Weave of Silver [ONC III | Fantasy/HistFic | Complete]

Chapter 2: Trespass into Silver

Fullerton's demented screams echoed in Meera's mind the following day. She moved like clockwork, chirping the usual welcome when customers edged into the shop; polishing the display bottles; dusting the floorboards; and ensuring everything was in perfect order before Mackleberry's return the next day. The same images and words flashed before her. A younger Fullerton, manic, distraught, slashing at Mackleberry with a knife. Mackleberry's own strained voice and panicked attempts to talk him down. The stabiliser only allowed a preview of the memory contents without affecting its structure. But if Meera transferred it to herself, Mackleberry would certainly notice a missing, forbidden bottle.

So, she poured the memory back into the container and returned it to its rightful place -- and tried to put her own memory of it to the back of her mind. But her curiosity kept poking the sleeping bear. Mackleberry would never answer any of her questions; that was their agreement. The answers could lay in the rest of the red bottles in the back room.

It was only just past midday. The sun sat high in the sky. The gentleman customer, having newly been fitted with the memory of a Jonathan Swift enthusiast, left with hopes to impress the family of his beau with newfound literary knowledge.

Several more hours until the shop closes. Tomorrow, Aurelius Mackleberry would be back.

Meera spun the store sign to 'CLOSED' and locked the door. With purposeful strides, she made her way to the back, tugging the footstool along.

Five remaining untouched red bottles, all of them different shapes, and two of them labelled with faded ink, indecipherable. The others had no labels. One of them caught her eye: it was unlabelled and exquisitely-designed with a wide body and a pointed lid. The crimson glass had speckled innards and almost hummed in her hands. She set that aside for last.

The first memory preview took her, in Mackleberry's eyes, to a sunlit chamber. Sunlight streamed through large windows. A collection of pestles and mortars lay in a perfect twelve by twelve layout, their contents ground to fine powder. Meera didn't recognise the ingredients. They weren't the Anastrazel she was accustomed to using.

A mixing pot sat directly in front of Mackleberry, containing a pale pink, oily substance, atop which was a cream-coloured clear liquid -- a memory. But the medium and memory stayed separate, immiscible, and the memory began to crystallise before his eyes. An empty bottle was on Mackleberry's right.

"Oh, burn and blast it!" Mackleberry's words erupted with a fire Meera had never heard. His fist slammed onto the table, making all the contents jump. A violent urge to flip the table over and smash everything tempted him for a fleeting second.

"I've never heard you curse except when doing this," said a laughing voice. Meera's breath hitched. Fullerton came into view from the left, younger than the previous memory, perhaps in his forties. His white linen shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. His black waistcoat peeked over the edge of his apron, which was covered in multicoloured stains from weeks of continuous use. His face was fuller and amused as he adjusted each of the displaced pestles, mortars, and bottles. Behind him and beyond the windows, the fields stretched as far as the eyes could see, peppered with grazing cows. "Relax. Every failed experiment is a stepping stone. We will find a stable medium one day."

"You say that, but we spent weeks getting this. I am not going up the goddamn waterfall again."

"Only because you are so terrible at climbing! I have seen a lady with better strength. Let us continue, my friend." Fullerton's chuckle made Mackleberry's clenched fists relax. He sighed and picked up the failed mixing pot. "If we cannot just use the unrefined powder, how about you start on the different solvents and I start dehydrating it."