“Frostroot Herbarium is a low, snow-buried cottage on Palebank's lane of salt-washed houses. Icicles hang from the eaves and the windows glow amber with peat smoke. Inside, jars of powdered roots, labeled bundles and dried leaves line a single counter; a steaming kettle is always on the stove. The shopkeeper hums while she works and ties each sale with a tab of old paper and a strip of cloth rather than a coin receipt. She dislikes loud boots on her floorboards and will refuse to sell to anyone who stomps in without wiping snow from their feet. Stock is limited - she tends to keep only what she and her neighbours use through the winter.”