Something cold splashed up my arm, soaked my shirt, and pooled across the tile.
The smell hit a second later.
And it wasn’t rosewater…not even close.
It was chemical and sickly sweet all at once, a smell that burned the inside of my nose, like antiseptic layered over metal and decay, as if something meant to stay dead had been scrubbed clean and preserved anyway.
My stomach lurched, and I gagged. “What the hell is that?”
Morton looked up from behind the counter, took one look at the spreading puddle, and went white.
“Oh dear,” he said faintly.
I pushed myself upright, grimacing at the fact that my hands were soaked in…whatever that was. “I spilled a few things. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see the water, and then everything just—”
Morton was already rushing toward me, skidding to a stop
