A haggard woman greets me, years of hardship carved into her sallow skin.Her grey hair is knotted into a bun, and her black tunic is dusted with powder stains.
Still, she smiles.“Anything’ you like m’dear?”
My gaze lingers on the spiced beet rootcake—my favourite, the only thing that still reminds me of Ma.My hand twitches, already reaching, then stops.The price answers for me.
“Just one please.”
Her gnarled fingers drop a potato-cake into a paper bag.As it lands heavy, I set the coins in her palm and move on before regret catches up.
Instinct carries me to the edge of the square, eyes skimming shopfronts until they find the faded green shutters ofYara’s Apothecary.
The building leans a little, like it’s tired of standing.Warm orange light spills from the lancet window, cutting amber shards through the night.The door creaks as I push it open; the bell singing my arrival.
Dried herbs, smoke and a bite of lavender vinegar wraps around me, comforting me like a mother’s touch.
This place has become my sanctuary, borrowed safety from an owner who has become the grandmother I always wanted.
I pause just inside the entryway.
Yara stands at her cauldron, stirring something within.Steam lifts the grey wisps of hair from her face, framing her like something out of an old story.Her eyesight may be failing, but her other senses are razor-sharp.
She looks up from her jar, her knobbly hand pausing as she sniffs the air.
“Seren—” she says.“—is that you?”
A quiet laugh rumbles in my chest as my pendant warms at the sight of her.
“That nose of yours doesn’t miss a beat, does it?”
She wipes her hands on her apron, then trudges closer.
“I’d be able to smell you even if you were at Saul’s,” she says, voice rough with the years of brewing and breathing the medicines she provides.
“I must smell terrible then.”
“Not at all, my child.Your scent is merely…distinctive.”Her smile deepens around her eyes, lifting her hollowed cheeks.
Her head lifts, her gaze jittering until it slows as she tries to focus on me.
“You look thin.”Blunt as always.
“I’m always thin.”
“Too thin.”Her palm finds my cheek, the hardened skin scratching at the surface.“Use some of that coin to buy yourself some more food.”
I lean into her touch despite myself.“I will.But Sylas’ tonic comes first.Whatever’s left—I’ll manage.”
Her lips thin as the shadows stir at my feet, restless but familiar.
“Let me get the tonic for you.”Her fingers trace the counter top, following the grooves she knows by heart.She strokes the glass bottles that sit idly waiting for their loyal customers, until she finds the one for Sylas.The blue vial.
“The blood…it’s back,” I murmur, the words landing heavy in my chest as she sets the glass before me.Cold seeps into my fingers as her hand covers mine for a brief moment—grounding, steady.
“Don’t worry about the coin, child.This one’s on me.”
My heart aches at the generosity, a commodity that’s grown scarce down here since the war.I pull my hand away, not wanting the weight of her kindness to be felt.
“Th—thank you,” I whisper, shoving the vial into my satchel.“But you know I can’t accept.Times are tough for everyone, I’m happy to pay my own way.”
