A mid-December Sunday, clear as glass yet edged with cold like a thin blade.

Hedi shrugged into her coat, a small armor against the crisp air, ready to head for No. 233, Old Paulownia Street.

Selina stretched on the sofa, joints loosening like warmed tea curling in a cup.

After their talk about what she loved, she’d made running her hobby, like planting a sapling beside a wall.

That sort of thing—well, not useless—nudges status no more than a single grain on a scale.

But some solemn book claimed running boosts confidence like sun thawing morning frost.

Start with confidence, and brick by brick bridge the gap between them, like laying stones across a river.

“I’m heading out,” Hedi said, her voice skipping like a pebble across a pond.

“Come back early,” Selina replied, her smile a small lantern at dusk.

Hedi fastened her buttons and pushed into the wind like a ship leaving harbor.

The bus stop for the old quarter lay to the southwest, past a row of red-brick, white-eaved houses like aging gulls at rest.

Roses and poison ivy crawled the walls like patient snakes, and stone chimneys exhaled threads of smoke like ghost breath.

It was hard to imagine anyone lived there, like nests clinging to a cliff.

But the street surged like a tide as stooped elders brushed past tight-shouldered youths.

A few lacquered cars with panoramic roofs flashed by like dark fish under ice.

The bus came every thirty minutes, a clock’s heartbeat you could lean on.

It was riveted iron, great wheels coughing soot like volcanoes, pipes circling its body like the ribs of a caged beast.

Outside it looked like a snarling tiger; inside it was roses—polished wood seats and drowsy gas lamps, a vintage dusk.

That wasn’t quite fair, like calling dawn midnight.

The Empire of 1886 was stoking industry like a furnace; to someone modern like me, it wore retro skin perfectly.

Hedi dropped a coin stamped with the king’s profile and took a rear window seat like a bird perching on a rail.

Lit-up modern towers, shop windows glittering with goods, steel spires stabbing the sky—the city’s heartbeat—gave way to brick-and-wood homes like autumn in slow step.

The road narrowed and twisted like a creek through reeds.

On both sides, shops turned to antique dealers, secondhand book nooks, and crafts stalls like old leaves pressed in a diary.

There were hawkers too, in sham velvet with gleaming brass or pearl buttons, like magpies dressed for market.

They chalked neat squares on the sidewalk, laid carpet like moss, and spread rubber riding boots, soaps, canes, umbrellas, and tableware.

The pricier pieces—silver trays, ivory brooches, darling gold music boxes—glimmered like lures in a pond, mostly fakes.

They also hid shriveled fruit at the bottom and mixed dead eels with live ones, like autumn leaves tucked under fresh snow.

Old tricks, worn smooth like stones in a stream.

Hedi rubbed her brow and watched sideways, eyes skimming the scene like swallows under eaves.

Every stall or shop had customers with wicker baskets—maids, housewives, cooks hunting a cheap knife—clustered like sparrows at grain.

Cryers, whistles, a busker’s hurdy-gurdy, the parry of haggling braided into a soft track like cloud over the old quarter.

Only one potion shop, set deep on the street, sat empty like a well with a covered mouth.

Its facade kept a classical line, limestone blocks stacked like whale bones.

Years of weather had scoured the walls, a patina of wear like wind-polished dunes.

Moss and vines rooted in the seams and climbed without pruning, a green film like a second skin.

The door was heavy oak, carved with geometrics and leaves, wood dark as wet bark, hinges freckled with rust like old lichen.

Frosted glass filled the windows for privacy, with no extra trim, the materials left raw like river stone.

A stone stele stood to the right, its carved name and date blurred like rainwashed ink, so the wooden sign under the eaves told you instead—“Winnie’s Nook,” the sign read, the words cozy as a bird’s nest.

Hedi read it aloud and rubbed small circles at the corners of her mouth, smoothing ripples on a pond before a laugh spilled.

No malice—just the humor of it—and the way the grim facade split from that cute name like thunder from a blue sky.

Ding-ling—the brass bell chimed soft, like a spoon tapping china.

Inside, space opened in staggered tiers like terraces on a hill.

Strings of dried herbs hung from the ceiling like upside-down meadows.

Ancient wooden shelves held filthy, uncanny potions, each vial tagged with a blue slip in Spencerian script, neat as frost on glass.

“Coming, coming—” sang a voice, light as steam from a teacup.

A blonde in a black long dress glided from the back room, steps soft as cat paws.

Her hair piled in an ornate chignon, with wisps brushing a pale cheek like willow leaves by water.

Round frames perched on her nose, and behind them her eyes shifted color in crossing light like a shoal of fish.

The frames’ soft circles flattered her features like a moon halo, and they framed a bookish, artful air like ivy on stone.

“Well, hey! A new face!” Her words trilled like a bell in a grove.

“I’m here to buy a potion,” Hedi said, setting down the glass bottle like a raindrop on stone. “A custom one, most likely.”

“First question: do you work in public safety or law enforcement?” Her gaze clicked like a lock.

“Why, got secrets you can’t show daylight?” Hedi’s brow arched like a drawn bow.

“Custom potion—you know what I mean?” Her tone slid like a knife under paper.

“Not plainclothes.” The word dropped like a pebble in a well.

“A civilian? Or famous?” Her eyes weighed it like scales.

“Famous enough.” Hedi kept it light like a leaf in breeze.

The blonde darted behind the counter and hauled out a stack of newspapers like a bundle of dry reeds.

Pages fluttered like wings as she asked, “What year? Ah—Hedi Melvina, that you?”

“That’s me.” The admission landed like a stamp in wax.

“You look prettier than in the paper.” Her compliment glimmered like sun on glass.

“A tintype camera only restores about twenty percent of a face,” Hedi clicked her tongue like a metronome. “Let’s get back on track.”

“Sorry, we don’t serve magicians here.” The refusal closed like a tide gate.

“Spellcaster; you only become a Magician after passing the royal exams.” Her correction drew a line like a pin in sand.

“Heh.” Her laugh rustled like dry grass.

“I need this potion, and I can pay.” Her need pressed like weather before rain.

“You planning not to pay? Is that how Imperial celebrities act?” She snapped like a twig under heel.

“...I mean you can set a higher price.” She yielded like a sail to wind.

The blonde’s eyes turned. “Six hundred thousand.” The number thudded like a hammer on anvil.

“You might as well sell me instead.” Her sarcasm flicked like a whip of rain.

“True enough—every human organ is pricey, yet the mind stitched from them grinds for three thousand coins, like an ox at the mill.”

“I’m not here to trade barbs about reality,” Hedi said, flicking a lock of hair like a reed in wind. “I heard you can custom brew a memory-affecting potion.”

“Then you should know who I am.” Her name hung like thunder behind hills.

“Winnie Orlina, a witch.” The title settled like nightfall.

“Correct. A witch doesn’t do business with Magicians.” Her line drew a boundary like frost on glass.

“Spellcaster.” Hedi’s correction pricked like a thorn.

“You humans love to fuss over trifles; Spellcaster or Magician, it’s all the same to me.” Her indifference rolled like fog over water.

Should’ve brought Selina, Hedi thought, letting a civilian bargain with Orlina like sending a dove to parley with a hawk.

“If you can refer me customers,” Winnie said, absently polishing her lenses like clear river stones, “I’ll consider it.”

“Any customer will do?” Her question hovered like a moth by a lamp.

“At least not ones asking for the same kind of potion as you.” Her limit drew a circle like chalk on slate.

A faint smile drifted onto Winnie’s face, like a soft breeze from somewhere far.

“Are you... eavesdropping on my thoughts?” Her suspicion quivered like a string.

“To be fair, Professor of Magic, anyone else would’ve been shown the door.” Her lenience fell like a tossed olive branch.