Havek was not dead.

He was not extraordinarily alive, either, but it was a decent start. 'If ye live long enough for me t'see ye t'morrow--' Well. He had accomplished that, at least. So long as he could keep up this twenty-five year streak of not-dying, things almost seemed...hopeful? Maybe not. 'Alright', perhaps. He didn't really understand the word 'hopeful' anyway. It was best not to go around feeling feelings that you didn't understand, he supposed.

So. He was back where he was before, minus the rain. Hovering outside the apothecary's doorway. Not knocking, not drawing any attention to himself. Just rocking from foot to foot, hands buried in coat pockets, squinting at the doorframe as if it were going to bite him. His buried fingers roved over a coinpurse gone light enough to make him shiver. Perfectly good savings, spent on clothes. Yesterday evening was an evening spent ferreting around in clothing stores, peppered with the ever uncomfortable actions of raising his voice above a mumble and swooping out of a shop when ever a chatty female clerk would try to strike up conversation. None the less, he had forced his hand on a few less-than-lovely purchases. New-ish shirts and slacks, all in a spectrum arraying from dirt brown to dishwater grey. He'd had a rough whore's bath and a haircut that wasn't quite a haircut, too. Meaning he'd cut a piece of what looked like tar but smelled like tobacco out of his his hair. He'd pondered hacking the dreads down to something more manageable, but no. They'd be hideous no matter what he did with them, so there was no sense in trying. So they were just tied out of the way at the nape of his neck, ugly but unobtrusive.

The changes hadn't left him looking stellar, but a step above dumpster rat, he hoped. Some things were still left unchanged. He could not bear to be parted from his old trenchcoat and boots, for they were ugly and loved. And that hideous bag, strapped close across his chest, free hand petting it as if it were osta kitten. He didn't really like change.

Havek raised his fist for the third or fourth time to knock, but it sank back to his side, as it had been doing for the past few awkward minutes he'd been hovering. He looked away from the door, peering instead at his watery reflection in one of the shop's dark windows. Havek didn't like reflections. He was always left staring at a blank face with nothing much to say to himself. His eye wandered back from the window to the door. It was either go in, or linger out here with a reflection for company. With that thought, he bit down on his tongue and forced himself to finally knock. Perhaps this time his morning wouldn't culminate with his face in a galdor's crotch.

He could hope.

The door was opened quietly-- in quite a different manner than it had opened the first time Havek had encountered it. A very bulky man with incredibly thin legs stared at him with soulful, baleful brown eyes. He shuffled out of the way to let Havek by into the dim shop without a word.

The shop was as cluttered as it had ever been, if a bit damper than usual. It was as if the room was trying to make up for the lack of rain outside. There was a loud sniff from the desk space and its occupant looked up.

Jasper glared from the desk. "Well look who's back." He said in a quiet grumble. "Don't suppose y'ed like to look at me sack, while you're here?" He let out a loud guffaw that seemed muffled in the damp air.

"Gramps isn't 'ere yet, one eye. He's off buyin' some supplies or whatnot. Best make yerself comfy." Jasper pointed at the very small stool next to the desk he was sitting at that was obviously there so customers could reach things on the higher shelves. The younger man let out another raucous laugh.

Havek slinked through the doorway, sticking close to the walls. He was silent, huddled under the eaves of his coat. His head swiveled around the shop, eye still hungrily roving over the clutter. The cool damp, the thick scent of herbs put him in a bit of a haze. He turned on his heels, peering around with jerky cocks of the head, like some great, gawkish bird.

His brows furrowed in displeasure at Jasper’s words, ever-present frown tightening. He shuffled dutifully over to the stool indicated, pausing for a moment before it, nudging it gently with his boot. He lingered there for a few moments. Tentatively, he alighted onto the little stool, quivery fingers reaching up to touch the crowded rows of glass. The temptation to explore the old apothecary’s collection was too strong to keep his hands to himself. He was unnaturally still up there, cradling a little phial in his palm, squinting down at the hand-printed letters. It was like he was in a pensive bubble, oblivious to the other two men.

“Oh, I...n-no. I wouldn’t much like that,” he mumbled, blinking up from the phial. “In...in reference to your sack, sir.” It wasn’t snarky, or coy, just...nothing, really. Flat, almost polite. He offered a terse nod before returning his attention back to the shelves.

Sophie only knocked once before sticking her head through the shop door. It was a formality. A long time ago she had abandoned the part of her that hesitated in concern to shops. "Are y'open yet?"

Two men stood in the shop, presumably the employees--this was good enough for her. The old man that ran it, as she remembered, wasn't around. She carried with her a small basket for shopping looped around her off-arm. It was empty. This was her first stop of the day, and for no small reason.

"Clock's sake, I have a headache like a someone's raising riot in my brain," she began, in the slightly weary, annoyed tones of someone who truly suffered from a monstrous headache. She addressed either one of them, looking directly at neither. She tucked a wayward lock of bright green hair. At the roots the hair showed black, about a quarter of an inch. "I need something in between willow bark and laudanum, but not dearer than an arm, if you would. Oh, and foe if you got it."

It wasn’t the knock that got his attention, but the sound of a woman’s voice. He couldn’t bare to turn around to look, for those first few seconds. An awful chill snaked it’s way up his spine, stiffening his shoulders and tensing his hands around a phial. It resulted in a rather obvious full body twitch. But the rising panic faded away the moment she rambled on about her headache. He relaxed, if slowly. A headache. Just a headache. The irrational notion that a vast majority of the Rose suffered afflictions of the nethers was quieted, for the time being. Thank every god above and below for that.

He turned to her, still standing on the stool, and – it took every bit of politeness beaten into him not to flinch. Bright colors. That was something he hadn’t seen in too long. Then again, he also hadn’t lingered around a spoke witch in far too long. His golden eye squinted at her crown of green hair, transfixed into silence by her shocking color and...well, the smell of her, to be honest. The strong scent of spices and tealeaves was gnawingly familiar. When he finally had the mind to stop staring and pipe up, his voice was even softer than usual.

“Well...well, I think – I think that a strong brew of willow bark tea should often do away with it. Perhaps a...a spot of feverfew could make it more potent? Unless...” he trailed off, peering down at the random bottle of sage cradled in his hands. “Are they chronic, miss? Because that could be something else all together, but – ah.” He faltered. “What...what is this ‘foe’ ya speak of, now?”

"Never mind that then," Sophie said, shaking a hand. "About chronic--if you call six days running chronic. I thought it was needlework, since that's generally the what-caused-it, but I put that down five days back and now it's just a mystery, see."

For the first time she looked clearly at the man helping her; she lauded his valiant effort to look respectable. She would wager that he had already taken his long voyage across the sea--several times. Travelers developed that squint, at least without goggles. Sailors got cut up like that--and he was in Old Rose besides, you could look at anyone and nine out of ten see a sailor. He talked a little softer than she thought someone as rough as he ever would, but she reminded herself that there were all sorts. He seemed a little tense. Sophie briefly wondered what had spooked him.

Sophie herself was rather used to being stared at, as an occupational hazard. "I'll try that feverfew, I'm desperate. And, I suppose, some more of that willow bark--I've damn near run through my own stock."

She peered at the phial in his hands. "Is that sage? I'll have a spoon of that too. Someone paid me with a hingle yesterday. Good lady help me if I don't have one bright spot in this miserable week."

Jasper had dozed off about the time he realized the woman who came in wasn't a Brother (or young and pretty). In the old times he used to have fun with these types of customers, looking terribly concerned, offering them the wrong ingredients, and in general wreaking havoc in any way he could. Then Shook had found out and it had all gone downhill from there. He picked at his teeth with a little wooden toothpick idly.

"EY PARROT." He called suddenly, obviously deciding that he was going to do his best to disrupt Havek's good work.

"Yeah?" It was the first time Havek had ever managed to understand what Parrot was saying. His voice seemed incredibly soft and quiet for such a large man.

"WANNA HEAR A JOKE, PARROT? Lemme tell ye, it en't for th'faint o'heart!"

"My heart en't faint." Parrot mumbled back.

"A shipwrecked 'appened on the islands o'Mugroba. Only two men an' a woman survived. T'pass th'time, they were on each other like...like...eh...a dog on yer leg!

Now th'woman began t'feel ashamed an' unclean so she plum gone and done 'erself in. Round three days later the men began t'feel ashamed in what they was doin'-- so they buried her!!!"

Jasper stared expectantly at Parrot who's lips may or may not have twitched, then proceeded to giggle himself silly.

"Course th'man what wrote that joke don't know nothin'. Bodies-- they be stinkin' after just one day. En't no man gonna put 'is dick in a stiff, cold, smelly mess like that."

Teeth cut into brass rings, the muscle around his socket fluttered. Just what was that clocking boy trying to get at? To fluster him, maybe. Or mortify the poor witch, perhaps? Either or, beneath that impassive mask, a spark of anger ignited. He didn’t trust his trembling hands with the phial – glass. glass could work. – so he eased it back onto the shelf, turning his back to them all. His spine, his shoulders, had gone straight and stiff with nerves. A barely perceptible shiver had run through him. He bit down hard on his knuckle to stifle a soft growl. What he should have said was nothing at all, but --

“You – you’d be surprised, you know,” he mumbled. His hands slinked back under his coat, weakly clutching the bag to his stomach. One cradled it by the belly, the other was hidden away inside, roving over a shattered vial and a headscarf and his other myriad of trappings for comfort. The crushed glass coaxed blood when he rolled it in his fingers. Mild and meek as a mouse, he had to remind himself. Remember that.

“But...you...you—“ there was a litany of things he wanted to say, all of them unwise. “—you’d be best to ‘pologize.” The words were quiet, so quiet, but the faintest of edges had sharpened the usual monotone. “It’s damned ugly to say such awful things ‘round a woman like tha’.”

It looked as though he were muttering to the herbs. Speaking up against someone was hard enough for him. Mercy knows he couldn’t do it while looking them in the eye.

The tension in the room had gone from nothing to something in half a heartbeat. Sophie couldn't help but think that this particular staff couldn't have long been together or one would be in the ground by now. Normally she would snort, say something wry--are they still telling that one? or crack another, meaner one, a tumble died and was sent to the mortician. Working as a scullery girl in any place that would take her had not left her with particularly virginal ears. With the one-eyed man's reaction she thought perhaps not.

"Just the feverfew and willow bark, then," Sophie said, as if she hadn't heard anything nasty. She ran her fingers across her brow, touching the metal of each ring and did not look directly at the other employees. "Enough for at least two or three doses, if you wouldn't mind."

[apologies for the delay, ladies. :c]



Jasper snorted, "Aye, well ye would know, muckface."



The man had put his feet on the counter at some point and now he took them off to lean forward menacingly, "Excuse me, one-eye?" He asked in a dangerous voice, "Parrot did ye 'ear him say sommat 'orrid to me?"

There was a mumble from Parrot's side of the room and Jasper nodded slowly, "Yer right, Parrot. I think that bastard did say--"



Jasper snapped his mouth shut and glared at the witch.

Whatever. He thought sullenly. I'll have much time later.

Havek barely kept back a flinch at the sound of Jasper’s voice, his movements. His fingers twitched, grinding the glass deeper into his palm. The other hand rested on the shelf in an illusion of calm.

“I wasn’t sayin’ nothin’ horrid,” he clarified, quiet voice raising more than he was used to. He seemed to think that Jasper just simply hadn’t heard him. Havek hadn’t considered the idea that the other man was just being a prick, perhaps. He turned on his heel on the stool to face the witch, head down. The incarnadine hand slipped from the satchel, and he clutched is hands in front of him, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the blood. “I was jus’ sayin’ ya should say yer sorry to – to the good witch. Ya should be thankful ya didn’ scandalize ‘er, or somethin’,” he muttered to the floor, fingers twining in his few hanging dreads.

Havek’s gaze meekly flickered back to the woman in question. “I ‘pologize for the indignity, miss,” he piped up, bowing low to her. “But – yes, yes, miss. I’ll...I’ll get right on it.” The words didn’t sound to confident, though. He straightened up to cast a long look at the ramshackle shelves. The diagnosis was easy. It was just the whole bit about finding the herbs in this chaos that was going to be a trial.

People usually called her madam, not the least because of her advert on the cart if they could read it. Others, it was simply because she had lines on her face or because she remembered what Old Rose looked like ten years ago. 'Miss' reminded her of being much younger, in a strange, melancholy way, of when she was the soubrette and not the weary old woman she was turning into. She ignored that line of thought and concentrated on the torn up Mugrobi. She fully did not expect any kind of apology, but the thought was nice.

The joke-teller was glaring at her, probably sore for not getting the reaction he wanted. Sophie wondered if he hadn't gotten enough love in his childhood. Or gotten beaten enough.

She sidled over to the one-eyed man and pulled a tight smile at his side. She spoke low, not quite whispering and not quite at a normal voice. The voice of mysticism, that's what her daoa called it. If the others heard her, she couldn't particularly say that she meant them to or not.

"If they aimed to scandalize, they fell short a bit," Sophie said with a shrug. She cast her eyes up to the shelves. She couldn't read labels or signs, but she could recognize a few of the contents just by seeing through the glass. "You get used to some unsavory folk. Puff 'emselves up and look for people to rile. I try not to let 'em, see. My thanks for trying, though. It's been a coupla maw since my honor had any such defending."

She paused, her eyes flicking down to his bleeding hand. It had not been bleeding before, she remembered. Briefly, she considered telling him, but she couldn't imagine that he did not already know. Self-inflicted, perhaps. No, she would wait for him to bring attention, if he ever would. Her headache had not subsided, but if she held still, she could think well enough. When she guessed right, it was like magic; when she guessed wrong, she was only making friendly conversation.

Sophie looked again to his face. "You a sailor?" she asked, at conversational tones. "Out of Thul Ka?"

The door opened almost soundlessly and Shook walked into his apothecary to find it more full than he'd seen it in months. It took him a moment of wondering why exactly there was a man crawling around on his shelves. Oh right. He'd hired that man. He looked better than he had yesterday, which was a good sign. Maybe this one would last after all.

Jasper was looking especially sullen and that, Shook decided, was also a good thing.

"Junta, rosh. Ye findin' everything alright?" He peered at her carefully, assessing her character, the way she dressed, and then looked back at Havek.

"Ey kov I got ye sommat." He told the one eyed wick with an odd, half smile. He looked grimly satisfied with himself.

"Oy wot?! You ne'er got me nothin', Shakey!" Jasper squawked in protest.

When the woman sidled closer, Havek shrank away from her. Like a pair of repelling magnets. Huddling low, dragging the draping excess of the coat tight around his bony body, enclosing himself in a leather cocoon. That slitted eye fluttered anxiously, trying to look at everything except the witch beside him – but his gaze was, unfailingly, drawn back to that mess of green a top her head, to shiny hairpins and a gauzy bow. The heady scent of curry, maybe-tealeaves, and other sweet things intensified when she came close. Havek didn’t know whether this was endearing or unnerving. How long had it been since a woman had smiled at him, whispered to him? Too long ago to ponder, he decided. Maybe a handful of times in twenty-five years. But all those smiles and whispers were too far back in those misty memories from across the sea. And Havek couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t linger there.

“It’s alright. It’s nothing. Please. It…it was nothing more than any man should have done. Think--think nothing of it, miss,” he muttered.

He bobbed down into another low bow. From up on the stool, the dip brought his face a scant few inches from the witch’s hair. A thick rope of his dreads may have slipped off his shoulder, tickled close to her ear, and with that closeness the smoky reek of it would be clear. His gold eye fluttered open, lingering intently on the up-do of her locks, the way the lush green bled into black at the roots. Just a sniff, a quiet inhale through the nose, hauling down the scent of spice and dye and whatever other nice things lingered in the perfume of a woman’s hair. He pondered touching it, an innocent notion, just reaching up to touch her ribbon. Not that he ever would. It’d be too damn strange, even for him. But it was alright to think – no, no, no. This was not alright at all.

He flinched out of the bow, recoiling up to his full height. The whole string of gestures had taken seconds, but it felt like ages. Havek shuffled so that his back was flush against the racks of herbs, coaxing a gentle clinking from the shelves. Bloody hands slinked back inside his coat, dragging against his shirt. He looked away from her.

“I – I – ea. I am – was – a sailor, ea…” he managed to mutter to the shelves, quick enough to suggest that he had no desire to discuss it. “’s unimportant, though. I jus’ need to find what t’do for ya head, miss.” He just breathed, just ignored the strange buzz in his temples, the bristling skin on his arms.

For this, he was immensely grateful when Shook appeared to cut off his awkward mutterings. He risked a quick smile, just a flash of teeth, before hopping down from the stool, glad to have a reason to distance himself from the witch. Shook’s words and expression were quick to ruffle him again, though.

“Bajea – what’cha mean somethin’ for me? I—I ask for nothin’ of ya, sir,” he muttered, eyeing the old man cautiously even as he dipped into a bow.

Sophie let it drop. He was nervous as hell, jumping and pausing and losing the ends of his words before he said them. Wasn't this a strange sort--the first man she'd put out of his skin in ages and he was a terrible one-eyed ogre of a wick. It was a step down, it was. She never laid any claims to great beauty (not out loud, at least) but she'd been a wicked wonderful temptress years ago.



"Ent it just," Sophie said, switching her attention to her chipped nails, the colorful enamel coming off. It lingered still in the long deep grooves of her nails. "Madam, if you would. Madam Sophia."

Shook's arrival turned her head again, to a stabbing painful effect. "Junta," she replied with a wince and a brief raising of her hand. "Your kov's got me taken care of, mujo ma. Just a little headache."

"If ye like I can put one o'yourn eyes out, brunno. Then ye'll get a gift too." From his pocket he pulled out a careworn leather eyepatch and smiled thinly at Jasper, whose mouth was opening and closing like a fish out of water. "I'm thinkin' Hava wont be liking the gift much either, anyway."

Shook fixed a clear blue eye on his newest employee, "I wont have ye scarin' nunna customers with that gapin' hole ye got in yer face. Plus, yer givin' Parrot the willies." He smiled gently, but Havek got the impression that he was perfectly serious. It seemed unimaginable that the large, quiet man would get the willies from anything-- but Havek could see that the man had turned a quiet colour of red.

"I 'spect he has." Shook turned and said placidly to Sophie."Only yesterday he cured a case o'crotch lice. An' that was wot he warn't even workin' here."

A small smile touched at his lips, flickered and faded. What was with people behaving somewhat civilly towards him today? It was comforting and disconcerting all at once. He raised a meek hand to accept the eyepatch, but paused to scrub his hands on his shirt, fastidious as a bloody little squirrel. It was a new shirt, a white shirt, but Havek gave that little thought. Keeping up appearances obviously wasn’t his strong suite. Only then did he take the gift, rolling the fine leather between his fingers, but looking in no rush to put it on.

“Ah...thank ya muchly, sir. Thank you, thank you.” He bobbed into a low bow, the motion bordering mechanical by this point. Spindly fingers drifted up to the empty socket, the misshapen hole blown in his face, grazing the rim of bone and skin and scar. He didn’t much like covering it, no matter how many cases of the willies it caused. If you gave someone the willies, they’d often leave you be. That ugly hole was the only thing intimidating about him, and now it was covered with a handsome patch. Never the less, he shot Parrot a look he hoped seemed apologetic, dipping his head.

At the mention of the crotch incident, Havek’s placid face flickered with...something, mortification perhaps. Whatever it was, it came and went in a flash. His cloudy yellow eye swiveled down to the floor. “S-sir, tha’ innit a proper subject t’ be bringin’ up ‘round a lady like Miss—Madam--“ he cut off the feeble protest quick enough. Correcting a raucous lad was one thing, but doing the same to an employer was another mistake entirely.

Visibly crumpling, he went about the awkward business of affixing the eyepatch across his face. He tried to speak again, softly. “If’n it ent none too intrudin’ to ask, where do ya keep yer willowbark, sir? I can’t find much o’ anythin’ in all o’...all o’ this.” He gestured weakly around the shop, referencing the chaotic shelves.

"I'm sure Madam Sophia's been around it afore, lad-- Not herself, mind you, but this is an Harbour, lad. Don't be gettin' all jumbly bumbly." Shook said sternly, "We're an apothecary. Can't be tiptoin' around these things, jest gotta face 'em as they come. An' they will come! This is Old Rose. Case a crotch lice every week an' a half."

He shuffled over to one of the bottom most shelves and took out a small, blue jar. "You're a wick, yeh? So use yer head."

He pointed at the bottom shelf, "Headaches, aches, etc." Pointed to where Havek was standing, "Th'shakes, th'fever, chills." Pointed over near jasper, "Intestinal problems." Pointed behind him, "Useless shit that ye make people pay ye a lot of money for."

He listened to the instruction quietly, shuffled off to the indicated shelf quietly.

“Yes, but—it wasn' the –“ a bit of throat clearing “--infestation that bothered me none. It was tha' awful little man 'oo was afflicted tha' spooked me,” he mumbled, voice rising up from the floor.

They could go on spouting about crotches and critters and all sorts of unseemly things, but he'd not be participating. Whether she was seasoned or not, she was still a lady. It was no good at all that no one else seemed to see that. Well – they might've seen it. They just didn't care much. Ladies were something special, something different, and there were some things a man just didn't say or do around a woman. It was a matter of respect. But perhaps he was out of touch? Seven years away from women had made them seem foreign and breakable.

He brushed away the thought and squinted in the dimness, fingers roving over the rows of dusty bottles until he came across the willow bark and feverfew. He gathered them up and rose to his feet, placing the glass jars on the counter. His fingertips left dark smudges on the glass.

“Three doses, ye said? I could...brew up a batch o' the tea right 'ere an' now if the ache's really gnawin' on ya. S'a cold decoction, it has to cool afore ya can take it, so makin' it up now might cut some time off. I ent good at much, madam, but I can brew up some nice tea. If'n...if'n there's...a kettle 'round here.” He halted as he craned his neck around the shop. “Not tha' ya couldn't...do it yaself. 'cause...'cause ya smell like tealeaves. Which innit a bad thing, mind, I jus' -- Um. Righ'...” he trailed off, the fingers spreading the little whites flowers and brittle bark across the counter far more nimble than his words.

After a moment, he meekly shifted his gaze up to the witch again.

“S-Sophia, was it? Madam Sophia?”

"I've encountered all manner of unsightly afflictions in my time, a little chatter won't knock me down," Sophie said as brightly as she might manage. "I suppose that'd be alright, fixing it up here. I'd rather not go 'round with a headache. I'm not in much hurry. And I haven't done my fortune yet today, so we can see what it says, hm?"

Sophie made a note of the useless shit shelf and shifted the basket to her other arm. She began to think of the hingle in her cart, and wondered how she might prepare it. With mint, maybe, or cut in squares with cheese. The one-eyed wick's concern was charming, but she had a feeling it would grate after a while.



"That's me, alright. Madam Sophia, leaves read, cards turned, stones thrown. And tears mended, I'm a fair deft hand with the needle."
She couldn't help throwing in an advertisement. "If ever you or your friends feel the need to know your fortune or spruce up an old suit on the cheap, stop by my cart."

"Lots of 'orrid people in Old Rose. Gollies an' humans alike. En't that right, Jasper m'brunno?" Shook had suddenly turned and fixed a sharp eye on Jasper, who'd been about to put something in his mouth. "You better be plannin' on payin' for that." Shook growled. Jasper glared and put whatever he'd pinched back in a green jar, then stashed it under the table.

Shook wouldn't have expected anything less than an advertisement from another wick so he nodded, "Aye well when I've got money t'throw away I'll be sure t'stop by."

Not much you could tell an old man about his future, other than 'you'll be kickin' the bucket any time now', and Shook already knew that.

"Oh, and if we make th'tea here we'll be chargin' you extra." Shook was a wick as well, and one of the worst penny pinchers around.

"If you're hard up for boiling water, I wouldn't dream to deprive you, sir," Sophie said, sniffing a little to let Shook know that she would not play that particular game. She produced a small, somewhat clean pocket square.

She inclined her head to the one-eyed man. "Measure it out here, kov, for three doses." She leaned in closer to him. "How much would you say this'll be, m'dear?"

“No, really I wouldn’ mind jus’ brewin’ some te—right.” Flat voice sounding almost pleasant, but faltering back into silence.

He didn’t really want Sophia anywhere close to him, but neither did he want her to leave. Putting on a spot of tea was sure to keep her around for a bit longer. Garish fabric and curry perfume were...nice? Very nice, he decided. But he was never one to indulge in nice things. He knew fully well he didn’t deserve them, and they were far too much trouble, anyhow. He’d been resolutely quiet during her sales pitch, anxiously rolling one of the feverfew flowers in his fingers, trying to seem more intent on that instead. Throwing away cutter like that would be easy as ripping out teeth for him, no matter how sweet-nostalgic it might be to see some witch do false and fancy work, charting the course of his fate at the bottom of a tea cup.

His witch mama had been bad about letting her emotions rule the outcome – when she was happy with him, the dregs of tobacco juice on the kint floor proclaimed he would be prosperous. When she wasn’t, cast hingle bones would tangle and invariably say that life would render him a wreck, that he’d die cold and alone. He’d have laughed and spit in the dirt either way, back then. Now, Havek supposed he shouldn’t have been tempting fate.

When Sophie leaned in, he leaned back. His somber face had rearranged itself into the look a little boy might give a particularly menacing bug – interested, confused, and more frightened than he’d care to admit. He looked away from her quickly enough, focusing on the bit of fabric he’d shakily accepted. “I...ah...I don’t really know...?” He didn’t fathom it would be horribly much – he’d seen weedy white feverfew blossoms bristling in a few windowboxes about the Harbour, even. Somehow it didn’t cross his mind to just examine the glass jars again.

"Six tallies an' NO LESS!" Shouted Shook as he walked over to the counter. He wished he had gone to the wick festival this year...if he'd found someone to help him he would have. This woman's tough stance on business endeared him to her. He liked cheating his customers but he liked it even better when they saw he was cheating them.

"An' I'll throw in th'tea here for free. Nobody in Old Rose'll say I'm not an generous soul." As he reached the back counter he glared at Jasper until the boy got up and sat down in his seat. "I'll 'spect ye t'be memorizin' all the prices, Hava."

Shook didn't like to make it easy on his employees.

"Four tallies and the tea is free," Sophie shot back immediately. Her daoa taught her never to pay the first price without digging down a bit first and Sophie was nothing if not respectful to the memory of her beloved mother. "And I'll tell all my friends. Someone might even find all the answers to life's woes are in Shook's Apocathery."

This may or may not have been true, but now she knew what to do with all her wiggling querents with disturbingly itchy crotches. Aside from wash the stool, after they left.

"Hava?" she asked the one-eyed wick. "Is that your name, now?"