One Drop Will Be Enough

"One drop, that's all it takes." I say again, having repeated myself at least a dozen times since this indecisive woman entered my shop. She's a wishy-washy customer, my least favorite. Not that I see many determined men and women around here, they don't usually come looking for a magical remedy for their broken relationships.

"Just one?" she echoes, "and then he’ll love me again?" Even her immaculately straight blonde hair can't hide the inevitable wave of tears, but I can't tell if it's relief or sadness. I see both often, with a sprinkling of guilt and anger here and there.

"Like I said, one drop in his whiskey and he's all yours." 

"My friend told me that your love potion is what saved her from divorce, but now that I'm here," she looks from left to right, trying to hide behind her perfectly positioned bangs, "it just feels so wrong."

"All's fair in love and war. It's normal for couples to fall out of love," I place the vial of thick pink liquid in her hand and close her fingers around it, "sometimes you just need a little something special to find what you've lost."

She stares at me with her big blue eyes, eyes that are so opposite of my unremarkable brown ones. The glitter of tears somehow makes hers even bigger, more innocent, not to mention more striking. How this woman's husband could lose his feelings is beyond me. I pause for a moment and bite my lip as I turn to my wall of potions. Unless he didn't lose love at all and something else is preventing him from having sex with his wife.

"But I can't help wondering if there isn't something else going on in your relationship that has everything to do with love and yet has nothing to do with it at all?"

"What do you mean?" She stands up straight and purses her lips. I smile, believing my hunch is correct.

"I mean sex. Can he perform?" I raise an eyebrow and tilt my head curiously. This is usually the moment when my clients finally admit that their adoring husbands have never really satisfied them in bed, or that the large wand that once hit the spot was now as limp as a noodle.

"I’ve tried everything," she says, setting the pink vial on the counter and hanging her head in defeat, "but nothing I do gets him in the mood. And then he gets mad and leaves."

"It's not your fault." Too often, women blame themselves for their boyfriend's or husband's inability to get it up, which is absolutely absurd. Men are such fickle creatures, but their pride is the most fickle of all. And yet it's their inconsolable pride that keeps me in business. So who am I to complain?

"Part of me knows that, but the other part can't help but feel responsible."

"Erectile dysfunction is much more common than you think. And I have the perfect concoction to fix it all." I turn to my potions wall and search for the blue vials. Luckily for her, I always have this potion on hand. Far too many women come here thinking their partner doesn't love them, when really it's their partner's biology that isn't working. I find the box of blue vials and come back with three bottles in hand.

"Give him one full bottle a day for the next three days. For the remedy to have a lasting effect, it must be consecutive, and he can't know that you've slipped something into his drink. Otherwise, his pride will disrupt the magic. On the third night, go nuts." I wrap the three small bottles in brown paper and hand them to her across the counter. She takes them timidly.

"And that will work?" The woman’s eyes grow wet with unshed tears, filled with hope.

"If not, come back for a love potion. Magic isn’t always a quick fix, it’s the science of trial and error, after all." I wink and she gives me a small smile.

"How much do I owe you?" She reaches for her bag and pulls out her coin purse.

"One gold piece per bottle, so three total."

The woman rummages in her bag for a moment before pulling out three sparkling gold pieces that clearly came straight from the bank. I bite down on each piece to make sure they're real, nodding in approval as my teeth sink in ever so slightly. The woman carefully stows the brown package into her purse before turning to leave.

"Thank you, Madame Rori." She says, before nearly skipping out the door. They always come in so sullenly and then leave with a new bounce in their steps. Such predictable creatures, witches and women.

I take the pink vial of Liquid Lust and put it back on my shelf of love potions. After I organize my inventory for the next customer, I snap my fingers and the shelf once again becomes disguised with the typical apothecary items. Love potions may not be illegal, but they are frowned upon. If you openly sell any kind of liquid love, lust, or even enchanted libido enhancements, the Conclave always seems to find a way to shut you down.

The Conclave claims that love potions are easily manipulated to make other, more dangerous concoctions. I'd believe that rubbish if there weren't other apothecaries selling Brews of Hallucinations, Draughts of Enhanced Luck, and Elixirs of Reversed Time for crying out loud. I don't think it's because love is more dangerous, but instead because the old farts who run the Conclave are afraid of being controlled by their witchy wives. Not that I blame them, lust is a powerful weapon.

I won't claim love potions aren’t dangerous. An extra grain of crushed amethyst or a single rose petal picked and not peeled and you can make a man go mad. Good thing I’m the best and wouldn't make such a careless mistake. I suppose that's why I have a steady stream of clients looking for liquid solutions to their love lives.

"Madame Rori, is it now?" says the deep, familiar voice of a man, "I gotta say, Ro, this is not where I imagined the most talented alchemist of our generation would end up."

I whip around at Clyde gazing idly down my aisle of healing potions. He holds up my Draught of Deep Sleep and looks at me with pity in his large hazel eyes. His dark, shoulder-length dark hair is tied haphazardly at the nape of his neck, just as he wore it at the Academy, and his cocky grin tells me he hasn't changed a bit.

“Clyde.”

"It's been nearly five years and that's all?" he saunters up and places both hands on the counter. He leans in close so I can smell his familiar woodsy scent, like pine, musk, and summer nights long forgotten.

"Five years since you stormed into my dorm, demanded why I turned down the Conclave job, and then broke up with me on the spot because you couldn't see yourself with a – what did you call me? A hedge witch?" I back away from the counter and give him my best death glare.

"Ro," Clyde sighs, and meets my fiery eyes, "you know how hard I worked to get you that apprenticeship, and you turned it down without even thinking. Of course I was upset." He leans closer to me and I see a hint of regret dance across his face, but also something else, something I can't quite read.

“This shop has been in my family for seven generations, it’s been my future since the moment I was born.”

“But that’s never what you wanted. You wanted something bigger. You wanted to be someone, make history. I gave you that chance.”

"A chance to be a slave to the Conclave and never have a say in what I brew or what my elixirs are used for? Here I get the freedom I need to be creative. I can write my own story without anyone telling me what to do. Who are you to waltz in here and start lecturing me on my own choices anyhow?" I motion my arms wildly and send a jar of crow's feet shattering to the ground.

I mutter under my breath and quickly lower myself to pick up the large shards of glass. The sharp sting of sliced skin sends a hiss through my teeth, and Clyde rushes around the counter to help clean up the mess.

“Are you okay?” He says softly.

I sit in silence as drops of blood paint my rickety wooden floor. Clyde's jaw tightens at the sight of my blood. With a snap of his fingers, the jar becomes whole and the crow's feet resume their place among my wall of supplies. He squats down next to me and pulls a white cloth from his jacket. Carefully, he wipes away the threads of blood that have spread across my hand and he gently wraps the cloth around the shallow cut. I could easily grab my Liquid Blood Clot and fix the cut right up, but I’m too busy remembering how nice it is to have a physical magic user around.

"This apothecary is my legacy, a future I can build for myself." I look down at Clyde's hands in mine and pull my gaze up to him regretfully, where I meet his eyes.

“But that is precisely what I am here to offer you, Ro.” His eyes soften and that playful smile returns, replacing whatever darkness that had briefly taken over.

"And what is that exactly?" I can’t deny my own curiosity, there has to be a reason why Clyde came here after all this time. As much as I wanted him to be here for me, he always had a motive.

"Our Master Alchemist died in a terrible accident," Clyde begins gravely as his gaze drifts back to our hands, "Master Marcus was brewing up a new invisibility draught and accidentally mixed ectoplasm with Dead Sea salt."

“Some Master Alchemist," I scoff, "One of the first things we learn at the Academy is not to let those ingredients anywhere near each other.” That’s a mistake they don’t even let you make as a student, considering there's only one draught that truly requires both of those ingredients, and it’s sure not for an invisibility elixir. If he mixed those two together, either he was incredibly stupid, or invisibility was not his goal. I’m not sure which is more unsettling.

“He had his quirks. But then again, so do all genius alchemists.”

“You aren’t wrong,” I agree.

“I’m here to ask you to take his job, to be the 49th Master Alchemist. The Minister has personally selected you to serve our people in the most honorable way and truly make an impact on wizardry history.” Clyde pauses to let that incredibly scripted yet juicy offer sink in.

"Oh." I look around my shop at the aisles piled high with vials of this and that, the dim lights threatening to go out, the cobwebs that keep popping up even though I clean every week. I make enough to get by and treat myself to a particularly nice bottle of Cabernet here and there, but I haven't made the big bucks like I'd planned, nor have I become a household name with my ingenious love enhancements. I've nearly doubled my mother's annual earnings and help hundreds of people every year. You'd think that would be enough, but Clyde is right, it's not the lavish lifestyle I dreamed of.

“You know I can’t leave my shop. It was all my mother left me when she died. I can’t just sell it and move on, not when this place has been in my family for so long. And especially not for a Conclave job.”

“You're just being stubborn, and it's holding you back, Ro.” Clyde says delicately, “I can see you’re thinking about it.” He pulls me close. I feel the heat of his breath, a desire in his eyes. But whether that’s for me or my alchemy skills I have yet to figure out.

“Please leave, Clyde,” I pull my hands away from his and gesture around, “this is my life, I can’t just abandon it.”

“You disappoint me, Ro,” Clyde straightens up and pulls a card out of his jacket pocket, “but if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He turns to walk out and takes one look at the potions and bottles of ingredients behind me, “I’ve heard you’ve become quite the love potions master.” He says, brows furrowed.

“I’ve been selling these since the Academy, plus, it’s not illegal to enhance your love life.”

“I know, just…” he pauses before continuing, “be careful.”

“You know me.”

“Careful with just a hint of danger,” we say harmoniously and both smile at each other like the young lovers we once were.

“How could I ever forget,” he smiles that lethal grin once more, “I’ll see you around, Ro.” Clyde turns around to leave.

“And it’s Madame Rori now, if you please.”

“Whatever you say, Ro.” Clyde winks and walks out the door.

I wish I could stop the parade of butterflies fluttering around my stomach, but they just keep flapping away. How one wizard can be so equally sexy and manipulative is absolutely infuriating. Clyde will never understand why I keep Granny Rita's Apothecary running. Like almost everyone who comes from the Conclave, he believes that you follow the single streamline path to a Conclave job. He just doesn't understand why anyone would want something different, why anyone would want something more.

“Hello? Is there a Madame Rori here? I got your name from a friend, and she said you can help me with, well, my husband.” A shaky voice calls from the front door.

"You've come to the right place, tell me sir, what's going on between you and your husband." And just like that, I'm back to business and pushing Clyde Scott and his offer as far away from my mind as possible.