The apothecary smelled of... burnt cinnamon?
Laurel blinked, nostrils twitching as she paused mid-shelf. "Rowan, what exactly are you brewing?"
From the back room came a flurry of clinks, a puff of green-tinged steam, and Rowan's nervous voice. "I—I think it was supposed to be calming. Or invigorating. One of those. Maybe both?"
Laurel rounded the corner just in time to see her apprentice waving a bunch of sage at a bubbling cauldron that glowed suspiciously magenta.
"Rowan."
"Yes?"
"Why does it smell like someone set fire to a holiday pie?"
Rowan glanced guiltily at the herb pouch in her hand. "I might've mixed the peppermint with fireroot... and then added dreamleaf because I thought it looked lonely."
Laurel stared at the cauldron. The mixture burbled, hissed, and released another wave of scent that changed mid-air—from cinnamon, to wet parchment, to something disturbingly close to Uncle Bram's forge socks.
"You've made scent ghosts," Laurel said flatly. "Transient aromatic illusions. Lovely."
"I did?"
"Yes. It's rare, but happens when you layer volatile oils with confused intent."
Rowan brightened. "So I invented something?"
"You nearly invented olfactory chaos."
The young woman wilted, shoulders slumping. "I just wanted to make something useful."
Laurel sighed, softened, and handed Rowan a wooden spoon. "Then let's un-make it usefully. Stir counter-clockwise. Slowly. Like you're apologizing."
Rowan obeyed, tongue poking out in concentration.
As the brew dimmed in color, Laurel grabbed a chalkboard and scribbled a new lesson title: On Herb Compatibility and the Perils of Scented Hubris.
"Let's go over your logic," she said, pulling up a stool. "Why peppermint?"
"For clarity."
"And fireroot?"
"For warmth. And it smells like cinnamon toast."
Laurel raised an eyebrow.
"I was hungry," Rowan admitted.
"Dreamleaf?"
"She said she felt ignored."
"Rowan, herbs do not talk."
The girl looked at the cupboard. "They kind of do. In vibes."
Laurel pinched the bridge of her nose.
From the counter, Pippin added helpfully, "She's not wrong. The thyme's been grumbling for days."
Laurel didn't even look up. "You're not helping."
Once the potion had been neutralized (with liberal sprinkles of sootleaf and a whispered apology to the cupboard), Laurel guided Rowan to the drying room.
"This," Laurel said, gesturing to rows of herbs suspended like green chandeliers, "is where intention begins."
Rowan nodded solemnly. Then sneezed violently. "Something spicy hit my nose."
"That's pepperfern. Stimulates alertness. And sinus mischief."
Laurel handed her a mortar. "Today, we'll test combinations. Non-magical first. You'll make blends based on emotional goals."
Rowan beamed. "Like matchmaking for herbs."
"Exactly. Except no romantic entanglements. I've seen what happens when chamomile gets too clingy."
They started simple: lavender with mint. Rowan crushed them gently, sniffed, and described the scent as "a library nap with lemon tea." Laurel nodded approvingly.
Then thyme and orange peel. Rowan called it "mischief at a market stall." Another success.
But it was the third mix—valerian and anise—that triggered another surprise. The room briefly filled with the scent of wet wool and old pinewood.
Rowan blinked. "That's... my grandfather's study."
Laurel leaned closer. "You remembered something?"
"I remembered... him. His coat. His voice when he read stories."
She swallowed, blinking fast.
Laurel placed a hand over hers. "Some blends don't just calm or energize. Some retrieve. Memory notes. Rare and unpredictable, but potent."
Rowan stared at the mix, awed. "Can I keep this?"
"For study," Laurel said gently. "Memory blends require care. Not everyone wants old ghosts."
Rowan nodded slowly, reverently corking the mixture.
Pippin, who had been pretending to nap in a sunny patch, rolled over. "Shall I start labeling shelves? 'Caution: May summon dead uncles and weepy nostalgia.'"
Laurel flicked a thyme sprig at him. "You may start with 'Caution: Talking cat inside.'"
Later that afternoon, Laurel tasked Rowan with organizing the sample shelves while she restocked the tincture drawers. It was a safe enough job—until Rowan encountered the jar labeled "Snorepetal – do not open without supervision."
Naturally, she opened it.
A faint puff of blue powder escaped and hung in the air like sleepy glitter. Rowan stared, eyes suddenly heavy.
"Laurel," she called, voice slurring, "I think the petals are... hugging my thoughts."
Laurel looked up in alarm. "Did you open the snorepetal?"
"Just a little!"
Laurel dashed over and snapped the lid shut. "Rule one: labels are not decorative. Rule two: if a jar has a warning, assume it's deserved."
Rowan nodded, blinking slowly. "I feel like a marshmallow under a quilt."
"That's accurate."
Laurel brewed a brisk citrus tonic, passed it to Rowan, and helped her to a chair. The apprentice sipped dutifully, eyelids fluttering like indecisive moths.
"Better?" Laurel asked.
"A bit. Though now I think in lemon."
"You'll survive."
As Rowan recovered, Laurel returned to her mortar, pretending to focus. But in truth, she was watching her apprentice out of the corner of her eye—watching her struggle, fumble, and still try again. Always try.
Rowan sat up straighter. "Laurel? Do you ever... regret teaching?"
Laurel blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean... it must be hard. Letting someone else make messes in your world."
Laurel considered this. She thought of burnt cinnamon ghosts, memory-laced herbs, and feline commentary.
"I don't regret it," she said. "Because every good mess teaches something. And because I remember what it felt like to want someone to believe I could learn."
Rowan's expression shifted—just slightly. Like someone adjusting a lens and finding clarity.
"I do believe you can learn," Laurel added softly. "Even if your first three potions explode."
"Only two exploded," Rowan said with a sheepish smile.
"The third just vaporized a windowsill. A subtle distinction."
Rowan laughed. "Thank you."
"For the windowsill?"
"For all of it."
Laurel nodded once, and returned to her herbs. But her smile lingered, faint as lavender on the air.
Evening softened the apothecary into amber hues and whispering shadows. Laurel lit the wall sconces one by one, each flame catching in the jars like trapped fireflies.
Rowan was sweeping—not very well, but with sincere dedication. The broom made a soft shush-shush across the wooden floor, scattering stray petals into vaguely floral constellations.
Laurel poured them both a cup of mulberry tea and passed one across the counter. Rowan accepted it like it was a graduation scroll.
"I think I learned more today than in all last week," she said.
"You mostly learned what not to do," Laurel said with a grin.
"Still counts," Rowan said brightly. "Like... negative knowledge. Anti-foolishness."
Laurel laughed, soft and surprised. "There's truth in that."
Rowan sipped, thoughtful. "I think I want to specialize. Eventually."
"In what?"
Rowan stared at her tea. "Smell. Scent. Emotive blends. Like the memory mix. I want to learn how to craft feelings. Gently. Honestly."
Laurel's brow rose. "That's advanced work. You'll need patience. Precision."
"I can do patient," Rowan said. Then added quickly, "I mean, I'm learning."
Laurel nodded slowly. "Then we'll begin with the scent ledger tomorrow. You'll record every mix, every reaction, every deviation. If you're serious."
"I am," Rowan said, sitting straighter.
Outside, dusk spilled over the cobbled street. A pair of songbirds trilled from a rooftop, mimicking something vaguely like "Twilight Waltz." The lute, still resting above the herb rack, vibrated faintly in response.
Pippin, curled in a basket of warm towels, opened one eye. "She's either got promise or will turn this place into a perfumed disaster zone."
Laurel smiled at her apprentice.
"Sometimes," she said, "the most fragrant blooms come from the messiest compost."
Rowan blinked. "Is that a compliment?"
"It's herbal philosophy. Sip your tea."
The next morning, Laurel found Rowan already awake, perched on a stool with the scent ledger open and a quill tucked behind one ear like a stubborn feather.
"I reviewed yesterday's blends," she announced before Laurel could greet her. "I've started categorizing them: stimulants, soothers, memory triggers, and accidental disasters."
"Very thorough," Laurel said, pouring tea. "Which section is the largest?"
Rowan grinned sheepishly. "Soothers. But disasters are catching up."
They spent the morning in gentle rhythm: weighing leaves, testing oils, adjusting ratios. Rowan took notes meticulously, even sketching scent maps—swirls and stars marking strength and feel.
"You associate jasmine with stars?" Laurel asked, peering at one.
Rowan nodded. "Like the kind that sparkle when you've cried a bit but feel okay now."
Laurel was quiet a moment. "That's... accurate."
"Thanks."
At noon, Seraphina dropped by with a basket of elderberry scones and a commission request for a calming sachet—something festival-goers could carry to soothe nerves.
Rowan's eyes lit up. "Can I try?"
Laurel nodded. "It's a good exercise. Just test it first."
An hour later, Rowan held up a tiny sachet tied with golden thread. "I call it 'Festival Breeze.'"
She offered it to Laurel, who brought it to her nose—and paused.
The scent was subtle. Mint, lavender, a trace of sweetgrass... and something else.
It felt like waiting in line while sunlight warmed your shoulders. Like hearing laughter from a nearby street. Like not needing to hurry.
"It's perfect," Laurel said softly.
Rowan flushed with pride. "Really?"
"Really. We'll make a dozen."
From his towel throne, Pippin stretched and declared, "Call me when one of you invents 'Sachet of Eternal Nap.'"
"We already did," Laurel said. "You slept through it."