“Take one of these twice a day for three days,” the doctor paused to allow Abigail to catch up with her note-taking, “And then once a week as a-.” He paused again, groping for the right word, “Prophylactic!” He finished triumphantly. Handing Pirouette a jar full of a noxious-smelling, cloudy blue compound, he smiled with the benignity of the brilliant.
“It smells awful!” Observed Abigail. “What’s a single dose?” She inquired taking the lid from the doctor’s hand and placing it securely on the top of the jar.
In response to her query, the doctor handed Abigail a dropper. “One drop,” he said succinctly.
“Is it thin enough to extract with a dropper?”
“I assure you, my dear, that while it looks dense, this mixture is actually as frothy as air,” he assured the Queen’s Chief Lady of the Bedchamber.
“You may address her as, ‘Your ladyship,'” interjected Tata Sous-sus from a dark corner of the room.
“Er- yes, ma’am,” said Monsieur le Médicin.