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My first tutor was a dragon with a terrible sense of humor.
Oh, Fen was a perfectly respectable teacher, but dragons aren’t generally built to be comedians. His favorite jokes were incredibly long-winded, with disappointing punchlines that didn’t have the slightest nugget of sense to them.
I always laughed. There’s no telling what Fen would have done if I didn’t.
Jokes aside, Fen taught me all the basics of potion-making. The poor dragon was lonely after his dragonets had grown up, and it just so happened that I was in need of a tutor. Obviously, my coven didn’t approve of me learning from a dragon, of all creatures, but he taught me well. Before I met him, I was the worst at potion-making in the entire village. Soon after, I was flying through the ranks with my herb-mixing skills. I learnt from him for years, until I turned fifteen and left home to live in the human city of Daenar. I miss him dearly.
My second tutor was the old witch who lived next door to me when I first moved to Daenar. She just so happened to be an expert in herbs. Gretchen was a lovely woman, but couldn’t bake a thing to save her life. You’d expect a witch to be a good baker, like me, but alas, Gretchen had no such talent.
She was incredibly adept at hiding her gift, and had accumulated quite a bit of money because of her magic. I never asked her about her personal life or her family. I wish I had.
She taught me all she knew, and then she died. She left me her medicine and herb shop, which is where I live now. I sold my old cottage the moment I could, and moved in as quickly as possible.
Fen and Gretchen. I think of them now as I stir a mix of herbs in my huge pot. It’s early, and I haven’t opened shop yet. What I wouldn’t give to go and visit Fen, or have just a few minutes more with Gretchen. But the last time I visited home, Fen had left his den. Perhaps he had gone on some adventure to a faraway land. That’s what I like to think, anyway.
I’ve poured my heart into this little shop. It’s old-fashioned and smells faintly of cats, but Gretchen decorated it and I think it looks lovely. It might seem cluttered to an outsider, but to me, it’s perfectly organized. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling, and a large desk is pushed up in the corner. It’s small, but it’s home.
Light streams in the front window as I fling open the curtains. I open the door wide, and whisper a short incantation. A smell of cinnamon and vanilla wafts through the air. It’s sort of cheating, but I need all the help I can get to lure in customers. Business hasn’t been so good lately, but I’m determined to keep this beautiful place open as long as possible.
I stand in the doorway for a minute, taking in the familiar sights and sounds of the market. It’s starting to fill up with people, and the clamor only gets louder as the morning wears on. The two rival dressmaking shops scream at each other, horses pulling carts and wagons clatter on the cobbles, all the ragtag merchants shout over the din.
“Finest dresses in town!”
“Actual finest dresses in town!”
“Fresh fruit! Freshest fruit in town!”
“Don’t listen to her! Our dresses are regularly bought by the court ladies!”
“Need a needle? We’re the shop for you!”
“Candles! Candles! Candles! Buy yer high, high quality candles here for the low, low price of-”
But I never get to hear how low the price of Old Man McFeller’s candles are, because the bell hanging by the door rings.
I jump up, smiling a genuine smile. Contrary to popular belief, the witch who runs the potion shop does enjoy company. And the shop needs all the help it can get.
The customer looks moderately well-dressed, with a shock of golden blonde hair. He swaggers up to me, and I immediately tense, the grin sliding off my face. He looks cocky and arrogant, and I warily nod to him. He leans against the wall in front of me in an annoyingly casual way, and grins. His teeth are incredibly white. What is a man like him doing here? I wonder briefly. This sector of town isn’t the shabbiest, but it isn’t the nicest by far.
"I hear that you make a good cough syrup," he says in a lilting voice. My opinion of him immediately changes. His voice isn't at all what I expected, clear and high with a rich undertone. He is definitely not from here.
"And from whom did you receive this information?" I ask, my voice coming out higher than I expected it to.
"Mr. McFeller, across the street," he says, completely seriously.
I stare at him for a few moments, then burst out laughing. I shouldn't act like this in front of a customer, but this is just ridiculous. "McFeller? And you listened to him?" I lean against the wall for support, so that we are eye to eye. Well, we would be eye to eye if I was able to stand straight. "Old McFeller claims that the secret to long life is eating a goat kidney every morning." I giggle childishly. "Gretchen used to call him Kidney Breath."
"Gretchen? Is that your sister?"
"Oh, no, she used to own the shop." My smile vanishes. "She died a few years ago."
"Ah." The man's smile reappears. "And since you seem to believe that Mr. McFeller is a delusional old geezer, I assume that he was wrong about you being the best potion maker in town?"
"He said that?" I straighten up. The man is a few inches taller than me, which is maddeningly annoying. My eyes drift to the front window, at the wizened old candlemaker shouting at passerby. "He never seemed to like me much."
"Well, it seems to me that he does like you. Quite a lot, actually," he announces. "I see him every year, and he always blabbers on about you."
"You see him every year?" My heart thuds against my ribcage. "Is he a relative of yours?"
"Oh, yes, he's my grandfather."
Oops.
"Oh, no!" I cry. "I'm so sorry! I didn't realize- I mean, if I had known- I-"
"Don't worry, I wholeheartedly agree with your opinion of him," he assures me. He lays a reassuring hand on my shoulder, and something like lightning courses through my body. “Kidney breath indeed,” he says pretentiously, voice going up an octave and gaining a creaky quality. “When I was a young whippersnapper, we ate those goat kidneys every mornin’! Make no mistake, young lady, that’s how I’ve lived this long. Say, can I interest yer in a candle?”
I am startled into laughing yet again.
"So." He clasps his hands together once I regain my composure. "Cough medicine?"
"Oh! Right! Right." I hurry away, calling over my shoulder, "I'll grab a bottle for you!"
I disappear into the storage room. It's in semidarkness, and filled with colorful liquids. Some of them glow faintly, and some of them fill the air with faint aromas. Without looking, I grab the first bottle on my right and turn to the door. I keep the cough syrup close to the entrance, because it's the most frequently requested.
Except.
Except I reorganized the shelves yesterday.
Except the liquid in this bottle isn't lime green, it's a shocking pink.
Except I took a love potion, by mistake.
I am about to put the bottle back on the shelf, when I have a wild idea.
Before I can stop myself and think this through, I rush out the door, with the expensive bottle in my hand.
The man pays and takes the bottle, smiling up at me at times. My heart pounds so hard I fear it will break out of my chest.
What have I done?
I can’t back out now. If he knew… If any of them knew… the shop would close down for good.
The second he's out of sight, I run to the door.
There!
He is standing right outside the candle shop, pink potion in hand. He smiles at a pretty, frail-looking girl, who walks up and smiles at him.
Then she coughs.
Several things click together in my mind at once.
He didn't buy the medicine for himself. He bought it for this girl. This frail, malnourished-looking girl, who he’s smiling softly at.
Oh, how could I be so stupid!
I can only watch as pressure builds in my lungs.
No.
He hands her the potion.
This is all wrong.
She unstoppers the bottle.
Don't drink that!
She tilts her head back.
THAT'S NOT FOR YOU.
She swallows.
At the exact same moment, I bash my head against the door frame. I'd given an involuntary lunge forward. The girl glances around at the noise and locks eyes with me.
As the love potion kicks in, she begins to smile.