Chapter 2 The Customer Who Hasn’t Arrived Yet

Riley's POV

By the time I finished scrubbing the purple constellation from my ceiling, I had decided that whoever planned to visit my shop that morning had better appreciate a witch who could clean up after her own mistakes.

I had barely put the cloth away when the bell above the door rang, and Maddie Collins swept inside carrying a paper bag against her chest. The smell of warm cinnamon and butter followed her into the shop, immediately making me forget that I had planned to eat breakfast before opening.

“You look terrible,” Maddie said as she came through the door.

I looked at her over my shoulder and decided that friendship had clearly failed me. “Good morning to you too. My cauldron cheated.”

She placed the paper bag on the counter and began unpacking pastries with the confidence of someone who considered my shop an extension of her own kitchen. Two cinnamon rolls, three honey buns, and a small fruit tart appeared one after another, filling the room with the smell of warm cinnamon and butter and immediately making me forget that I had planned to eat breakfast before opening.

“I brought breakfast,” she said.

I picked up a honey bun and took a bite before answering. “I forgive you.”

“That was fast.”

“I am easily bribed before nine in the morning.”

Maddie leaned against the counter while I took a bite, watching me with the expression she usually wore when she knew something I did not. She had been my best friend long enough to recognize when I was distracted, and unfortunately, she had never learned the valuable skill of leaving me alone about it.

Before Maddie could say anything else, a bottle on the back shelf gave a tiny sneeze and released a puff of lavender-colored steam. I caught it before it tipped, while Maddie calmly stole a piece of the fruit tart as though minor magical disasters were simply another part of breakfast.

"You are thinking about yesterday's note."

I swallowed. "I'm thinking about breakfast."

"You are terrible at lying."

I glanced toward the folded note beneath the counter, exactly where I had hidden it after reading it far too many times. I still had no idea who had written it, but the request bothered me because I knew there was no honest way to give them what they wanted.

Heartcraft was not a spell for changing people. I had been thinking about Heartcraft more than usual since Netty's visit. The magic had never felt like an advantage to me so much as a responsibility, because knowing what hurt someone did not mean I had the right to decide what they should feel afterward.

I had learned that lesson early, mostly because Professor Olivia Grant had made certain I understood it. She was the sort of professor who could make "good effort" sound like a warning, and she had an irritating habit of noticing whenever I took the easy path.

By late morning, I had closed the shop for an hour and hurried across the academy grounds toward Potioncraft, still carrying half a honey bun in one hand because apparently I had decided breakfast was something I could complete between errands.

The Potioncraft classroom was already noisy when I arrived. Two students near the windows were arguing over a cauldron that had turned an alarming shade of green, while someone at the back was trying to convince a floating spoon to stop stirring their potion without permission.

Professor Olivia Grant stood at the front of the room with her arms folded, watching the chaos with the patient expression of someone who had seen far worse.

“Brooks,” she called as I slipped into my seat. “You are late.”

“I brought breakfast.”

“That is not an excuse.”

“It is a very good breakfast.”

A few students nearby laughed, and Professor Grant gave me the look that meant she was trying not to smile.

“Today,” she said, turning back toward the board, “we are working on emotional balance.”

A student raised a hand. “Does that mean the potion makes you happy?”

“No,” Professor Grant said.

Another hand went up. “Calm?”

“Not necessarily.”

The first student frowned. “Then what does it do?”

Professor Grant picked up a small glass vial from her desk. Inside, the pale gold liquid moved slowly, catching the light whenever she tilted it.

“It helps the drinker remain themselves while experiencing an emotion without allowing that emotion to take complete control.”

The classroom quieted a little.

I stopped chewing.

That was the difference people often missed about emotional magic. Feeling something strongly was not the same as being ruled by it, and making a difficult emotion disappear was not the same as healing it.

Professor Grant continued explaining the balance between calming ingredients and restorative ones while students began measuring their first components. Around me, the room filled with the familiar sounds of Potioncraft, glass tapping against wooden tables, spoons scraping against cauldrons, and the occasional hiss of an ingredient that had been added too quickly.

At the table beside mine, a student's potion suddenly produced a puff of blue smoke.

“Is that supposed to happen?” she asked.

“No,” Professor Grant said.

The student stared at the cauldron. “Is it dangerous?”

“No.”

She sighed with relief.

“It is simply going to smell like cabbage for the rest of the afternoon.”

The entire table groaned.

I laughed into my sleeve while Professor Grant moved on to the next student.

By the end of the lesson, my notes were covered in measurements and arrows, and I found myself thinking again about Heartcraft. It had always seemed strange that people expected emotional magic to provide simple answers when feelings were rarely simple in the first place.

Netty had wanted something to make her stop hurting.

The mysterious customer wanted something that would make another person stop loving.

Both requests sounded different, but underneath them was the same wish, the hope that an uncomfortable feeling could simply be removed.

I understood that wish.

I just did not believe magic should grant it.

When the bell rang, students gathered their things and spilled into the corridor, talking over one another about lunch, assignments, and whose potion had produced the worst smell. I tucked my notes into my bag and decided that if emotional balance had taught me anything, it was that I probably needed something sweet before attempting the rest of my day.

By midday, I had convinced myself that I was not going to think about the mysterious customer. That lasted until I walked into the academy café.

I had planned to grab tea, eat the rest of the fruit tart, and return to the shop before the afternoon rush. Instead, I stopped just inside the doorway because the café was louder than usual, filled with students talking over one another, cups floating between tables, and the warm smell of toasted sugar drifting from the kitchen.

Maddie had saved me a seat near the window.

A pair of first-years hurried past carrying a tray between them, arguing in whispers about whose tea had started floating. The tray gave an offended little wobble, and the cups settled themselves before either student could drop anything. Nobody around them even looked up, which told me this was apparently considered a normal lunch-hour inconvenience at Silverbrook.

I started toward it, then noticed someone sitting at a table across the room.

He was a fae.

I knew that much immediately. But, there was something about the way he carried himself that made the crowded café seem slightly less crowded around him. He sat with one hand around a cup of tea, dressed neatly enough to look as though he had never spilled anything on himself in his life, while two students nearby whispered about him when they thought he was not listening.

He looked up. For one brief moment, his gaze crossed the room and met mine.

I looked away first, mostly because I had no reason to stare. Still, when I reached Maddie's table, I found myself glancing back once more, only to discover that he was already looking elsewhere.

"Who are you looking at?" Maddie asked.

"No one. I was looking at the tea."

"The tea is behind you."

I turned to glare at her, and she smiled innocently before pushing the fruit tart toward me. I decided silence was safer.

I did not know his name yet, and I had no idea why I had noticed him at all. He was simply another student at Silverbrook Academy, another stranger passing through a morning that had already contained one impossible potion request.

At least, that was what I told myself.

By late afternoon, I was back at The Remedy & Ruin, rearranging bottles while the last sunlight turned the windows gold.

I had almost forgotten about the note. Almost. The brass bell above the door rang.

I looked up. Nobody came in. The door remained closed. For several seconds, I stood perfectly still, listening to the quiet shop. Then I noticed something on the floor just inside the entrance... a small silver coin rested on the wooden boards. I walked toward it slowly.

The coin was unlike anything I had seen before. A delicate symbol had been carved into one side, something that looked almost like a flower surrounded by curling lines, and the metal felt strangely warm when I picked it up.

I turned it over in my palm. There was nothing written on it. No name, no explanation, just the same faint silver shine as the seal on yesterday's note. I looked toward the door. The shop was empty. Yet the bell had rung.

I closed my fingers around the coin and felt a strange little thrill of anticipation move through me. Whoever had left it wanted me to know they had been here, and if the note was telling the truth, they would be back tomorrow.

This time, I intended to be ready.