow stem with the pestle, or the taut, papery skin of her hand as
she plucked seeds from the flower’s head. But my mother had not disguised her
shop behind a false wall, and she had not slipped her remedies into vessels of
dark red wine. She’d had no need to hide. The tinctures she dispensed were
meant only for good: soothing the raw, tender parts of a new mother, or
bringing menses upon a barren wife. Thus, she filled her register pages with
the most benign of herbal remedies. They would raise no suspicion.
On my register pages, I wrote
things such as nettle and hyssop and amaranth, yes, but also remedies more
sinister: nightshade and hellebore and arsenic. Beneath the ink strokes of my
register hid betrayal, anguish…and dark secrets.
Secrets about the vigorous young
man who suffered an ailing heart on the eve of his wedding, or how it came to
pass that a healthy new father fell victim to a sudden fever. My register laid
it all bare: these were not weak hearts and fevers at all, but thorn apple
juice and nightshade slipped into wines and pies by cunning women whose names
now stained my register.
Oh, but if only the register told
my own secret, the truth about how this all began. For I had documented every
victim in these pages, all but one: Frederick. The sharp, black lines of
his name defaced only my sullen heart, my scarred womb.
I gently closed the register, for I
had no use of it tonight, and returned my attention to the letter. What worried
me so? The edge of the parchment continued to catch my eye, as though something
crawled beneath it. And the longer I remained at my table, the more my belly
ached and my fingers trembled. In the distance, beyond the walls of the shop,
the bells on a carriage sounded frighteningly similar to the chains on a
constable’s belt. But I assured myself that the bailiffs would not come
tonight, just as they had not come for the last two decades. My shop, like my
poisons, was too cleverly disguised. No man would find this place; it was
buried deep behind a cupboard wall at the base of a twisted alleyway in the
darkest depths of London.
I drew my eyes to the soot-stained
wall that I had not the heart, nor the strength, to scrub clean. An empty
bottle on a shelf caught my reflection. My eyes, once bright green like my
mother’s, now held little life within them. My cheeks, too, once flushed with
vitality, were sallow and sunken. I had the appearance of a ghost, much older
than my forty-one years of age.
Tenderly, I began to rub the round
bone in my left wrist, swollen with heat like a stone left in the fire and
forgotten. The discomfort in my joints had crawled through my body for years;
it had grown so severe, I lived not a waking hour without pain. Every poison I
dispensed brought a new wave of it upon me; some evenings, my fingers were so
distended and stiff, I felt sure the skin would split open and expose what lay
underneath.
Killing and secret-keeping had done
this to me. It had begun to rot me from the inside out, and something inside
meant to tear me open.
At once, the air grew stagnant, and
smoke began to curl into the low stone ceiling of my hidden room. The candle
was nearly spent, and soon the laudanum drops would wrap me in their heavy
warmth. Night had long ago fallen, and she would arrive in just a few hours:
the woman whose name I would add to my register and whose mystery I would begin
to unravel, no matter the unease it brewed inside of me.
The Lost Apothecary is available from Amazon*, Bookshop.org, IndieBound, Barnes & Noble, Audible, Apple Books, Kobo, Google Play, Books-a-Million, Target, and Libro.fm. Thank you for stopping by today. I hope I have helped you to find a new book and author. Tomorrow I am featuring Who's That Witch? by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson. It is the 3rd book in The Holiday Hills Witch Cozy Mystery series. I hope that you have an enchanting day. Take care, be kind, and Happy Reading!
Kris
The Avid Reader
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