“Maybe you can read me a chapter tonight,” I say. “Teach me about dream magic.”
She turns an adorable shade of pink, making me laugh as we leave.
After the bookshop, we continue to wander through the village, and I see something that immediately looks familiar: a small shop with a wooden sign hanging above the door depicting a mortar and pestle surrounded by herbs. There’s only one word on the sign:Apothecary.
My memory of the place hits me with unexpected force, and I stop walking.
“Aric?” Poppy’s voice seems to come from far away, and she doubles back, having walked past me without realizing I’d stopped. “Are you okay?”
I blink, pulling myself back to the present. “Yeah. Sorry. I just... I’ve been here before. A long time ago.”
She follows my gaze to the apothecary, then looks back at me with a curious tilt to her head. “Would you like to go in?”
I’m not sure I do—I’m a bit nervous of how I’ll feel when I step inside—but I find myself nodding anyway.
The bell above the door chimes as we enter, and the smell of herbs and dried flowers washes over me—rosemary, lavender, something earthy and musky I can’t quiteplace. Bundles of plants hang from the ceiling beams, and the walls are lined with shelves holding jars and bottles of every size and color.
A woman stands behind the counter, grinding something in a stone mortar. She’s tall, with dark skin and long black hair streaked with gray, pulled back in numerous thick braids. Thin spectacles are perched on her nose, and when she looks up, her dark amber eyes fix on me with an intensity that makes me feel like she’s looking straight through me.
Maybe I should just leave now.
“Welcome,” she says, her voice rich and warm. Then she pauses, head tilting slightly, the pestle in her hand falling still. “Is this your first time in?” Her lips pull up just a bit on one side, and for some reason, I get the feeling she already knows the answer to that question.
I swallow hard.Does she remember me? No way. It’s been twelve years.
Poppy glances my way, waiting for me to say something.
My chest tightens, and I have to clear my throat before speaking. “No. I was here once, when I was a kid.” I cast my gaze around the shop, trying to avoid the direct stare the shopkeeper is giving me. “We visited for Yule. I just wanted...”
Wanted what? To remember? To step into a space where I can recall being with both my parents, before Ma died and everything changed?
The woman puts the pestle down and wipes her hands on a cloth. “Remembering is good,” she says softly. “Our memories are what guide us as we move forward in life.”
Poppy and I exchange a quick look. Is this woman a mind reader or something? The thought makes a shiver go down my spine.
“You visited with your family,” she goes on. “Your mother sought something to help with her headaches.”
At her words, the memory hits me like a wave: Ma’s hand in mine, Pa browsing the shelves while Ma talked quietly with this woman about her migraines, the way the sunlight came through the window and made all the bottles glow like colored gems. I remember wanting to touch everything and Ma telling me to be careful.
“Yeah,” I manage. “That was us. But... how do you remember that?”
The woman removes her glasses from her nose, letting them dangle from a thin chain around her neck, then comes around the counter. “You’ve grown,” she says, obviously not interested in answering my question. But there’s something kind in her voice that makes my throat feel tight. “Your mother had the same eyes as you: hazel flecked with gold.”
She’s right. Pa has always said that he sees Ma when he looks me in the eye.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
Poppy eases her hand into mine and gives it a squeeze, grounding me.
“I’m Niamh,” the woman says. She glances at Poppy. “And you must be the young witch from Coven Crest. Aurora mentioned you’d be visiting.”
“Poppy Waverly,” Poppy says. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Niamh nods, then looks back at me. “Your mother wasa kind woman. I was grateful to meet her, if only the one time.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
For a moment, the shop is silent except for the soft rustle of hanging herbs swaying in an unseen breeze.
