The back workroom was warm with steam and the low, constant murmur of simmering brews. Glass vials lined the shelves from floor to ceiling, each labeled in careful handwriting, each faintly glowing with contained intent. Lou Blanchett stood hunched over the central table, sleeves rolled up, fingers stained green and gold as he stirred a thick, iridescent liquid with steady precision.

The air smelled of crushed herbs, iron, and something faintly sweet. Protective charms hung from cords above his head, swaying slightly as the wards adjusted around him. Lou paused every few seconds to check his notes, lips moving silently as he counted under his breath, making sure the timing was exact. Potions were unforgiving. One mistake could undo weeks of careful preparation.

He felt it before he heard it. A subtle pressure shift, like a held breath being released, rippling through the charms nearest the doorway. One of his protections warmed against his wrist in response, not alarmed but alert. Someone had entered the shop. Someone allowed.

Lou set the spoon down carefully, wiped his hands on a cloth already ruined by use, and straightened a fraction. He did not turn around. If they were here, they would speak soon enough. If they were dangerous, his work would already be responding.

He took a slow breath, grounding himself, and spoke toward the doorway without looking.

“Give me a second,” he said quietly. “This one does not like being rushed.”