Which is exactly when he lifts one paw and knocks the phone off the ledge. It clatters against the stone floor, the timer silenced.
“Thistle!”
I snatch it up, brushing dust off the screen, but when I glance back at the workbench, the potion is already hissing. A sulfurous smell curls up, stinging my nose, and my stomach drops.
Wrong ash. Not willow. Alder. And alder, when heated with cinnamon and rose, doesn’t make a love potion—it makes an unstable minor combustible.
“Oh no. No, no, no.”
I grab a cloth and snuff out the little flame licking the rim of the vial. It sputters, smokes, then dies with a pathetic pop. My heart beats so hard I feel it in my ears.
If Thistle hadn’t knocked over the timer, I’d have left it brewing, and by the five-minute mark it would’ve gone off like a firecracker in my face.
I slump against the counter, breathless, staring at the faint scorch mark on the cloth.
Thistle tilts his head, eyes gleaming like he knew all along.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Thank you. And I’m sorry.”
He blinks slowly, magnanimous in his forgiveness.
This is why he’s still with me. Why I’m still alive, if I’m honest. Sixteen-year-old Caroline wasn’t exactly in the best place when Thistle padded into her life. Some nights, I still think he chose me not because I was meant to be a witch with a familiar, but because he knew I needed saving.
If he hadn’t been with me, my grief would have dragged me under. I shake my head, not wanting to remember any of that.
I need to concentrate.
I start again, more carefully this time, double-checking every jar before adding the correct willow ash. The mixture simmers peacefully, golden-pink light glowing faintly against my freckled skin. Better. Almost lovely.
I barely have time to breathe a sigh of relief before I hear footsteps creaking across the apothecary floor, followed by a voice calling through the door.
“Caroline? You in there, sweetheart?”
It’s June Finch—one half of my bosses. Although she’s only in her early thirties, she’s practically the mother-hen to half the town, and the reason I’ve mastered half of the potions I know. I wipe my hands on my apron and step out of the back room.
The front of Foxglove & Finch smells like lavender scones and clove tea. June’s back behind the counter, her brown hair tied up in its usual messy bun, glasses sliding down her nose. She’s packing herbs into brown-paper bundles with the efficiency of someone who could run this place in her sleep.
“How’s the potion coming?” she asks, not looking up.
“Almost done,” I say.
She gives me a knowing smile, the kind that makes me feel seen in ways I don’t always like. “Good. August just went to pick up the new apprentice from the bus station, and that means you’re on order duty.”
“Of course.” I smooth my apron, trying not to look flustered.
The bell over the front door jingles, and in walks Clive Harper, our delivery man and Willowbrook’s unofficial newswire. He’s tall, balding, and always smelling faintly of gasoline and peppermint gum. He leans against the counter like he’s settling in for an afternoon chat.
“Morning, ladies,” he says with a grin. “I’ve got your boxes.”
“Thank you, Clive,” I reply politely, stepping forward to sign for the delivery. He always stretches these interactions as long as possible, as though we’re starved for his company.
“How’s your mother doing, Caroline?” he asks, like he always does.
I school my face into a pleasant smile. “She’s well. Busy with her sewing.”
He nods as though this is breaking news. “Tell her I said hello.”
“I will.”
