The Apothecary Diaries Chapter 1 Novels & Stories

"The master ledger should be in the drawer." While he went to the desk, I approached the locked wooden cabinet on the wall. The door was made of dark, heavy plum wood, carved with the seal of the imperial apothecary. I used the brass keys to open it. Inside, the shelves were lined with small, blue-and-white porcelain jars. I began reading the labels. Red nightshade. Black locust. Death-cap extract. Then, my hand stopped on a small, unpainted grey clay jar. The label on it read: Gray Wolfsbane.

UNKNOWN POV DEAR DIARY, She grows beautiful each and every passing day. It was just yesterday she was a child, and now she has tits and curves in all the right places. I stare at her through this broken mirror, I see her every step, her every move… I feel pain when she’s happy, and I relish in the joy her sadness brings me. She is mine, Diary. Mineee! Oh, it won’t be long now…

The clock on the wall ticked softly, but Chloe barely heard it. The new house felt strangely alive around her, boxes stacked, curtains half-drawn, air thick with silence. Yet in her hands, the diary pulsed with voices that weren’t hers, carrying her from one life to another. She turned the page. The handwriting curved across the top in bold strokes: “Episode 3 – The Office After Hours.” Chloe’s pulse quickened. She leaned closer and began to read.

Ouch. “Oopsy, sorry!” Rhode apologizes from above, his voice echoing throughout the long hallway. I pick up the book and dust off its surface. It is a book about potions. Diego would probably find this one fascinating. I tuck the book under my arm and make a mental note to pass it to Diego. He has been avoiding me like a plague ever since I came back from Crimsonhill. I recall trying to pay him a visit at the Blue House yesterday only for him to turn me away, citing some work about a potion for stealing someone’s heart. “Beta Laurel?”

The room was dim until Cain moved past her to light a lamp on the heavy central worktable, and the light spread outward to catch on shelved jars, leather book spines, copper instruments gone green with age. A healer's workshop. She'd never seen one — she'd been too young when the Ashford home burned, and whatever her mother had kept had burned with it. But she'd read about them in the books she'd stolen during her years at Blood Moon. She'd memorised the descriptions: the worktable, the drying racks, the journals, the apothecary organisation of a hundred small jars. This was that. This was exactly that. "How long has this been here?" she heard herself ask.

“I don’t happen to have a safe, Tony.” I blinked as he turned and handed the pages to me. “Here. Take a look for yourself.” He didn’t make a grab for the potion as I took the pages. My gut turning. I wanted to be skeptical, but the pages looked… official. The first was a registration page very much like a college’s. I didn’t recognize the codes or the class titled, but the information all made sense. The page beneath it was a prescription page. I frowned. “Yellow Ridge Hospital.” I looked at him. “How… long have you been going there?”

- Final Solution* Beatrice Caldwell? Quickly, I pull out the folder. The folder is thin and contains only a few documents. I open it. And the first words I see on the first document instantly drags me down memory lane. *Nightshade acquisition, 50 packets. Supplier: Morgan’s Apothecary* Apothecary? Nightshade? Nightshade was Beatrice’s favourite tea brand, but to have it gotten from an Apothecary? What the hell is going on? Hurriedly, I bring out my phone and begin taking pictures. Now is not the time to ask questions. I take photos of all the documents before closing the folder and putting it back into place with the others inside the cabinet.

David's snoring in the bed beside me, oblivious to what had happened. His arm slung over the pillow where my head should be. But I'm here, in the dim glow of my phone screen, scribbling this out in my diary, because if I don't, it'll eat me alive. Today wasn't just a slip; it was a dive, headfirst into something I've been circling for months. Or years, if I'm honest. ***** At Zephyra Art Gallery, I didn't just let it happen. I started it. Me. Poppy. The good wife, the one who packs David's lunch with snacks, fruit and love notes. What the hell is wrong with me?

Damon The air in the apothecary vaults always smelled faintly of steel and scorched earth—like too many failed potions had been burned away and never quite forgotten. The torches here were magical, flickering with cold blue fire that cast long shadows across the shelves stacked with sealed vials, ancient herbs, and dust-covered records bound in dragon-hide. It was quiet. That was part of the appeal. No whispers. No rumors. Just science and magic and the possibility of truth.

He spoke with quiet conviction, then turned to take his leave, but not before casting a fleeting glance at Ragaleon. The Apothecarium smelled sharply of herbs and smoke, a pungent, earthy scent that clung to every corner. Shelves lined the walls, sagging slightly under the weight of glass bottles and jars, each filled with liquids of every imaginable hue—murky greys, deep ambers, and translucent greens that seemed to glow faintly in the candlelight. In the center of the room, a large cauldron simmered over a bed of smoldering charcoal, bubbles rising and bursting in the thick, dark herbal mixture. Wisps of steam curled upward, carrying the bitter aroma of roots, dried leaves, and crushed bar