It began, as many of Seraphina's ideas did, with cake and a wager.
They were seated in the apothecary's back garden, remnants of the festival still strung like sleepy stars along the fence. Laurel had just served tea. Pippin was licking icing from his whiskers. Rowan, suspicious by long habit, raised an eyebrow.
"I'm just saying," Seraphina began, "if Laurel really is the best herbalist in the valley, she should prove it."
Laurel sipped her tea. "Is that so."
"I propose," Seraphina declared, brandishing a fork, "a moonlit challenge. One potion. One hour. One judge."
Pippin looked up. "It's me, isn't it?"
"You're impartial."
"I'm not. I demand bribes."
"Perfect."
Rowan stifled a laugh. "What's the challenge?"
"Theme-based," Seraphina said. "Tonight's theme: 'Unlikely Affection.'"
Laurel blinked. "That's not a potion. That's a situation."
"All the better."
They drew lots for the order. Laurel first. Seraphina second. Rowan sat out but offered to take notes, which immediately became elaborate illustrations of potential disasters.
Pippin sprawled across the table. "If no one sets anything on fire, I'll be deeply disappointed."
Seraphina winked. "Challenge accepted."
Laurel worked quickly but deliberately.
She'd chosen to use twilight jasmine as a base—delicate, faintly sweet, and notoriously unpredictable when paired with strong scents. She crushed the petals with a drop of elderflower and the faintest wisp of storm-mint, which sparkled slightly when it hit the mixing bowl.
"Unlikely affection," she mused aloud. "Unexpected comfort. Mismatched harmony."
Rowan, from the sidelines, scribbled "mood: botanical poetry" beside a sketch of Laurel looking heroic with a ladle.
The mixture turned opalescent. Laurel added a drop of honey infused with thistle nectar, stirred counterclockwise, and whispered, "Let it surprise."
She poured the final blend into a small, curved bottle shaped like a comma.
Pippin sniffed it. "Smells like a soft argument."
"That's exactly what I was going for."
Seraphina applauded. "Points for subtlety."
Laurel bowed. "Your turn."
Seraphina stood, rolling her sleeves like a bard preparing for a duel. "Let the chaos commence."
Seraphina's approach was less botanical, more theatrical.
She began by flamboyantly uncorking a vial of dragonfruit elixir, which fizzed pink and sent out heart-shaped steam.
Rowan blinked. "Is that safe?"
"No," Seraphina grinned. "But it's enthusiastic."
She added stardust honey, powdered nutmeg bark, and a single candied thornberry. The mix shimmered like mischief in a bottle.
"Laurel went for gentle affection," she explained. "I'm going for the unlikely kind that throws rocks at your window at midnight, then offers you soup."
"You've dated some strange soup," Pippin muttered.
She stirred the mixture clockwise—twice—and sang an off-key lullaby that caused the corks on the spice shelf to vibrate.
Rowan sketched her with devil horns and a halo.
When finished, Seraphina poured her potion into a bottle shaped like a lightning bolt. It hummed faintly.
"Drink this," she announced, "and you'll fall in like with your rival. Temporarily."
Pippin sniffed. "Smells like cinnamon and regret."
"Perfect."
Judgment, as always, fell to Pippin.
The cat paced in front of both potions like an ancient magistrate, tail flicking in thought. He sniffed Laurel's blend, licked a drop off a silver spoon, then did the same with Seraphina's.
"First impressions," he said, "Laurel's tastes like a hug you didn't expect but secretly needed. Seraphina's is like kissing someone you argued with over tea, and now you both own a cactus together."
Rowan blinked. "That's... surprisingly specific."
"I contain multitudes," Pippin replied.
He licked his paw, then pointed it vaguely at both of them. "They're both disasters. I approve."
Seraphina clapped. "We both win?"
"You both lose. But aesthetically."
Laurel laughed. "I'll take that."
They toasted their mischief with leftover festival cider, warm and spiced. The moon overhead cast soft silver lines across the garden, threading between bottles and laughter.
Rowan tucked her sketches into her notebook, adding a tiny drawing of the two potions holding hands.
Pippin curled into a nap among the ribbons.
Seraphina leaned back in her chair. "Same time next moon?"
Laurel smiled. "Only if the theme is 'unexpected genius.'"
Rowan said, "Then I'm entering."
Later that night, as the others departed, Laurel lingered in the apothecary's back garden.
The moon hung low, golden and drowsy, casting light across the empty tea cups and glass vials. The night air smelled like warmed herbs and shared laughter.
She gathered the used ingredients gently, as if tidying a spell. Her hand brushed the rim of the comma-shaped bottle she'd crafted—still faintly warm.
Rowan stepped out carrying two mugs.
"I thought you might still be out here."
Laurel took the offered mug. "Chamomile?"
"Chamomile and clarity."
They sat in silence for a while, letting the quiet wrap around them.
"That was fun," Laurel said at last.
"You're very good at 'unlikely affection.'"
She smiled. "You'd be surprised how much of that goes into healing work. People bring you their pain wrapped in sharp edges. You have to meet it with gentleness. Or glitter."
Rowan chuckled. "Is that your secret formula?"
"That and tea. And good company."
They looked out at the moon together, its light soft enough to believe in small magic.
Laurel whispered, "Same time next moon?"
Rowan smiled. "Definitely."
The following morning, Seraphina returned with a scroll of parchment and a gleam in her eye.
"I wrote up official potion duel rules," she announced, unrolling it onto the apothecary's counter.
Rowan peered at the flourishing calligraphy. "Clause three says all judging cats are entitled to compensation in sardines."
Pippin, from atop the shelf, meowed in approval.
Laurel skimmed the parchment. "There's a footnote about glitter deployment being optional but encouraged?"
Seraphina nodded. "It adds drama."
"And... a 'style bonus' if you name your potion something poetic."
"I stand by that. Your 'Comma of Comfort' deserved extra points."
Laurel arched an eyebrow. "You named yours 'Affection Explosion.'"
"Which is clearly better."
Rowan said, "I still like 'Soft Argument.'"
Pippin added, "I like the sardines clause."
They hung the parchment on the apothecary's bulletin board, beneath a hand-drawn sign that read "Official Nonsense."
Customers that day asked curiously about the rules. Some even requested "whatever Laurel made during the duel."
Laurel prepared small versions in corked bottles and labeled them quietly, with a small flourish: Soft Argument – For feelings you didn't expect but kind of enjoy.
By noon, they'd sold out.
That afternoon, as the apothecary returned to its usual rhythm, Laurel sat on the back step with her journal. The garden rustled quietly around her, plants stretching in the sunlight like sleepy cats.
She scribbled a note under the day's entry: Turns out, affection doesn't need to make sense. It just needs room.
Rowan emerged with a basket of dried herbs. "The shop smells like a love spell exploded."
"It kind of did."
"I think someone asked Seraphina if she sells 'Affection Explosion' in candle form."
"She probably said yes."
They laughed.
Pippin leapt onto the railing beside them. "You two are dangerously wholesome."
Rowan offered him a dried sardine. "Clause three."
He ate it with royal satisfaction.
Laurel leaned back against the step, soaking in the warmth. "I like the way this place surprises me."
Rowan sat beside her. "Me too."
They sat in quiet, companionable ease, the kind that says more than magic ever could.
Above them, the wind stirred the leaves, and somewhere in the distance, someone began to hum the festival tune again.
Laurel smiled. "Same time next moon?"
Rowan leaned in, just enough to bump shoulders. "You're on."
That evening, they prepared for closing as twilight folded over the village.
Laurel restocked the calming brews and checked the labels twice. Rowan swept glitter off the windowsill with a sigh both fond and resigned. Pippin supervised from the counter, tail flicking like a clock hand.
Seraphina stopped by with a ribbon in her hair and a bundle of moon-shaped cookies.
"I baked these for our next duel," she said, offering them with a wink. "Phase-themed, of course."
Rowan examined one. "This is a waning crescent."
"Laurel's favorite."
Pippin sniffed. "I prefer waxing gibbous."
"We'll log your complaint."
Laurel tucked the cookies onto the top shelf, clearly marked Emergency Delight. Then she paused.
"You know," she said softly, "I used to think affection had to be big. Grand gestures. Bold declarations."
Rowan glanced over. "And now?"
"Now I think it's sharing cookies you didn't have to bake. Or listening when someone needs quiet. Or arguing over glitter quantities."
Seraphina grinned. "Or naming potions after punctuation."
"Exactly."
They stood a moment in the quiet, the shelves aglow with low candlelight, the shop full of small, soft things.
"Next moon," Seraphina said.
"Absolutely," Laurel replied.
After everyone had gone, Laurel remained alone in the apothecary.
She lit a single candle on the windowsill and opened the little ledger where she sometimes wrote things that didn't fit into customer files: odd dreams, moments of laughter, unlikely successes.
She titled a new page: The Night of the Bet.
Underneath, she wrote:
One potion smelled like honesty in the rain. One tasted like trouble and cinnamon. One cat claimed to judge.Both were affection. Unexpected. True.
She tapped her pen against the edge of the desk, then added a flourish to the page. A small doodle of two bottles—one shaped like a comma, the other like a lightning bolt—linked by a tiny heart.
Behind her, the wind rattled a wind chime shaped like stars. It sounded like laughter held in a jar.
She smiled, closed the ledger, and whispered, "Same time next moon."
The candle flickered.
Somewhere in the quiet, something old and gentle nodded in agreement.
The next morning dawned with mist over the valley and quiet footsteps in the apothecary.
Rowan arrived early, arms full of fresh herbs, cheeks pink from the chill.
"I brought cloverroot," she said. "For the tea. And the memories."
Laurel blinked sleepily. "That's poetic for this hour."
"You started it."
They set to brewing the day's first pot, letting the steam rise like a gentle enchantment. Pippin emerged from his basket, still half-draped in ribbon from last night, and gave them a look that could curdle milk.
"Too early for affection," he muttered, then leapt onto the shelf of dream infusions.
Laurel and Rowan sat by the fire with their cups, watching the sunlight begin to filter through the shop windows.
"I thought I liked working alone," Laurel said. "But now everything feels more... awake. More real."
Rowan smiled softly. "That's affection. The unlikely kind."
They clinked mugs.
Outside, a bird began to sing. Inside, the apothecary glowed.
That evening, just as she was closing the shutters, Laurel found a note tucked under a jar of calming powder.
It was folded into a moon shape and smelled faintly of Seraphina's ridiculous perfume.
She opened it.
Next moon: theme is "Secrets You Tell Plants." Winner gets bragging rights and a pie.
Underneath, a postscript: Pippin has agreed to judge again, provided his booth has cushions.
Laurel laughed and pinned the note to the bulletin board. She added a doodle of a pie and a leafy whisper with a speech bubble.
Rowan appeared with a broom. "Another challenge?"
"She's relentless."
"You love it."
"I do."
They finished sweeping together, laughter mingling with the clink of glass. Outside, the sky rolled into indigo and stars blinked into place like punctuation marks at the end of a very good sentence.
Rowan stretched. "Think we'll still be doing this next year?"
Laurel nodded. "I hope so."
Pippin yawned from the windowsill. "Only if the pie's good."
Before heading to bed, Laurel placed two new labels on the potion shelf:Soft Argument and Affection Explosion.She paused, then added a third, just below them.Unexpected Magic.
She smiled, turned off the lights, and whispered into the dark, "Same time next moon."