The days passed in a comfortable rhythm. They opened and closed the shop, day after day, with little incident. And, since Nattie was there to stay—and Tommin had the single bed upstairs—Isla worked a little magic.

In the hallway by the kitchen, under the stairs, there was a wooden door which led to a small storage space. Isla had always kept her unused glass bottles, brooms, and trunks full of journals and notes in it. Then, one morning, she knocked three times on the door, and opened it to reveal a small, comfortable room.

The walls were wood-lined and papered in sage green patterns. A single bed with a cream bedspread and woolen throw at its foot sat in the corner beneath a diamond-paned window which looked out over the side alley. On the floor was a plush green rug, and on one side of the room was a dresser and mirror. On the other side, a small empty bookshelf was ready to be filled.

“Oh,” Nattie had gasped. “Oh, Isla, it's lovely…”

“It’s all yours, dear.”

“Wait,” Tommin had interrupted, brow scrunched in confusion, peeking inside. “I thought this was the broom closet?”

“Nope,” Isla said. “That’s the little door on the stair landing, remember?”

Nattie knew the sound of gentle, persuasive magic when she heard it. Unlike Darius Blackthorn’s, however, this one was a slight memory-altering spell. Nothing severe enough to harm the recipient of the spell, but enough to convince a thirteen year old boy that the broom closet was, in fact, on the landing. 

Tommin only blinked twice, and then rolled his eyes and shrugged. 

“I’ve just been hiding this room to get it ready for Nattie,” Isla said with a wink. “After all, I can’t very well sleep on the settee forever, can I?”

“Whatever,” he had replied.

Tommin, true to his word—or perhaps just too weak and hungry to run—stayed put in the apothecary, healing his wounds safely under Isla’s care. And, if she wove a little magic into the poultices and tonics that she gave him, well, the boy was none the wiser for it. Yet even with his injured arm stuck in a sling, Tommin took up small tasks around the shop to keep himself busy. 

“Never take something for nothin’,” he’d said. 

Which is why he wiped down shelves, cleaned the shop windows until they gleamed, and even swept the floors—though he complained often and loudly that sweeping one-handed was a punishment designed by the gods themselves.

Despite his grumbling, Nattie would catch glimpses of a softness beneath his usual sharp exterior. Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he’d run a gentle hand over the calico cat’s fur—her name was Mika by the way—or he’d pause at the counter to listen while Isla explained the uses of various herbs to a customer. Once in a while, he’d answer customer questions himself, and when they praised him for being so smart at such a young age, he’d only cross his arms and shrug, a slight blush on his cheeks.

As for Nattie, life in Hearth was a strange balance of both new and familiar.

The apothecary became her entire world, and it was nice to feel needed again. She loved learning—had always escaped for hours into magical tomes and books. But while Nattie was well-read in languages, ancient rituals, and complicated spells, potionmaking had always been the most difficult for her. 

Now, she was getting a crash course. 

During the day, she spent her time memorizing the placement of each jar and bottle in the shop, reminded herself about the difference between hyssop and horehound, and practiced grinding dried leaves into fine powders with the mortar and pestle. At night, she studied herbal encyclopedias, anatomy textbooks, and even Isla’s illegal potion-making guides.

Isla, patient and endlessly knowledgeable, guided her niece through it all.

On days when customers were scarce and the shop was quiet, Isla took Nattie out into the streets of Hearth. The city truly was a maze, and Lower Hearth—being the market district—was always buzzing with noise. Merchants from all over filled stalls with exotic wares and incredible smells. Nattie navigated a maze of colorful awnings, shining trinkets, and strange curiosities. She passed fabric sellers, metalworkers, glass blowers, and basket weavers. She tasted spiced cider, roasting chestnuts, and ran her fingers over fresh, Fellsbrand sheep’s wool. 

Isla taught her how to find her way through winding alleys, how to spot a pickpocket before they got too close, and which vendors could be trusted to give fair prices. Nattie mapped her routes not by street names, but by following certain landmarks—a chipped stone arch that led to the tanners’ district, a fountain where local children played when the sun was hot, and the looming silhouette of King Brannon’s keep in the far distance—a reminder of the authoritarian eye that watched over them all.