The Forgotten Locket by Lisa Mangum Page A

several times to clear my vision.
     
    The air tasted of something bitter and metallic, and also something sweet. Almonds, maybe. Whatever it was, the combination set me at ease. I got to my feet and, once I found my balance, I explored the shop in a little more detail.
     
    It was smaller than I had first thought. A fire crackled in a hearth tucked away in one corner. Rows and rows of glass bottles were displayed on smooth wooden shelves lining the walls. The bottles were different colors and sizes; some had liquid in them, others contained what appeared to be small rocks or crystals. A few even appeared empty except for the smoky smudges on the inside of the glass. Each bottle was neatly labeled and organized.
     
    I caught my breath as a memory stirred. A comfortable place. A row of glass bottles. A gleaming counter spanning the length of one wall.
     
    Looking up, I saw Orlando behind a counter, grinding something with a mortar and pestle. A large cup rested off to the side, surrounded by an assortment of bottles and boxes, some half open. He hummed a light tune, but when he saw me, he dropped the pestle in the bowl, and his song turned into words.
     
    “What are you doing up? Are you all right?” He came out from behind the counter, concern wrinkling his face.
     
    “I’m fine,” I said, holding out a hand to forestall his hovering.
     
    He glanced past me toward the windows, then hurried across the room. He peeked out one window and then quickly closed the shutters.
     
    “What happened? Did I faint?” I asked.
     
    “Collapsed is more like it.” Orlando frowned and returned to his work at the counter. “One moment you were standing beside me, and the next . . . you were gone. All of you. You vanished.” His voice trembled, shadowed with amazement and a little fear. “But just for a moment. Then you came back. You were unconscious, so I picked you up and carried you here.” He drew his eyebrows together. “Are you sure you are all right?”
     
    “I’m fine,” I said again, but with less conviction than before. I hurried on, before he could call my bluff. “Is this where you live?”
     
    Orlando hesitated, then shook his head. “Not anymore. Not for a long time. This is my father’s shop. I’m hoping that if the guards are still looking for us, they will have already checked here. We should be safe here. For now.”
     
    I glanced at the closed shutters and nodded. “Won’t your father mind us being here?”
     
    “Father always spends this time of year traveling to the other villages and towns to sell his wares and to gather supplies and ingredients. He shouldn’t be back for a couple of days.”
     
    “Ingredients?” I asked. “Is he a cook?”
     
    He smiled and another flash of memory burned. But strangely, it wasn’t a memory of Orlando, but of someone else with the same smile, someone whose eyes made me think of shadows and storms. Not a raging winter storm filled with ice and razor-sharp wind, but a summer storm filled with blown clouds skidding across a blue sky.
     
    “No, my father runs this apothecary. He sells medicines, poultices, and custom blends for all kinds of illnesses, aches, and ailments. You were in pain; I thought if there was anything that could help, it would be here.” Though he waved in the general direction of the counter where he had been concocting some unknown potion, his blue eyes remained fixed on me, their expression hard as steel. “But clearly you’re suffering from something far more serious than headaches and exhaustion.”
     
    “I . . . I had a bad dream.”
     
    Orlando looked at me in disbelief over the bridge of his nose. “My brother used to have bad dreams. This is something different. Something more. You disappeared. What happened?”
     
    I blew out my breath, trying to organize my thoughts. “I don’t think I have a simple answer.”
     
    “Then be complicated.”
     
    I picked at the seam of the cloak I wore. I didn’t even know