Spell for Concealment:
Blend rosemary and ash in a pouch. Carry near your skin. What is hidden stays hidden.
“Why in the Goddess’s name is Oscar buying so many love potions?” I ask Thistle.
My cat obviously doesn’t reply.
Thistle, sleek and black as a shadow with those too-wise yellow-green eyes, is sprawled across the counter beside my mortar. His tail swishes once, as though he’s weighing my question and refusing to dignify it with an answer.
Typical. He’s been my familiar since I was sixteen years old, and he’s never once given me the courtesy of explaining the things he seems to know.
“I mean, really,” I mutter as I grind dried rose petals into dust. “Five vials in the past two weeks? Either he’s trying to get the whole town to fall in love with him or something’s going on.”
The rose dust blooms into a faint blush of color that sticks to the air before settling. My nose itches, cinnamon and honey threading beneath the scent, my own Omega magic stirring like it always does when I’m at the workbench. Potion brewing is theonly place I feel steady and grounded. But Oscar’s latest request? It needles me.
Oscar is a well-known aspiring writer who has been working on his romance novel for as long as I can remember. He’s also an awkward flirt who has asked out every single woman in town at least once.
Nope, I’m not exaggerating.
Most people think that makes him a hopeless romantic, but honestly, I think it’s a little creepy.
My best friend agrees. Amara actually thinks it is a rite of passage to be hit on by Oscar Dune.
What exactly does a quiet, bookish twenty-three-year-old need with this much bottled romance?
Thistle lifts his head and blinks, unimpressed.
“Or maybe he’s selling them? You think I should tell someone?” I ask.
His whiskers twitch. Silence.
“Right. Of course you don’t care. You’d let the whole town burn as long as you got fed on time.”
Still nothing.
I sigh, tuck a lock of auburn hair behind my ear, and turn back to the potion. Love potions are fiddly at the best of times. One wrong measure, one mismatched herb, and you don’t get romance—you get something sticky and obsessive. Which is why I usually hate making them.
But the Finch twins insist that if a customer asks, we provide. That’s the rule at Foxglove & Finch: no judgment, only brewed-to-order.
The glass vial waits on the workbench, washed so clean it gleams under the lamplight. I add powdered rose, a dash of honey dissolved in warm water, then grind cinnamon bark until my fingers sting with the effort. The smell fills the little backroom, spicy and heady, and the faint shimmer of magic runs over my skin.
Thistle yawns, teeth sharp and tongue pink, then curls his paws beneath him as if I’m boring him senseless.
“I guess I should cut you some slack,” I say. “If you hadn’t knocked over that tincture, I’d have drunk it myself, and then who knows what would’ve happened?”
His ears flick.
I pour the cinnamon-honey mixture into the vial, then stir counterclockwise three times with the silver spoon. Steam curls up, pinkish-gold, fizzing faintly. Almost there. Just needs…
I reach for the last jar on the shelf, glancing at the crooked label. Ash of willow. Or is that alder? The handwriting looks like June’s, and I know I should double-check. Instead, because I’m tired and thinking about Oscar’s ridiculous orders, I toss a pinch in and set the jar down.
My phone is already propped against the window ledge. I set the timer for five minutes, the exact duration needed for the infusion to stabilize, then press start. The little digital beep makes me feel oddly proud of myself for once.
Organization. Progress.
Maybe I’m not as scatterbrained as everyone thinks.
“See?” I tell Thistle. “Perfectly under control.”
