![]() ![]() The gunpowder in the lower part pops the top into the air. Invented by Christopher Rowe, Apothecary’s Apprentice ![]() “It’s like a firework,” I said, which in retrospect was probably not the best way to start. “But-look.” I put my Smoke-Your-Home back down-gently-and showed him my design, sketched on an unrolled sheet of vellum. “My inventions do exactly what they’re supposed to.” “Blackthorn’s Smoke-Your-Home! Guaranteed to. Because this was the creation that would save my shop. Even the giant onion-shaped oven in the corner was still. ![]() Only the faint scent of ingredients and concoctions lingered in the room. All of the other equipment in the apothecary workshop-the ceramic jars, the molded glassware, the spoons and cups and pots and cauldrons-lay crammed on the side benches, cold and quiet. Odd or not, this device was the most important thing I’d ever made. I couldn’t help feeling slightly wounded. ![]() “With a tail.” He edged away from the workbench. A wick of cannon fuse trailed from its end. The upper part of the device balanced on three wooden prongs sticking out of the bottom. It was five inches tall, with a bulging top balanced over a narrow upright cylinder, wrapped tightly in folded paper. “You don’t even know what it does yet,” I said. He stared sidelong at the device at the end of the workbench, as though, if he looked at it directly, it might poke out his eyes. ![]()
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