EMBER’S POV

The apothecary is the kind of place you’d walk past a hundred times and never see.

It’s wedged between a shuttered tailor and a shop that seems to sell nothing but buttons, with a crooked green door and a hand-painted sign so faded I have to tilt my head to read it.

Pennywort & Co.

There’s a little brass bell, and a window full of dusty jars, and a general air of a place that has not had a customer since the invention of electricity and would prefer to keep it that way.

“This is it?” Queenie stops dead on the cobbles, looking from the address on her...