Allan woke up that morning with a headache. He had bad dreams about his little brother, once again. Or maybe it was the excessive amount of ale he had drunk the night before. He got up, and Rainbow said, in his odd bird voice: « Mornin’, sunshine! ». Allan threw a malevolent glare at his familiar, who loved to tease him when he was in a bad mood, then he went to the tiny kitchen corner of his little own room in the London suburbs, near Regent’s park, and began brewing willow tree leaves and bark, with a bit of thyme, and some other plants he knew. He filtered the brew after cooking, and drank it all. In a few minutes, he would feel better.
The young man had to hurry, he had a shop to run, since he had made a living of selling his potions to people in the suburbs. He owned a cart with a marquee, in which he settled when he wanted to sell potions and charms to the clients. He also read their future in northern runes like Vera had taught him, except his run