17
Acouple days later, I found myself back at Lana’s, this time burdened with a heavy load.
“Come along.”
My arms were burning. The wooden crate filled with Lana’s general antidote seemed to grow heavier with each step I took. The passageway’s uneven ground did little to help the matter.
Lana had a personal passageway in her garden that led to the Witch Market. I was half-tempted to ask why she couldn’t have made hers with a smooth ground, but I was beginning to realize that magic couldn’t solve everything—and that Lana did not take well to complaints.
“How many passageways are there to the outside?” I asked instead.
“An infinite amount as long as there are witches to conjure them,” Lana said. “There are many that lead to the same destination. The public ones have guardian witches.”
“Like Miriam?” I said.
“Unfortunately,” Lana said.
I wondered what Miriam did to garner so much distaste from Lana and my nannies.
After a minute of walking, the door-shaped light finally appeared before us. Instead of walking straight out, Lana knocked on the door in an elaborate rhythm. On the other side, a key turned and the door swung open. My eyes watered from the sudden flood of brightness.
“Ah, Lana.” A short, stumpy witch with a long white beard stood behind the threshold. I recognized him as the witch from the crop fields.
“Ferdinand,” Lana said in greeting.
“Have you brought more of your extra sticky glue? I had a shelf fall off yesterday and I cannot be bothered to nail it back.”
“I’m afraid not.” Lana pushed her way out, clearly in no mood for small talk. I followed, coughing when I inhaled a lungful of stale air. We were in a dusty basement of some sort, overtaken with crates and barrels. The walls were high and lined with square windows.
“Who is this?” Ferdinand said, peering up at me. He didn’t seem to recognize me.
“My apprentice,” Lana said before I could introduce myself. I made up for her curt response with a smile and a half-curtsy and rushed after her as she climbed the short steps to the exit.
“Apprentice? I never took you as the type to take an appren—” Ferdinand’s words cut off as the door swung shut behind us. I felt bad for being so rude, but thoughts of manners left my head when I took in the sight before me.
We were in a narrow street sandwiched between red-bricked buildings. Wagons and table displays made of ramshackle crates lined the street, leaving barely enough space for a horse-drawn cart to pass through.
The street itself was crowded with people—witches and humans alike—chattering and shouting and bartering. Despite the crispness of the morning, the air was thick with sweat and incense. We were still somewhat underground, as the walls stretched up high and the road was unpaved.
This was the infamous Witch Market.
“Where’s our stand?” I shouted.
