“The shop sits three narrow doors down from the market square in a building with a crooked sign showing a quill wrapped around a brass star. Shelves climb to a ceiling painted with a dim map of constellations. Candles gutter with unnatural blue flame, and small glass jars contain motes of light that drift lazily. A low tinkling bell announces customers, but it always rings the tone of the customer's first name as spoken aloud by the shop itself. The proprietor speaks in soft, amused tones and takes notes in a ledger that occasionally flips its own pages. Favored patrons are offered a cup of spiced tea that briefly sharpens the mind for scribing or bargaining.”