The Potion Makers

“No sign of singerwort this year, lass,” Gray rumbles to me softly, his voice like a wolf’s warning growl, but there is nothing but thoughtfulness in his tone. “Plenty o’ Benterton’s caps and fingletops, though.”

It’s been an odd year for gathering, that’s for sure. Autumn came early and pulled the leaves from the trees too soon, so some things are too sleepy underground to grow as they should. Even my nose has struggled to find things in the leaf litter.

“And we should have no trouble selling this tonic,” Gray continues, stirring and stirring with well-practiced patience. The potion smelled of roasting vegetables with soft, cosy spices. “Early autumns bring aching joints and fevers aplenty.”

I woof softly, reminding him.

“Of course, lass, we’ll keep a few bottles back for ourselves.” He chuckles. “I don’t know. You forget one year and you’re never allowed to forget it…”

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