The parson swallowed his pride and went to beg the Apothecary’s forgiveness.
“Won’t you help my daughters?” the parson asked, down on his knees at the Apothecary’s front door.
“If not for me, then for my two innocent girls.”
“Why should I?” the Apothecary asked. “You have driven away my business with your preachings.
You have refused me the yew tree, my best source of healing. You have turned this village against me.”
“You may have the yew tree,” the parson said. “I will preach sermons in your favour.
I will send my parishioners to you for their every ailment.
You may have anything you like, if you would only save my daughters.”
The Apothecary was surprised. “You would give up everything you believed in?”
“If it would save my daughters,” the parson said. “I’d give up everything.”
“Then,” the Apothecary said, shutting his door on the parson, “there is nothing I can do to help you.”
(“What?” Conor said.)
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