Curators of Bitter Remedies

The child did not flinch when the leather shifted, letting out a dry, papery creak like old parchment folding in the dark. Rows of glass jars... thousands of them, filled with things that drifted and blinked in amber oils, stretched up into the arched gloom of the cellar.

"You are smaller than the last one," a voice rasped from deep within the beak, smelling of dried lavender, camphor, and ancient dust.

"I eat less," she replied, her small fingers clutching the hem of her shift.

The plague mask tilted downward, studying her with blind, polished eye-sockets. "An excellent trait in a successor."

From somewhere deep within the labyrinth of shelves, a jar began to hum, its contents pressing frantically against the glass like a trapped moth. The doctor did not turn, keeping its hollow gaze fixed on the small, pale face before it.

"The city above is sick again," the apothecary muttered, lifting a heavy iron key from the ring at its waist. "And a proper cure requires clean hands. Come, child. Let us see if you have the stomach for the anatomy of sorrow."