If Laura had thought she was out of her mind before, then wanting to kiss Ambrose Waycaster was a new kind of madness—one she needed to cure herself of in the shortest time possible.

Ever since he had left in a whirlwind, her mind had refused to dwell on anything else. There were no new recipes for the contest, not even ideas on how to twist existing ones in ingenious ways. Ambrose was all she could think about.

There were traces of him everywhere she went. In the shop, there was the potion still dripping off the table and the teacup he had just drunk from. On the street, she could almost hear the echo of his steps as he’d walked beside her the day before. She wasn’t free even on the carriage ride home; memories of their knees knocking together came back to her, accompanied by brief flashes of heat.

Her head was so full of Ambrose that she was expecting to see him waiting for her next to the townhouse’s gate, resting against a pillar, his blond hair catching the last rays of the setting sun. But he wasn’t there.

No one seemed to be around. Their alley was deserted, and a quick look at the dark windows on the upper floor of the Chantswifts’ place was enough to let her know that Eleanor had not returned from her travels yet. Laura needed her friend more than ever, but the responsibilities of adulthood seemed bent on keeping them apart at the worst possible time.

There was no one to receive her at home, either. The housekeeper had left food out for her before leaving, but there was no trace of her uncle. She called his name and looked for him in his usual resting spots, but to no avail. It was only when she got to her room that she found a note wedged under the door, in his usual scraggly writing.

He was out on Academy business. That usually meant her aunt was finally taking some time off from her Astronomical studies and willing to give her husband the time of day—or night, as it happened. It also meant her uncle would be gone for quite some time, and that there was no better time to plunder his herb storage.

As addled as her mind had been over the last few hours, she had never let go of her mission. She was going to break the love spell on Ambrose, no matter how her feelings had been swayed, and she would do it the very next day. But first, she was going to help herself to some of her uncle’s rare potion ingredients.

It was a good call, too. He was back the very next morning, taking his breakfast like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. And, in a way, it hadn’t.

His marriage was rather peculiar from the point of view of an outsider, but to him and his wife, it must have seemed just the usual. Their own kind of normal—or as close to normal as a relationship between a Quillspell and a Hawke could ever get.

Laura had to wonder how two people as different as they were had ended up together, but love was not really a subject she was eager to discuss with her uncle. Nor would she ever have any reason to bring love up once Ambrose was out of her hair.

That thought did away with her appetite, and even if it hadn’t been the case, she still couldn’t join her uncle for breakfast. She was too afraid that those bespectacled eyes would see through her secrets, so she avoided his gaze as she crossed the hall, rushing to the door without so much as glancing at the food on the table.

As she prepared for brewing, she was glad for her empty stomach. The recipe she had left for last was not a pleasant one to smell or source materials for. But the real reason why she had been so reluctant to try this potion was the intensity of its effects. It was titled “a draught for hate”, and that’s what her great-aunt was claiming it would bring.

Perhaps it was a little extreme, but if nothing else had worked, this one was bound to have at least some sort of effect. She needed it to. With less than five days left to her, she was running out of time and energy to prepare, and whatever that cursed potion had created between Ambrose and her was only slowing her down more.

She reminded herself of this as she struggled with the ingredients. Some of them were hard to prepare, while others were downright dangerous. The mandrake root was both, and Laura hoped it wouldn’t turn her potion into a poison. She wanted Ambrose cured, not dead, although the second option would fix her issues as well.

The brew looked ominous enough as it was, dark and thick, with large bubbles crawling to its surface. When it came time for the last ingredient—a little of her own blood—she felt sure that she must have veered off script at some point. But she trudged on, too tired to start from scratch.

Pricking her finger with a needle she had also secreted from her uncle, she let three fat drops of blood roll into the pot. Almost instantly, the brew changed from the muddy concoction better fit for a swamp into a light, golden liquid that grew thinner and thinner as she stirred it. When she pulled it off the stove, the potion looked almost like honey water, with some solid remnants floating inside. Those wouldn’t be a problem, though.

She had just finished straining the liquid into the teapot when the shop bell gave its usual jolly jingle, and soon after that, Ambrose’s long shadow crossed into the workshop, closely followed by the man himself.

“Good morning,” he said, a hesitant smile blooming on his face as he took Laura in.

Strands of her hair had escaped her bonnet, and her cheeks must have been flushed from leaning over the pot for so long. The prick on her finger still needed tending, too. Laura knew she was a mess, and so was her workspace. And there, she realized too late, was the grimoire, sitting on the worktable for anyone to see.

“Morning,” she shot back as she rushed to grab the heavy tome and put it away.

As she did, that unfortunate clumsiness that had sneaked into her limbs over the past days hit again: her fingers couldn’t get a good grip on the book, and it dropped to the floor with a loud thunk, spine first. Its covers fell open, the pages rustling away between them.

Laura didn’t even have time to reach for it as Ambrose, with his longer limbs, stretched and picked it up in one smooth motion. “I’ve got it, don’t worry.”

But there was no way to do that while his eyes roamed the pages and his eyebrows drew in with every row he read. Laura felt the room closing in on her, the ceiling and the walls coming ever closer, while Ambrose and the book were only moving farther away.

“What is this?” he finally asked, turning the grimoire towards her, so she could see what he was talking about.

Laura had to fight to force her voice out. “It’s a recipe.”

And not just any recipe, but the one for the very first antidote she had tried on him—the one with the clearest title and the most memorable ingredients. Ambrose was smart enough to figure it out without her having to spell it out for him.

“I’m pretty sure that this is what you gave me two days ago.” He flipped through the pages until he came across a dog-eared one. “And this is what I had last night, right? The one with too much anise. I genuinely thought you were just getting creative with tea blends, and here you were, feeding me magic potions.”

“Antidotes!” Laura cut in, feeling the need to explain herself. “You went and ate my chocolates without asking, and the liquor filling in them was a botched love spell. Eleanor tried them first, so I know what the potion can do to a person. I’ve simply been trying to reverse its effects.”

He closed the grimoire and handed it over, holding her gaze. Those grey eyes of his were strangely dark in the low light, as if a storm was brewing inside of him. The usual smile was nowhere to be seen, but even as mad as he seemed, his voice remained steady.

“So all this time, you thought I was talking nonsense. You thought that my feelings were fake, only an illusion created by that love spell of yours, even while I was trying to convince you otherwise.” He sighed. “There never is an easy way with you. But I like that about you, and I have liked it for a very long time now. It’s nothing new to me, and it’s definitely not the product of some spell. What do I need to do to convince you that I’m telling the truth?”

Laura was dumbstruck, too overwhelmed to say anything in return. He had dropped subtle hints and outright professions of his feelings for the past three days, and none of those felt as solid as this one did. There was no trace of that love-addled trance that he seemed to be under in the beginning, and of the passion she had seen burning in him, there was now only an ember hidden in the depths of his eyes.

For the very first time, his words rang true. She wished it were a lie.

Getting no response, Ambrose turned to the worktable. “Is that another of your antidotes?” He didn’t wait for a response, picking up the teapot and pouring himself a cup, filling it to the brim. “I’ve had three of these that I can tell, and none have changed my feelings. I’ll drink this one as well, and I guarantee you that it won’t change a thing, either. My feelings for you have always been true, and there is no magic strong enough to change that. Just you watch.”

Laura’s hand stretched out to him without her realizing it. “Wait!”

But before she could get anywhere near him, he downed the whole cup, hot as it was, in one gulp. Then he turned to her, mouth half open, as if ready for another confession.

The words never came, though. As soon as his eyes fell on Laura, his hand went to his chest, and a pained expression took over his face. There was no love reflected in his eyes anymore, only a deep echo of sadness and, maybe, pain.

Finally, between clenched teeth, he let slip one sentence. “I think I'd better go.” Then he turned on his heel and left, leaving Laura with nothing but the sound of the shop bells for company.

Had the fourth potion worked?