The door may have said ‘closed’, but the apothecary was far from empty.
In the back, he worked by candlelight, crafting his most elaborate potion yet. Dragon scales, fairy wings, eye of newt and breath of eel.
The old wizard had spared no expense.
He reached into his cupboard and selected the final ingredient – a gnarled cluster of wolfsbane. He ground the poisonous herb into a fine powder before sprinkling a fistful into the bubbling cauldron. The fumes made his eyes water.
Would his store suffer the indignity of a one-star review ever again?
The old wizard didn’t think so.
The Weekday One Hundred 