The Specimen Rejection Files — Entry 4: The Wellness Correspondence

[Several passages in this entry have been redacted at the Professor’s personal discretion. This is not open for discussion.]

The letter arrived on a Wednesday, via enchanted post, written on paper of excellent quality in a hand of considerable precision. This was the first error — I am, I confess, susceptible to good stationery. It suggests a certain seriousness of intent. It implies that the sender has considered what they are saying before committing it to the page.

I should have been more suspicious of the stationery. I am noting this for future reference.

The letter read, in part:

“Dear Professor Nightshade, Alchemist of considerable renown — I write to you as a fellow practitioner of the botanical sciences, a devotee of the restorative arts, and a humble admirer of your esteemed establishment. Enclosed please find a sample of my most celebrated preparation, the Grand Meridian Cleansing Elixir, developed over eleven years of rigorous study and refined through extensive trials. It is, I venture to suggest, the finest restorative botanical blend in current production. I submit it for your consideration with every confidence in its reception.

Yours in the pursuit of botanical excellence,
Cornelius Fitch
Practitioner of Restorative Botanical Sciences & Formulator of the Grand Meridian Range”

Eleven years. Rigorous study. Extensive trials. These are the words of a serious person.

Enclosed was a small parcel of loose leaf blend, sealed in wax paper, accompanied by a brewing card written in the same precise hand. I placed the letter on my desk with the satisfaction of someone who has received correspondence worth receiving, and set the parcel aside to test after my morning appointments.

This is where things began to go wrong, though I did not know it yet.

On the Nature of the Specimen

I brewed the Grand Meridian Cleansing Elixir at half past eleven, following Cornelius Fitch’s instructions precisely: one heaped teaspoon, boiling water, seven minutes steeping, no milk, no sweetener. “Allow the elixir to work,” the brewing card advised, “and do not resist the process.”

I did not, at this stage, read the ingredient list.

I would like to be very clear about this decision. I had read the letter. I had assessed the stationery. I had noted the eleven years of rigorous study. I was not, in that moment, a man who felt he needed to read an ingredient list. I was a man who felt he was about to test a serious preparation from a serious practitioner.

The smell was medicinal but not unpleasant — dark, slightly sweet, with a herbal quality that spoke of intent, if not necessarily wisdom. The colour was deep brown, almost black. It tasted, on the first sip, of licorice root — strong, coating, sweet in that particular way that licorice root is sweet, which is to say emphatically and without permission. Beneath it, something earthy. Something I did not immediately identify.

I drank the full cup because I am thorough. This is a professional virtue. I am choosing to continue describing it as a virtue.

I then picked up the ingredient list.

I read: chamomile, lemon balm, fennel seed, dandelion root, burdock root, licorice root, senna leaf.

I read the last item again.

Senna leaf.

I set the card down with the careful precision of someone who has just understood something and wishes, very much, that they had not.

For those unfamiliar: senna is a botanical with a long and entirely legitimate history of medicinal use. It is employed, by physicians, in carefully measured doses, for a specific and singular purpose. It is not, under any interpretation, a tea ingredient. It is not a flavour note. It is not a botanical accent. It is a directive. It is the body receiving instructions it did not ask for and has no choice but to follow, with considerable urgency and absolutely no regard for the recipient’s existing schedule.

Cornelius Fitch had put senna leaf in a tea blend. A full teaspoon of it, steeped for seven minutes. And I had drunk the entire cup.

I looked at the clock. It was twenty minutes to twelve.

Bartholomew Blathersby arrived at noon for a scheduled appointment.

On the Events of the Afternoon

I will not be providing a detailed account of the events of the afternoon.

What I will say is that Bartholomew Blathersby, who has known me for a considerable number of years and possesses a discretion I have always valued, demonstrated on this occasion that his discretion has limits. Those limits appear to coincide with events he finds sufficiently remarkable that he feels compelled to describe them, at length, to Seraphina.

Seraphina did not tell me this directly. She did not need to. Her expression when I emerged at approximately half past three told me everything I required.

She said, “Bartholomew sends his regards.”

I said nothing.

She said, “He also said to tell you that he’s rescheduled the appointment for Thursday.”

I said, “That is considerate of him.”

She said, “He seemed in very good spirits.”

I said, “I am delighted for him.”

Mortimer, to his credit, said nothing at all. He had been in the laboratory throughout. He had made, at several points, a face that suggested he was performing very detailed calculations in his head as a deliberate mental exercise. I appreciated this more than I was able to express at the time.

Ragnar had left the building at approximately five past twelve and returned at four o’clock. He looked at me when he came in with the expression of someone who has heard things and elected, wisely, not to comment. He went directly to his corner. I gave him a biscuit without being asked. We did not discuss the matter. We will not discuss the matter.

On the Subject of Cornelius Fitch

I wrote to Cornelius Fitch the following morning. My letter was measured. It was professional. It was, I believe, restrained given the circumstances. I informed him that his preparation had been tested, that the results had been noted, and that the Grand Meridian Cleansing Elixir would not be joining the Atelier’s collection.

I did not specify my reasons in detail. I did not need to. I have a strong suspicion that Cornelius Fitch is entirely aware of what senna leaf does and has sent this blend to a number of recipients with full knowledge of the outcome. I have no evidence for this. It is an instinct. My instincts, unlike those of certain raccoons in procurement roles, have a strong record.

I have kept his letter. The stationery remains excellent. I have chosen to regard this as the one thing about the entire correspondence that does not require further examination.

Formal Rejection Notation

Specimen: Grand Meridian Cleansing Elixir — licorice root, senna leaf, and associated botanicals
Submitted by: Cornelius Fitch, Practitioner of Restorative Botanical Sciences
Date of receipt: Wednesday
Date of testing: Wednesday, half past eleven
Disposition: Remaining sample disposed of immediately and without ceremony. Wax paper packaging also disposed of. The brewing card has been burned. This was not a scientific decision.
Mortimer’s assessment: [REDACTED AT THE PROFESSOR’S REQUEST]
Seraphina’s assessment: [REDACTED AT THE PROFESSOR’S REQUEST]
Bartholomew Blathersby’s involvement: [REDACTED AT THE PROFESSOR’S REQUEST]
Ragnar’s quality control verdict: Absent from premises for the duration of relevant events. Returned at four o’clock. Accepted a biscuit. Asked no questions. Verdict: REJECTED (filed in absentia, confirmed retroactively upon his return)
Notes on the supplier: Cornelius Fitch is not welcome to submit further preparations. His stationery is not welcome either, as I can no longer look at it without experiencing a complex emotional response.
Status of case: Closed. Permanently. We do not speak of this.

— Professor Eldrin Nightshade, Alchemist Extraordinaire & Survivor of the Grand Meridian Cleansing Elixir
The Seventh Atelier

P.S. — The eleven years of rigorous study apparently went into the stationery.

P.P.S. — Seraphina has suggested, twice, that this entry not be filed in the official record. I have overruled her both times. Scholarly integrity demands documentation. It does not, however, demand detail. The redactions stand.

P.P.P.S. — Bartholomew Blathersby brought biscuits on Thursday. Good ones. I have chosen to interpret this as an apology. We have not discussed it. We will not discuss it. The matter is closed.