Wasteland Treasure (The Deviant Future #2) - Eve Langlais Page 0,1
time you did your job. It would seem you need lessons on promptness.”
If they insult, do not respond. Do your job. Serve the client.
“Can I help you, Citizen Jezebelle?” Sofia used her most polite tone, the one that required her grinding her teeth lest she scream something else. She knew some choice words, since she’d moved from apprentice to assistant. It meant she got to leave the shop more often and that she was allowed to handle the shop on her own. It was as if Jezebelle knew when the master left on business and visited on purpose.
The woman always arrived determined to taunt, firing Sofia’s temper. A temper she never realized she owned until recently.
The master had been gone for more than a week, felled by an illness, with no one available to take his place. A week during which Sofia had no one to tell her what to do. Or what to eat. Was it any wonder she skipped that disgusting shake he fed her each morning that he claimed was full of vitamins? Perhaps she should have been more diligent about drinking it, because she felt quite out of sorts.
She couldn’t have said why her emotions toward people like Jezebelle had turned fierce of late. She felt quite rebellious. Inside at least. On the outside, she pretended servitude and mouthed platitudes.
“Do I look like a person who requires anything from you?”
Knowing how this game was played, Sofia kept her pasted smile as she murmured, “Of course not, citizen. You are perfection yourself. None of my wares are obviously worthy or needed.”
It was the same stupid game each time. Jezebelle pretended she wasn’t going to get anything, but she knew the Red Rosy was the place to go when it came to certain remedies. Especially the one to keep skin supple and young.
“I dislike giving business to one so obviously ill-bred, but at the same time, one should encourage the local merchants,” she said with a resigned sigh.
The urge to roll her eyes resulted in Sofia fisting her hands so hard that her nails left marks on her palms. “Perhaps as a gift, a soothing lotion, not that your skin requires aid. But one can never be too careful about the toxins in the air.”
“If you insist on atoning for your rudeness, then I shall accept.” The haughty air deserved a slap.
Instead, Sofia offered a bob of her head and a short curtsy. “Of course, citizen. I will prepare it immediately.”
Sofia turned to the display of jars lining the wall. As recently promoted assistant apothecary, she prepared fresh salves and powders for the rich of the city who could afford to shop. They happened to be the most annoying people to deal with. They wanted things done now, because they demanded it, and then tried to find reasons to avoid payment.
When she asked the master why he didn’t refuse some of them service, he’d shrugged, his white beard quivering as he said, “You don’t say no to an Enclave family.”
Meaning they had to accept that behavior. Those that protested and claimed all citizens should have equal rights? They paid a visit to the arena.
It proved simple to mix together the ingredients for the facial cream; after all she’d been doing this from a young age. She’d been apprenticed right out of the Creche but was now the only one left. The others the master trained were deemed lacking in talent and sent to the factories to help mass produce toiletries for the lower-ranked citizens.
Sofia knew better than to celebrate. She was still considered a step below her master, which meant she had to keep working hard.
“Why is this taking so long?” snapped Jezebelle, drumming her fingers unevenly, trying to disrupt Sofia’s train of thought.
She knew how to tune the woman out and kept kneading. Once the mixture appeared smooth, she dug her fingers in it and whispered her intent into it.
Which sounded dumb. And yet, the master apothecary who taught her could always tell if she skipped the murmured command. She got a rap on her knuckles if she lied.
She closed her eyes and whispered, “Moisturize.” That was it, along with strong thoughts of what that word meant. The intent.
Her hands heated as the ingredients reacted to each other, the spurt of warmth over as quickly as it began. She scooped the cream into a jar then turned to hand it over.
Citizen Jezebelle had her lips pulled down. “You did not make that correctly.”