Elemental smoke rippled around Florin's tall figure like smoldering coals caught in a gentle breeze. He huffed a laugh. "I swore Tabitha stole more things off me over the years than everyone else who tried their best to rip me off with a sale." A smile steeped in memory slowly spread across his mouth. "I couldn't keep her away. She was always arriving without an invite to chat and to clean, curious over the wares I sold."

"And she continued to visit you? Throughout all these years?"

He nodded with a tight smile. "Tabitha had another life before she met your father. She had one foot in the world of Houses, another foot placed within my own. Your mother was the keeper of many secrets, some of which she's never shared with me. She had a very difficult childhood and faced more heartache..." My body went rigid, wondering what he was going to say, what he was implying, but the Horned God expelled the next words with a mournful sigh. "She was more than a friend to me. She was..." Deep emotion swam in his eyes. He quickly cast the thick fringe of lashes downward to hide himself from me. Shifting his body sideways, he fussed with the bits and pieces scattered over the workbench. His voice was rough and uneven when he confessed quietly, "I miss her." Then his mouth tipped up on one side, and his eyes flared wide before he blinked rapidly as if suddenly astounded by a thought. He stared straight ahead at the wall and spoke under his breath as if speaking to himself. "I even miss the incessant chattering."

Thorny heat tightened my throat. My voice had a raspy quality to it. "My mother's not dead."

"I know." He snorted, gaze slicing to mine. "A car accident would never have killed Tabitha. Not with the bloodlines flowing through her veins. The unnatural healing." Smoke scattered when his long ears twitched.

Florin's enormous ram's horns tipped back as he jutted his chin towards the vials and herbs scattered on the workbench beside him. His voice became sharp and businesslike. "Make yourself useful and give me a hand with this."

Several scents competed for dominance within Florin's office. Logs popped and spat as they burned on the hearth. Underneath the smokey perfume of apple wood was a faint foul note rising from the small cauldron hanging above the crackling fire. Amber flames flickered around the pot's blackened sides as a murky green liquid simmered inside. And from a bucket of hot soapy water that sat on a footstool wafted aromatic lavender in clouds of steam. But what I was most curious about was the acrid metallic scent of fresh blood clinging to the toasty air.

I pushed off the door frame and walked deeper into the office, my boots leaving the running rugs and thumping across the stone floor. First I headed to the huge writing desk and placed the bag of freshly baked croissants and the rolled-up burlap sack on top of the polished desktop. Beads of wax dribbled down fat candles to pool in metal holders. Honeyed light spilled over a ledger that was splayed open on the desk. An inkwell, and a handful of brightly plumed quills of golden pheasant and peafowl, rested in a pewter vase, and sitting next to a wooden bowl of nicknacks with silver coins and tiny bones was a smaller writing set. It was more human-sized with albatross feather quills. A sharp pang of surprise and sorrow twisted my heart as realization sank through me. It was my mother's writing set, I was sure of it. And there was more. On the wall was a black tote bag hooked over a set of Impala horns. Several feather dusters with rainbow-striped fronds poked out of the top of the bag, and on top of a filing cabinet sat a woven basket with blue furry cloths tucked inside. They were exactly the kind of shammy cloth my mother adored for their versatile use. And sitting on the fire mantle was a bowl of the potpourri with wood shavings, spices, and dried petals that she made every so often. A strange homely touch in this otherworldly setting.

Tears burned the back of my eyes and I fisted my hands so tightly my short nails dug into my palms. My gaze grazed greedily over the writing desk and coffee table, both polished with rich oils, the armchairs softened with cushions in vibrant colors of tangerine and butterscotch and adorned with pretty roses. The clumsy stitching revealed that it had to have been my mother who'd spent her time decorating them with threads of silver. The space was cozy and almost human, if not for the oversized furniture to accommodate the Horned God's large proportions.

I shifted over to the workbench, a little disoriented at seeing little pockets of my mother about the office. I dazedly shook my head, trying to reconcile it all. This place, this other world of my mother's, which she'd cloaked in secrecy for all these years was a side to her I never knew existed.

The workbench was huge and high, and the tabletop reached my chest. Before me were all sorts of items—discarded, torn in half and laying about, partly wrapped in linen, or sitting in uncapped vials. There was also a mortar and pestle with the scrapings of a fibrous poultice rimming its innards. A pungent smell of herbs and the sting of magic coated the stone bowl. It was a little awkward standing there reaching for the collection of oddities, and I wondered how Mom fared doing the same thing. She'd probably have to stand on something to give her additional height. Perhaps the footstool on which the bucket of hot water was perched.

"Put them away in there," Florin ordered in his deep gruff voice. He flicked his talons toward the apothecary cabinet jutting up against the wall beside the workbench. Bending down, he dipped his hand into the bucket with steam rising in thin streaks. Hot water sloshed around when he pulled out a hard bristled brush, and he took to the pools of dark green blood and scrubbed hard.

The blood splashed on the worn and nicked table was fresh. And since there was no indication Florin was the one wounded, Nelle and I had obviously come at the tail end of the Horned God's ministrations to some thing. A creature had stolen out of his lair as we'd descended the staircase that led from the market. I'd stared at a pair of slender yellow eyes, its spindly body almost hidden amongst a lacy film of mist colored the same shade as pine. It had held my gaze, blinking once, before it turned away to hobble down the staircase and into the darkness beyond.

I reached for the vials and began to stopper them with their corks. "You were healing someone?"

He grunted with a nod. "You just missed crossing paths with him. A Gwilin that had just managed to survive a Tjolk attack. Had a series of nasty bites to his arm and leg that were on the verge of festering."

Every so often I'd accompanied Dad on a hunt. We'd come across the occasional Tjolk. They were long-limbed lesser creatures with leathery skin and star-shaped pupils. Solitary creatures that hunted the savage wilds of the Hemmlok Forest. Though they could eat vegetation and rocks, they much preferred the taste of flesh, and in this case, a harmless Gwilin.

I gathered up the bits and pieces scattered over the work table. Wretchedness bound itself around my chest like loops of rope, tightening and making it hard to swallow against the spiny lump in my throat. My mind turned toward thoughts of my mother, imagining her in this office helping Florin like I was doing right now. I was glad to do something with my hands to give me time to collect my wrecked emotions and I was happy enough to work alongside the Horned God in silence.

There were dried herbs I recognized and some I didn't. Chipped black stones that were ice cold against my fingertips. A pliable tacky orange substance that hummed with dark magic, and desiccated scraps of blue flesh that had turned to leather. The Qing apothecary cabinet had lots of tiny drawers. The wood was stained cherry red and a few of the drawers were left open as if Florin had been in a hurry to swipe their contents. I poked around and put a few of the items back. Some of their homes were easy to find, others not so much. Eventually, all that was left to store away were a few glass vials.

The sound of bristles scraping against wood filled the room, along with splashing and a rain of droplets as Florin plunged the brush into the bucket for more fresh water. Lavender permeated the air from the build-up of soapy froth as he scrubbed the wooden tabletop clean. "What do you remember of that day your mother brought you here?" he asked, pausing in his work.

I eased out a breath. "I remember most of it." I glanced along my shoulder at the office drenched in candlelight, my memory spinning back to when I'd peered into his office and watched my mother's golden threads of power wavering around her figure, her hand clutching Florin's arm as she stole his pain. "I don't remember how we got here, or how we left."

Dipping my hand into my jeans pocket, I pulled out the stone from my dream—not a dream but a memory of the brief time I'd spent in this lair when I'd been five years old. The stone that had glowed red in my mother's hand. The same stone I found a few days ago, hidden in a secret pocket in one of my mother's handbags. I pinched the stone between my fingers and raised my hand to show it to Florin. The stone was flat and round and utterly dull and ordinary.

A flash of recognition widened the Horned God's strange eyes. "Ah," he murmured with such wistfulness in his voice, that a pang of loss squeezed my heart. "It would glow red if I ever had need for your mother."

"When you were in pain?"

He nodded. "Years ago, she insisted on a method of communication between us, so I could alert her when I needed her to steal away my pain. I didn't use the stone often... Only when things got really bad." He started scrubbing again, the muscles flexing in his forearm with the rough short movement. "That day, I'd been selfish and called for help. I didn't realize your mother would be so worried she'd risk bringing you along."

I expect, that day, she and I were already in the city and there was no one else about that she could leave me with.

"Your knee..." My words drifted apart when I realized Florin seemed fine. In fact, when I thought about it, I hadn't seen him limp at all. My gaze snagged on a tall, wrought-iron stand filled with several walking canes near the large armchair. Tucking the stone back into my pocket, I squinted at Florin and his easy movements. "Your knee no longer troubles you?"

He made an irritated huffing sound and scrubbed even harder. "It wasn't a natural ailment. I'd been cursed centuries ago. After Tabitha..." and it was his turn to look uncomfortable, waiting for the words heavy with meaning to slowly fade away. "I took up your mother's advice. I apologized to the Witch for the offense I'd given and she eventually lifted the curse, if somewhat grudgingly."

My eyebrows rose. His bad knee had been because he'd been cursed. And with the way his face was pinched into harsh lines and the way he attacked the wooden table, muttering beneath his breath, I could tell it still pissed him off that he'd had to apologize. Obviously, Florin was fucking stubborn. He'd put up with the pain for centuries rather than ask for pardon.

Stopping abruptly, he wiped his forehead with his curled wrist. Dropping his hand away, he tapped the brush on the table in a ponderous rhythm. "Most come to me to buy or sell things, but a few come because they've been hurt. Now I do for others what your mother used to do for me. I help those who've been injured in some way." And then he added quietly, his eyes sliding my way and softening. "That was your mother. Always willing to help others."

I'd stilled, my fingers reaching for a vial filled with slender stems studded with sharp thorns the color of brilliant garnet. Astonishment swelled in my chest at the thought that my mother had left such an impression on a Horned God he'd chosen to honor her in this way.

Florin dropped the scrubbing brush onto the workbench with a clatter and set to drying off the table with a blue shammy cloth.

The glass was cool beneath my fingertips when I picked up the vial. Set amongst the apothecary cabinet's tiny drawers was a cupboard. I pulled the doors open and discovered a set of shelves holding rows and rows of glass vials. One sparkled with an iridescent sheen of vibrant colors and it looked as if someone had bottled a rainbow. Another radiated a whitish glow as if it contained captured starlight. And the vial beside it glittered with peacock-blue fish scales that had a strange liquid quality to them.

Water splashed as Florin tossed the cloth and scrubbing brush into the bucket. He turned around to face me. "Those are my very rare findings."

The vial I'd nudged aside so I could put away the ones Florin had selected for his ministrations looked like it had a sprinkling of dull dust gathered at its bottom. Boring compared to the jewel-hued contents of the other vials.

"That's the salty residue from Skalki's tears," Florin elaborated.

I cut him a startled glance. "From our goddess?"

He made a harrumphing sound, crossing his large arms over his barrelled chest. "So the seller claimed. Skalki's joyful tears. Tears she shed after saving her lover from Nine Hells."

I squinted at the grains of salt sprinkled at its glass bottom. "Do you believe it's true?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. The power contained within the tiniest speck of salt is unlike anything I've felt before."

And I agreed with him. The moment I plucked it out, my fingers curling around the glass vial, a bristly shiver of magic rushed down my hand, along my bones, stretched beneath my skin with curiosity. The vial practically vibrated with life in my hand. "What can it do? What could you use it for?"

In my periphery, I saw his talons trilling a beat over the patch of downy blue-black fur on his upper arm as he spoke his thoughts aloud. His rough voice became smoother, contemplative. "Skalki wept for centuries when her brother Hazus refused to give her mortal lover back to her. It was her heartache and wrath that birthed the Gestelt tree." We all knew Skalki's history, how her mournful tears had seeped into the earth and given life to the wandering spirit, the celestial shard buried deep underground. It unfurled from the earth in the shape of a tree and it had the venomous properties to bring down a Horned God. The crossbow bolt I'd pulled from Sage's body after he'd been shot by those masked warriors down in the catacombs had been carved from that very tree.

Florin made a thoughtful sound at the back of his throat, dragging my attention back to him. "It stands to reason that perhaps these tears of joy could heal someone from the fatal effects of the Gestelt tree." He hummed once more, slanting his massive head and frowning at the vial. "Maybe. There's only a pinch of salt and I have no idea how much would be needed, and if indeed it would work."

With a grunt, he leaned forward. His talons clacked a hollow tempo on the stone mortar and pestle when he picked it up from the workbench. Stooping sideways he grabbed hold of the handle to the bucket of dirty water and lumbered away to disappear through a doorway in the back of the office.

The flesh on the tips of my fingers were heating up from the thrumming power coursing from the salty grains. I twisted the vial around, quickly and a little clumsily, curious myself if indeed it could do what the Horned God suspected. Putting it back on the shelf, I closed the cupboard up and shook my hand free from the heat and the sharp-toothed power vibrating down my arm. Wandering back to the threshold of the office, I tucked my hands into the front pockets of my jeans and turned around to lean a shoulder against the tall door frame. Glancing over my shoulder I couldn't see Nelle anywhere in the shop bursting with opulent colors and wares, but it didn't really worry me. It would be easy for her to disappear amongst the warren of tall shelves.