Chapter 2 Two

“A child?” I repeated, my eyes widening as I stared at her. “You actually want to have another child? Mum, you cannot possibly be serious.”

“Bernard wants children, and you know perfectly well that at my age, conceiving isn’t exactly the easiest thing.”

“You’re joking.” I stared at her, completely baffled. “After everything, you’ve decided you want to be a mother again?”

“Yes,” she said, looking almost offended by my reaction. “Why are you making it sound as though that’s a terrible thing?”

“Because, in case you’ve somehow forgotten, you weren’t exactly brilliant at being a mother the first time, and now you want to bring another child into the world as though you’ve suddenly discovered the instruction manual.”

Her brows lifted. “Here you go being dramatic” she said, “Is this you being jealous?”

My eyes widened even further. “Jealous? You genuinely think I’m jealous?”

“Well, yes,” she said, as though she had just made the most obvious observation.

I let out a short laugh, unable to believe what I was hearing. “Jealous of what exactly? The chance to spend the next twenty years cleaning up after you while you disappear whenever things become inconvenient?”

“Nellie”

“No, I’m curious. Is this the part where I’m supposed to congratulate you for finally deciding to bring another poor soul into the world, with no courage to raise one”

Her expression tightened, and for a moment, the humor disappeared from her face. “You make me sound like some dreadful mother who never cared about you.”

I looked away, suddenly finding the bottles behind her far more interesting than this conversation. “I don’t have to make you sound like anything, Mother. You managed that perfectly well on your own.”

She was quiet for a moment before sighing. “I know I wasn’t perfect.”

“Perfect was never what I asked for.”

That silenced her. I picked up the cloth beside the kettle and began wiping a perfectly clean patch of counter because, apparently, that was easier than looking at her.

“So,” I said eventually, glancing back at her, “you want me to make a potion that will help you conceive?”

“Yes.”

“And Bernard knows about this?”

“Of course he does.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And he knows you’ve come to me?” She hesitated. I stopped wiping the counter. “Mum.”

“He doesn’t know you’re my daughter,” she said quietly, offering me the sort of sheepish smile that told me she knew perfectly well how ridiculous this sounded. “I told him you were a friend of mine, so he has no idea it’s you.”

I stared at her, utterly lost for words. “Right. Well, I think you’d better leave.”

“Nellie.”

“No, Mum. Out you go before I lose my temper and curse you. You know I’ve always had a particular talent for that.”

She stared at me for a moment before gathering her gloves from the counter, clearly deciding that arguing with me was unlikely to end in her favour. “You’ve always been dramatic. You never understand me.”

“Here you go blaming me again,” I replied, turning towards the shelves and pretending to rearrange the bottles.

“I need that potion, Nellie.”

I stopped, my fingers resting against a small glass vial. “Then perhaps you should have thought about that before coming here. Try somewhere else, Mom. You’re a witch make one yourself.”

She stared at me for a moment before slowly gathering her gloves from the counter. “I didn’t want him knowing about my past, Nellie.”

I let out a disbelieving laugh. “Your past?”

“Yes. I wanted a fresh start with Bernard, and I knew that if he found out I had a grown daughter, he would start asking questions.”

“What questions mother?” I asked, “Questions you don’t want to answer.”

She nodded quietly.

I shook my head, unable to believe her. “So rather than tell the man you’re marrying that you have a daughter, you decided I was a secret best kept in the cupboard?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh, it was exactly like that.”

“Nellie, please.”

I folded my arms. “And now you want me to brew you a potion so you can have another child, while the man you’re planning to marry doesn’t even know the first one exists?”

She sighed. “When you put it like that, it sounds rather dreadful.”

“That’s because it is rather dreadful.”

She looked at me helplessly. “Will you make the potion?”

I stared at her for a long moment before shaking my head. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Her shoulders dropped. “Now go home, Mum. I have customers to disappoint and potions to brew, and I’ve had quite enough of family drama for one afternoon.”

My mother gave me one last look, clearly hoping I might change my mind, but when I reached for the cloth and began wiping down the counter, she seemed to realize that I was finished with the conversation.

“Fine,” she muttered, pulling on her gloves. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I'd rather not see you, Mother " She gave me an unimpressed look before turning towards the door, and I watched her leave without saying another word. The little bell chimed above her head as she stepped outside, and through the window I watched her disappear down the cobbled street, her figure becoming smaller with every step.

I stood there for a moment, staring after her, before letting out a long sigh.

What a dreadful woman. My mother had a peculiar talent for arriving in my life, turning everything upside down, and leaving me to deal with the mess.

I glanced around the shop, suddenly far too tired to deal with another customer, and decided I had had enough for one day. I walked over to the door, turned the little wooden sign from open to closed, and locked it before pulling the curtains across the windows.

The shop fell quiet, the only sound being the faint clinking of bottles whenever I moved between the shelves. I tidied the counter, put away the remaining herbs and made sure every potion was safely sealed before slipping my apron over my head and hanging it on its usual hook.

Pickle was already waiting beneath the counter, staring at me with the sort of judgement only a fat black rabbit could manage.

“Yes, yes, I know,” I muttered. “It has been a dreadful day.”

He twitched his nose.

“I don’t need your opinion.” He continued staring. “Honestly, you’re becoming more like my mother every day.”

Pickle turned away from me. I sighed. “Quite.”

I grabbed my coat, tucked the shop keys into my pocket, and made my way towards the door, deciding there was only one thing I wanted after the day I’d had: my bed, a warm cup of tea, and several hours in which nobody asked me to fix their broken heart, mend their disastrous love life, or help them produce a baby.

It seemed a modest enough request.