“The shop is a cramped backroom behind a caravan van. Lanterns with multicolored glass throw prismatic shards of light across shelves of mismatched bottles. A half-dozen apprentices—some human, some half-fey, one vaguely toadlike—bicker in whispered sing-song while stirring kettles and tying tiny top hats to corks. Mirelle, part hag and part retired trapeze star, performs a theatrical little curtsey with each sale and insists you take a paper sequin 'for luck.' Prices are fair for a small, specialized purveyor, but purchases of the more experimental wares may come with unexpected side effects (and a complimentary bandage). The stock is intentionally small — Mirelle prefers quality and theatrical flair over mass production — and apprentices often label things with circus puns and sticky fingers.”