You approach a cozy village tucked into a forest. The scent of turned earth and an overabundance of plant life fills every breath you take in this space.

​

A massive oak looms at the far end of the path you follow, and built into the tree is a cottage. They blend so seamlessly that you don't know which came first, the tree or the cottage, as branches and roots make up window frames and the base of the cottage itself. ​In the village, this cottage doesn't have a name; it is known simply as The Apothecary.

​

The shop is open for business. You open the door with a gentle tinkling of bells. The Apothecaire, or the Mistress of Infusions and Minor Miracles as she is known, is not here, but her apprentices nod to you as you enter this warm, inviting space. You gaze at the shelves, creaking under the weight of jars of all shapes and sizes, the labels in an unrecognizable language that only the Apothecaire herself speaks. 

​

She sent you here to look for the book, she said. You think to ask one of her apprentices, but as you consider them, a twinkling of magic in the back of your mind thrums like someone plucking a string. When you follow it, you see an old leather-bound book, unclasped and waiting on the work table. Waiting for you.