L’Ultima Prima Donna

The aging soprano’s footsteps echoed off the cobbles. She rounded the corner and strode into the seedier side of the city. No streetlamps glowed here, but the moon was full. Enough of its silver light reached her to just make out the crudely drawn map. One more block.

The sign over the door had no words, only a carved viper coiled around an arm.

No, just a serpent and staff. Cecilia shivered and scolded herself. She rapped on the door.

A man opened and warm candlelight spilled into the alley. He looked half her age with a winsome face—jade eyes, soft skin, and an oiled beard that practically shone. He smiled and held the door open for her.

“You must be Dante’s friend. Come in. The streets are dangerous in the dark.”

Cecilia hesitated.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” she started timidly, but sighed and continued with the confidence of a true diva, “No, I simply expected someone… older. Dante intimated that you’d been practicing for decades.”

“Is this not why you are here?” His smile returned, a flash of white fangs.

No, just teeth.

Cecilia stepped into the little shop. Shelves lined the walls; tiny vials the shelves.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Old enough,” the apothecary replied as he busied himself snatching up small bottles, mixing their contents into his mortar, grinding with his pestle. “It must be consumed quick, or the potency drops off.” He handed the finished product to her.

“To youth,” she said, lifting the potion. She swallowed it before fear could swallow her.

“I don’t feel anything,” she said after a moment.

A wicked grin spread across his face like a wound filled with shards of bone. “You will.”