You take in the whole space with a glance. Racks and racks of leafy poison are drying in the summer air, waiting to be ground into powder or submerged in oil for infusions. Great hanging screens overhead, suspended by hooks, are lined with hypnotically colorful flowers similarly transitioning to a more usable and no less potent dried form. Jars, cauldrons, and mortars and pestles of all sizes are arrayed around a rustic cabinet.

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Processing these deadly goods is a complicated business—which is why no one sound of mind would make it their vocation. You don't exactly get apprentices knocking on your doors, the way a cobbler or a cooper would.

You turn back to McKenna.