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Informationen zum Autor USA Today bestselling author Elizabeth Everett lives in upstate New York with her family. She likes going for long walks or (very) short runs to nearby sites that figure prominently in the history of civil rights and women's suffrage. Her writing is inspired by her admiration for rule breakers and her belief in the power of love to change the world. Klappentext Includes an excerpt from The lady sparks a flame. Leseprobe 1 London, 1843 "'Ow much for pulling a toof?" Any other day, Lucinda Peterson's answer would have been however much the man standing before her could afford. Since its founding, Peterson's Apothecary held a reputation for charging fair prices for real cures. If a customer had no money, Lucy and her siblings would often accept goods or services in trade. Today, however, was not any other day. Today was officially the worst day of Lucy's life. Yes, there had been other worst days, but that was before today. Today was absolutely the worst. "Half shilling," Lucy said, steel in her voice as she crossed her arms, exuding determination. She would hold strong, today. She would think of the money the shop desperately needed and the bills piling up and the fact that she truly, really, absolutely needed new undergarments. "'Alf shilling?" the man wailed. "'Ow'm I supposed to buy food for me we'uns?" With a dramatic sigh, he slumped against the large wooden counter that ran the length of the apothecary. The counter, a mammoth construction made of imported walnut, was the dividing line between Lucy's two worlds. Until she was seven, Lucy existed with everyone else on the public side. Over there, the shop was crowded with customers who spoke in myriad accents and dialects as they waited in line for a consultation held in hushed voices at the end of the counter. Not all patients were concerned with privacy, however, and lively discussions went on between folks in line on the severity of their symptoms, the veracity of the diagnosis, and the general merits of cures suggested. Laughter, tears, and the occasional spontaneous bout of poetry happened on the public side of the counter. Seven-year-old Lucy would sweep the floor and dust the shelves as the voices flowed over and around her, waiting for the day when she could cross the dividing line and begin her apprenticeship on the other side. All four walls of the apothecary were lined with the tools of her trade. Some shelves held rows of glass jars containing medicinal roots such as ginger and turmeric. Other shelves held tin canisters full of ground powders, tiny tin scoops tied to the handles with coarse black yarn. A series of drawers covered the back half of the shop, each of them labeled in a painstaking round running hand by Lucy's grandfather. There hadn't been any dried crocodile dung in stock for eighty years or so, but the label remained, a source of amusement and conjecture for those waiting in line. The shop had stood since the beginning of the last century, and even on this, her absolute worst day, Lucy gave in. She wasn't going to be the Peterson that broke tradition and turned a patient away. Even though today was Lucy's worst day ever, that didn't mean it should be terrible for everyone. "For anyone else a tooth is thruppence," Lucy said as she pulled on her brown linen treatment coat. "So I'm not accused of taking food from the mouths of your we'uns." She paused to pull a jar of eucalyptus oil out from a drawer and set it on the counter. "I suppose I can charge you tuppence and throw in a boiled sweet for each of them." Satisfied with the bargain, the man climbed into her treatment chair in the back room, holding on to the padded armrests and squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation. Lucy spilled a few drops of the oil on a handkerchief and tied it over her nose. While th...
