Seraphina grabbed their luggage and hoisted it over her shoulders before tentatively confronting the strange knob, emanating a faint whiplash of magic when skin made contact proper like a zap from a carpet. With a drawn-out creak, she easily forced the entryway open and peeked inside to get a proper estimate of her surroundings ahead, then slowly sidestepped the threshold and shut it behind her, havering at the top of the upraised foyer for a long moment as she drank in the store.  

It was an inherently cozy space, aisles bordered by tall shelves brimful of neatly categorized flasks and tonics alongside racks of scrolls and spellbooks. An isle in the center of the store that doubled as a workstation featured a complex array of concoctive devices such as beakers, meters, and scales. Ceilings, alcoves, and eaves were trimmed by decorative hanging plantae, lush green leaves devising a canopy that encompassed the area like soaring treetops, punctuated by globes of golden light, undoubtedly hewn from solidified magic, bathing the proverbial forest floor in soft sunspots. “This seems to be a potion shop, though wouldn’t you say that it seems a bit... isolated from its competition?” Malphas paraphrased exactly what Seraphina was thinking as she carefully made her way down the brief drop of stairs.  

“Explains why it’s dead in here, more or less,” she noted thereafter as she swept into an aisle at random to survey its stock. “Dust and customer free,” fingers skimmed across the labels, clinking glass interweaving a juddered melody. “But this is the real thing,” childlike wonder filled the gap her ebbing disbelief left behind as Seraphina reached up to blindly grab a potion off the rack. “When I was young, I used to sneak into the kitchen to brew my own magical concoctions by throwing a bunch of random ingredients together, but it either resulted in mustard gas or extreme food poisoning. I’m thinking I should have been supervised more when I was young... oh, it seems this tonic is supposed to reduce the effects of insomnia... it even provides a detailed list of instructions like a prescription... and an ominous footnote about the likelihood of a coma if the incorrect dosage is taken...” 

She returned it to its rightful place on the shelf and moved a few spaces down before randomly regaling herself with another in the middlemost row. “And this... magnifies the output of certain spells... this might be good if we ever find ourselves in the heat of combat again, don’t you think?” 

“Given what happened in Beelzebub’s domain, I don’t think it would be a wise choice.”  

 “Ah... duly noted. Let’s put that back,” as prophesized, Seraphina stepped away from this particular goldmine and glissaded to one of the furthermost recesses of the shop. She paused, craning her neck awkwardly to interview the labels on the topmost shelf when one happened to catch her eye, so she balanced herself on the edge of the cabinet and slung out an arm, reaching blindly until something blessedly clicked and she pulled down, sunlight streaming through the window causing the translucent vial to glint as she turned it over to acquaint herself with the warnings at length. “... This must be for simple cosmetic magic... this is apparently meant to help with rapid hair growth, but...”  

Seraphina briefly reached around to undo the laces of her hood, cropped hair falling free as a bitter feeling curled in her stomach when she caressed the uneven, blunt edges, and she thinks that she really should not have been trusted with those scissors, but it was either the dress code or busking in the streets, at the time. Malphas perked up where he had been busy preening his plumage to track the azimuth of her attention, beady eyes inspecting the translucent contents sloshing within. “Does this spell interest you, Seraphina?”  

“... Maybe. I know we don’t have the funds for it, but...” 

“It certainly wouldn’t hurt to ask the shopkeeper, though. Let us see if we can track them down.” 

Seraphina circumnavigated the aisles and eventually came across the unmanned register situated next to a large latticework window with a doorless entranceway locked behind that revealed a winding flight of stairs. The counter itself was privy to a medley of miscellaneous items such as a small rack of booklets, something like magazines as she pictured, with the Saintridge Times printed ad nauseam, a miniature globe of the world, a display of multicolored healing crystals advertised as being “free with every purchase over fifty,” and an innocent ball of yarn. Which she suspected was for the cat, who was evidently standing in for its owner, with short pinkish fur, fluffy white paws, a twin pair of squishing, white-fringed tails, and adorably enough, a pocket-sized pointed hat with a lacy trim and a bell affixed to the tip nestled atop its little head as it dozed, curled into a comfortable little ball. 

“The apothecary’s familiar, I assume,” Malphas noted as he leaped from her shoulder to perch himself on the lip of the counter, hovering around the somnolent feline precariously, wings raised in defense. “It doesn’t seem to be a particularly powerful one, however... Seraphina? Why do you have that sparkly look on your face?”  

Seraphina had revoked their cargo in a hurry, setting the grimoire on the counter next to Malphas to free her hands, expression lovestruck as hands hovered over the resting creature, fingers twitching with barely-there restraint as the renowned urge to smother the cute specimen with violent affection overtook her better judgment. “I know it isn’t polite to pet someone else’s pet without their permission, but... oh, I can’t resist! I mean, look— he has a little hat on! He has a little hat on!”  

An overeager hand, be compelled by that primal demon that was cuteness aggression, reached out to gently stroke along its spine, relishing the give of soft, heavenly fur, wishing she could stick her face in it and squeeze until the accursed siren popped like a grape. At which point, the creature stirred, her invasive touch cutting its evening and likely eighth overall nap in twain as it straightened out its legs, back arching like a bow as fangs parted to let loose a loud yawn. It then plopped down on its behind and began to clean its face, unbeknownst to its company for a long second before Seraphina properly dipped in to watch up close as it licked its plush, pink paw pad. When a red eye caught sight of her, the cat let out a humanlike shriek, jumping as its fur sprung up in alarm.  

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry,” Seraphina wisely backed off, waving her hands placatingly. “I didn’t mean to spook you, little guy! You just looked so peaceful, and... I completely lost control of myself. But,” she aligned her fingertips and responded with a sheepish smile. “... But I did have a question about some of your wares... is the owner in, or can you pass on a message for me, maybe?”  

The feline’s initial bewilderment seemed to dissipate, but its fluffed, swaying tails indicated that it was still on guard, and addressed her soundlessly like Malphas, though its mouth remained open. “... So, you aren’t... you weren’t sent by the state? You’re... a bona fide customer?”  

“Should I be worried? Does your place have rats?”  

“Of course not! I deal with them with efficiency! Hold on, this form isn’t suitable for haggling,” the cat then leaped behind the counter, and like a magic switcheroo act, when it reappeared, it was in the form of a young human male with a cutesy, short stature and a fair complexion that was blanketed in clusters of light freckles. His shoulder-length hair was a shade of bubblegum pink and left a bit disarranged while his eyes were a brilliant vermillion, and featured pupils dogged by sharp catlike slits. Additionally, some of his other cattish features had remained such as a set of large fluffy ears that were sequestered under the lace brim of his pointed hat along with his twosome of tails. His ensemble consisted of a loose crimson cloak with a white scalloped trim that overlaid a plain undershirt; its neckline embellished with a large red ribbon, roomy gray trousers, laced brown boots, a pair of silver-lined spectacles, and black gloves with pink paw prints inscribed thereupon. 

“There we go! Now, let’s get down to brass tacks,” grinning sharply, the catlike boy leaned his elbows atop the counter to nurse his chin, tails flickering with enthusiasm. “... Oh! Where are my manners? Ahem,” he coughed into his paw-printed fist, then proceeded to slap said hand against his chest. “I’m Alistair, the finest apothecary this side of the blue fields! And this is Milo and Alistair’s Apothecary,” he outspread his hands to encompass the store. 

“We carry just about everything you can possibly envision: from delicious herbal samples that help soothe that damnable test anxiety to potions of Temporary Invisibility to solve that roguish itch that may occur after said finals when all you want to do is set the world around you ablaze and make all of humanity repent for allowing the injustice that is our rigorous class structure to persevere while you’re practically spitting blood trying to finish that essay in a way that doesn’t feel unduly forced or needlessly long-winded and guess what, it’s already eleven thirty and you have approximately a half hour before your college career comes crashing to the ground... Ah, for legal reasons, I also have to tell you to not go around committing mild acts of tomfoolery.”  

Seraphina then recoiled when the catlike demon suddenly leaned over the desk on his tippy-toes as curious red eyes analyzed her up and down. “A pureblooded elf, huh. Haven’t seen your kind in a few centuries,” acknowledging her miscalculation, she quickly redid the ties of her hood and ducked whereunder for protection, but Alistair waved his paw-padded glove reassuringly and jumped back down. “Nothing to worry about, miss! My wares cater to all walks of life; I was just a little gobsmacked, that’s all... I mean, you think it’d be a little strange if I of all people judged you, given that it likely isn’t every day that you come across a common fiend like me operating a shop by his lonesome... that is, without his master anywhere in sight. I’m just happy that I actually have a customer! It’s been so long, now...” 

“Well, not to undermine your... impeccable sense of feng sui, I think it’s safe to say that waiting for unknowing travelers to miraculously come across this inconspicuous little nook in this huge city like Bluefield is a bit... well, miscalculated, if you ask me,” Seraphina politely critiqued as she reached over to reequip herself with the grimoire, lightly petting the front cover in reassurance before it could get fussy and inadvertently out her. “Might need to invest in some billboards or... at least a proper front door.”  

Alistair spluttered a noise that was something of a mixture between an aggrieved caterwaul and a confused squeak. “Huh? But I... I put up fliers all over the city! You mean to tell me that your coming here was pure coincidence?”  

“The Honor Guard takes down unauthorized advertisement, or in worse cases, will might even waive you a hefty fine” Malphas described after he had flocked back to his rightful place on her shoulder. “It typically requires endorsement from the Federation of Merchants, which in itself is a long and exhaustive process of interviews and applications and even then, it is considered immensely challenging for small businesses like yours to garner public support and find their footing proper, and the Federation’s expectations are notably steep.” 

Alistair’s ears drooped back against the crown of his head as his tails flickered left and right in agitated motions. “Wait, so... is that why it’s been dead quiet ‘round here? I have to get another accursed permit? Ugh! And when that processed slop that the Federation advocates can’t hold a candle to the quality and quantity of our home-brewed compounds... tch,” he angrily crisscrossed his arms and began to pace back and forth in a short circle behind the desk. “If Milo were here, he’d give those money-grubbing dunderheads a piece of his mind, I swear... back when he was still in charge, this was the hottest spot on the block if you can believe it. We’d have wanderers congregate here from as far as the Southern Wastes to spot us a good bit of coin for our services; we’ve even partnered with the Witch Embassage in the past and had plans to open up a sister branch in the Old Capital, but... well, I guess you can imagine how that turned out.”  

“I’m sorry to ask, but... you’re a familiar, right?”  

Alistair came to an immediate standstill and cast the elvish girl a smile that bordered on mournful. “... Yes, I am,” he lazily settled his elbow atop the counter to kneel his chin in his palm. “... The original proprietor of this shop was my master, Milo Lockwood... he was born and raised here in Bluefield but eventually left to pursue his dreams of joining the upper echelons of the Conservatoire... but in the end, he decided to return after he received his license and undertook the mantle of a small-town doctor... In the end, although he was ingenious and hardworking, he... wasn’t able to meet their expectations ultimately, and stuck with someone like me as a partner... beyond some mild shape-changing and the basic first aid I had picked up while studying alongside him, I’m about as unexceptional as you can get. Furthermore... Milo, he,” Alistair shifted uncomfortably, words knotting together as he set his palms flat on the countertop and distractedly admired the scorching sunlight cast by the window, tickling his pale profile in iridescent streams of multicolored glass, highlighting his unhidden grief. 

“... He already passed away some time ago, so even though our pact has long since expired... I decided to hang around and pick up where he left off, so to speak,” Alistair refaced her with a wannabe smile, though a profound sense of sadness still hugged its slack edges. “... That’s why I’ve been working hard to get this place back up on its feet, but... there’s a possibility that I’m not as qualified to be a businessman in comparison. I should have guessed that something was amiss when I’ve spent the last however many days busying myself with needlessly resorting our inventory to kill time.”  

“And... if you don’t mind me asking, how long has it been since Milo passed?”