Eli

“So, how’s the shop?”

The voice echoed about the empty store, striking all the shelves Eli hadn’t yet filled with potions. But he couldn’t bring himself to begrudge the open spaces. Seeing his handiwork slowly fill the shelves was immensely satisfying, and after just a few days, he had made excellent progress. Almost all of his crates were unpacked, his cauldrons set up, his ingredients stored. His second-level flat still left something to be desired—like chairs, for example—but Eli’s Elixirs would be ready to open within the week.

And Eli was counting down the minutes—the blaring amount of red in his ledger was already painful to look at.

“It’ll be open real soon,” he said, projecting his enthusiasm so his mother would hear it. He was leaning on the front counter and speaking toward a large, flat river stone in his palm. As his mother responded from her home in Kolkea, a faint ripple of light traveled through the striations on the rock.

“That’s great, honey,” June Valenz said. Snatches of footsteps and other voices faded in and out as she moved. “Now, how did the. . .”

But one voice kept following her—his younger sister Lily’s, high and clear.

“Tell Eli I say hi!”

“I will—”

“No, tell him now!”

Eli smiled and shook his head. “Hi, Lily.”

“Lily, please,” June muttered, then brightened again. “How did the place look when you arrived? It was all cleaned out for you, right?”

Then her voice whipped away, replaced by a deeper one. “Eli! How’s the shop?”

A tired sigh through the stone. “Marcos, we already covered this.”

“I want to hear it for myself, love.”

Eli grinned. “Hey, Pa. Shop’s good, opening soon. The old owner left behind a couple plants, but that’s it.”

“Ah, any good ones?”

“Some nice basil, actually.”

June gave a hum. “And how’s Tom feeling about the place?”

Eli froze.

“You. . .did unpack her, didn’t you?”

“Um.” He slipped the stone into his pocket and speed-walked across the store. “Not yet.”

Lily’s voice sliced back in. “Come on, Eli!”

“Sorry, I had other things to do!”

He pawed through the crates until he found what he was looking for—a straw-filled box containing a wand and a smattering of tarnished objects. Forks, old daggers, a round orcish beer mug, a small broom head. . .

He dumped the items onto the front counter and waved the wand twice. With a shuddering jolt, the objects dragged themselves into place around the beer mug. The daggers and wheels formed legs at the base, while the forks created arms at the top. The broom head dropped itself directly into the mug with a satisfying plunk, rattling the enchanted stones at the bottom.

Miss Tomato the Automaton shook her little broom head, rubbed at her bristles with a fork hand, and turned her eyeless face to Eli.

“Good morning, Tom,” he said. “Have a nice sleep?”

She reached for him wordlessly, and he scooped her into a hug. Years ago, his older brother had won her in a bet with some orcish travelers, and to his brother’s dismay, the little automaton had imprinted on Eli instantly.

“How is she?” Marcos asked. Eli set Tom on the counter, where she swung her little dagger legs and looked about the store. A bubble of joy instantly filled his chest. Had she imprinted on him, or was it the other way around?

“She’s perfect, as always.”

“I’m glad you have her,” June said. “Though I’m sure you’ve already made friends on the street.”

The bubble of joy deflated, and he paused a second too long.

“Eli?”

“Are they being rude?” Lily’s voice grew louder. “If anyone’s being rude, you know I’ll come over there and—”

Eli held up his hands, though they couldn’t see the gesture. “No, they’re all great.”

“Except?”

He glanced out the window. The Griffin’s Claw Potions and Tinctures shop had closed for the day, its windows dark save for one on the second floor. Through the curtains, Eli could see the silhouette of Ambrose Beake, turned away from the street, his long nose stuck in a book. Even in repose, he looked stiff and joyless.

Eli’s chest tightened. Week one, and he had already bungled his new venture. “It’s the shop across the street,” he admitted. “There’s. . .another potioneer.”

Lily cursed on his behalf; both parents admonished her. “Another one?”

“I didn’t know about him,” he blurted out. “The seller never said anything, and my map didn’t list out the stores—”

“What are you going to do? Is there any other place you can move to?”

“Now you sound like him.” Eli scoffed. “I can’t move, I don’t have the money. I threw it all at this place.” Stupid, stupid, stupid—

“So, you’ve met the potioneer?” Lily asked. “What’s he like? Paint a picture so I can imagine myself punching him.”

“Lily.”

“Pa, come on,” she pouted. “He’s the competition. Give me the details, give me the drama, let me live vicariously through—”

“All right, all right.” Eli laughed as he moved to the workroom. Lily had all the bloodlust of a feral griffin, and he treasured the moments he could make it work in his favor. “He walks in while I’m unpacking, right? Tall, skinny, about my age. Light blue hair and eyes. Half-elf, I think.”

Rustling on the other end, as if Lily was nodding. “Okay, okay, I’m thinking, like. . .a waify iceberg. You could take him in a fight.”

“No, Lily,” his father tried.

“Yes, Lily.” Eli grinned wider. “So, he comes in and immediately judges me. Parades around his apprenticeship, asks how I’m getting into the Guild, even asks me when I’m going to close.” Lily gasped. “Right? Condescending, cold, a total snob.” He tensed again just thinking about it—how the half-elf had looked down his nose at Eli, his icy gaze evaluating him with a mix of annoyance and disdain.

“You should punch him,” Lily said.

“Violence is not the answer—”

“Well, I’m not there to do it for him, Ma!”

While his family argued, Eli set down the stone and rifled through his college potion notes. They were stacked on the dusty workbench, reams of recipes and essays he hadn’t yet filed. But if Ambrose was truly Guild-certified, Eli would have to break out the more complex recipes he knew. . .

He flipped over a paper from one of his higher-level courses—a piece of required reading, one he barely understood—and his fingers stilled on the name of the author.

“Just because you chased off one thief does not mean you get to. . .” Marcos sighed. “We’ll discuss this later. Eli, you still there?”

Eli kept staring at the name.

The text underneath his fingers was clear: A. Beake, CPM. He looked back up to the windows. He couldn’t count how many times he had seen the name in his research back at Driftwood College. He had imagined the writer to be a crotchety old armchair alchemist, or a sallow-faced academic holed up in a library.

Not the tall, young half-elf running the potion shop across the street.

“Eli?” June ventured, dragging him back to reality. “Are you all right?”

Eli threw the papers back on the bench and forced a smile onto his face. He was screwed, he was absolutely screwed. “Fine. All good, Ma. I’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Her tone softened. “We’re very proud of you, you know. It may be tough, but you can make this shop work.”

Unlike everything else, Eli wanted to say. Unlike the farm, the smith, the griffin-keeping, the botanist gig. . .

But this would be different. The shop would be different. He swallowed his words and nodded along with his mother. “Thank you.”

“So, when can I visit—?” Lily started, but her question sank under the growing tumble of other voices. His siblings—the ones still at home, at least—were tromping in for dinner, tracking in desert dust and fresh stories.

“Is that Eli?”

“Excuse you, I was talking to him.”

“Hey, pass me the stone thing next—”

“Has he gone to a Fireball game yet?”

As they all squabbled over the device, Eli leaned against the workroom table, the splintered wood biting into his hand as much as the petty commotion bit into his heart. He was no stranger to travel nor settling into new places. But the first week away from home was always the hardest.

“Go help me set the table!” Marcos verbally swatted the others away. “Sorry, Eli, we have to go. You know how these scavengers are. . .”

“Ruthless.” Eli picked absently at the wood. “I miss them.”

“I know.” His father paused. “You take care of yourself and Tom, now. She’s the wisest little beer mug I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, she did pick you, after all.”

Eli swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “Say hi to the others for me?”

Crackling as someone grabbed the stone on the other side.

“Hey.” Lily was breathing heavily, as if she had fought someone for access. “Hey. Reach out next week and tell us all about how you kicked that iceberg’s ass.”

“Lily!”

Eli laughed over his father’s response, and the lump in his throat dissolved a little. “Will do.”

“You got this.”

His eyes fell on The Griffin’s Claw, all cold, tidy shelves and expensive wares. No advertising, no signs, no warmth. He drummed his fingers on the bench and bit his lip in thought.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I got this.”