Chapter 60

Rapunzel’s shop smelled like everything good in the world—dried lavender, rosemary, something sweet and resinous I could never quite name. I pushed open the door, the little bell chiming above my head, and she looked up from her mortar and pestle with that warm smile that always made me feel welcome.

“Rose! Right on time.” She wiped her hands on her apron—stained with a dozen different colors from years of grinding herbs and roots. “I have your order ready. The arnica oil turned out beautifully this batch.”

“The dwarves will be pleased,” I said, setting my basket on the counter. “Grumpy’s been complaining about his shoulder again. I’ve been rubbing it every night after supper, but it’s not getting better.”

“Mining work.” Rapunzel reached under the counter, pulling out a small clay jar sealed with wax. “It’s brutal on the body. All that swinging picks and hauling ore.” She handed me the jar. “Massage this in deep, right where the shoulder meets the neck. Twice a day if you can manage it. The arnica will help with the inflammation, and I’ve added a bit of comfrey—that’s for the deeper tissue.”

I took the jar, turning it in my hands. Heavy, full, the wax seal perfect. “You’re a miracle worker.”

“I’m an herbalist,” she said, already reaching for the other items. “There’s a difference, though most people can’t tell.” She set out bundles of dried thyme, chamomile flowers in a small linen pouch, and a larger bottle of the beard oil the dwarves loved—something with cedar and clove that made them smell like a forest after rain. “The thyme is fresh from last week’s harvest. The chamomile is for tea, I assume?”

“Sleepy can’t settle without it.”

“Good man. Chamomile before bed, everyone should.” She was counting out small packets now, her fingers quick and practiced. “I’m adding extra mugwort—no charge. Doc mentioned last time that Happy’s been having strange dreams. Mugwort helps with that. Steep it with the chamomile, just a pinch.”

I watched her work, the way she knew exactly where everything was, how her hands moved with the confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times. I’d been coming here for two years now, every few weeks when we needed supplies, and I’d learned more from Rapunzel in passing conversation than I’d ever learned in the castle.

Which herbs stopped bleeding. Which ones brought down fever. Which ones you absolutely never mixed unless you wanted someone dead.

That last one, she’d mentioned almost casually once, when I’d asked about the locked cabinet in the back corner. “Poisons,” she’d said simply. “Useful, but dangerous. Not for amateurs.”

I’d thought about that a lot.

“Did you hear about the new millstone?” Rapunzel asked, wrapping the thyme bundle with twine. “The village finally got the funds together. Baker Thom is beside himself—says he’ll be able to grind twice as much flour in half the time.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Maybe his bread won’t be sold out by noon.”

“Maybe.” She laughed. “Though knowing Thom, he’ll just make twice as much and sell out by noon anyway. The man can’t help himself.” She paused, studying a small vial of something dark and oily. “I’m adding willow bark tincture. For pain. If any of them twist an ankle or take a bad fall in the mines—three drops in water. No more than three, Rose. It’s strong.”