Phony Potions

Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

My mind worked its way around to the obvious answer. The answer I provided everyone else with a problem, no matter how large or small. No matter how truly solvable or impossible: buy a potion. One of the potions I would sell would do no good; I needed the real stuff, the magic. And thankfully, this town had exactly what I needed.

Consulting the map Winsor had given me a few times, I ran to the Potionary shop from earlier. The marker was where it had been before, albeit slightly fainter. It had lasted surprisingly long for food sauce.

I arrived at the Potionary. The door was closed, the moonlight bouncing off its brass handle. The lights inside were on. I could see the warm licking of the gas lanterns inside peaking around the wooden shutters. I paced in front of the door for a second. I could break in, but I remembered it had been sturdy on the inside, the door featuring triple bolting and the interior of the windows set with thick poles placed too close together for a man to slip through without hacking away all of them with an axe. Assuming I could even do such a thing (Mallow usually cut the firewood), I would be arrested before I got ahold of the item I needed. The lights inside shifted slightly as a figure moved in front of them.

Anxiously, I knocked on the door. I then listened as close as possible with the general noise of the festival still streaming at my back. Nothing. Then something wooden scraping against the floor. I knocked again, more insistent this time. I heard a cough. I held my breath, ears straining. Nothing followed. Agonized, I slammed on the door with my fist. I felt it bruise instantly from the impact, and pulled back, hissing. I knocked with my other hand while keeping the abused, pulsing one at my side.

The door cracked open. The old man's face peered out at me. I could see myself reflected in the small lenses of his glasses. His aged forehead wrinkled.

"Yes? How can I help you sir?"

"Emergency. I need to buy a potion immediately." Wait, why was I being charming? Perhaps I should opt for desperate. I let the smile crumble.

"We're closed," he said uncertainly, regarding me with pity. "You'll have to come back tomorrow—"

I jammed one of my feet in the door. I wasn't ready for the sudden, splintery pain as the Potioneer tried to close the door harder than I expected. I yowled, but instead of retreating, lashed my fingers around the frame of the door and pulled myself further inside.

"Please! My master will not accept failure!" I whined at him, my eyes brimming with real tears as the unforgiving, uneven wood crushed my feet.

"Your master is not the master of this town. I understand sorcerer's are important but us ungifted have our own—"

"One of my master's magical beasts have gone missing—" A good lead, I saw the old man's face twist with fear. "-and my master is otherwise preoccupied and has yet to discover this fact. If I cannot recover it before he unveils my failure, he may take the price of the magical being out of my hide." I simpered. "He has a terrible temper."

The Potioneer's scowl surrendered into an expression of exasperation. He stepped back and swung the door open.

"Make your selection quickly. I'll write up the transaction as the first one for tomorrow so it doesn't mess up my count for today." He grumbled. He shuffled over to a stool he had pressed against one of the walls of shelves. His age-worn body stretched with uncharacteristic spryness to reach a high shelf, the feather duster in his hands flitting across the surfaces with each flick of the wrist. Shimmering clouds of gray-white particles fell from the surface and wafted through the air, inevitably searching to settle somewhere else.