Bunches of rosemary, mint, and chamomile lay in careful piles, some bundled with twine, others left loose.
Small vials and glass bottles—filled with thick oils, dried powders, and unknown liquids—were tucked into wooden shelves or clustered together on the countertops.
A large cauldron hung over the brick-lined fireplace, its ashes cold but its presence unmistakable.
The healer set the cat down, then plucked a smooth stone bowl from the counter, bringing it to her nose and sniffing it.
She turned to me, expression unreadable.
“I need you to pee in this,” she said in French.
I stared at her.
“What?”
She held the bowl out to me, expectant.
I hesitated, then switched to French. “Where shall I go?”
She waved a hand, already turning away.
“We are all women here.”
I winced, turning my back to her and Emily, squatting as I positioned the bowl between my legs.
The act felt humiliatingly primitive, but I forced myself to focus on its necessity.
When I had released only a scant amount, I quickly stood, adjusting my dress, and handed the bowl to the healer.
She took it without a word.
The cat twined around her legs, purring, weaving figure eights between her feet.
The healer set the bowl on the wooden table, her fingers moving slowly, deliberate waves over its surface as if testing the scent.
Then, she reached for a small pile of dried herbs, pinching a few leaves between her fingers and sprinkling them into the liquid.
A low chant slipped from her lips, rhythmic and steady, the words unfamiliar, ancient.
She lifted the bowl, tilting it left, then right, watching the liquid shift.
Then, her piercing blue gaze snapped to mine.
The weight of it made my stomach tighten.
“What is your name?” I asked in French, my voice quieter than I intended.
She placed a palm over her chest. “Thérèse Brès.”
I forced a small smile. “Olivia Alexander. And this is my sister, Emily Demarrias.”
Thérèse’s lips curled at the edges for the first time, an acknowledgment, a fleeting warmth.
Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and disappeared out the back door, the bowl still in her hands.
Emily and I exchanged a look, unease threading between us.
Neither of us spoke.
