Whisps of white smoke twisted and circled up into the air from the cauldron. The black liquid bubbled, and Asa leant over her concoction, the smell of liquorice and sage stinging the back of her throat.

Coughing the smoke from her face, Asa fumbled behind for her stool and took a seat, the tips of her toes skimming the stone floor.

A scattering of manuscripts littered the dark wooden table, each page covered in a mix of pencil-drawn stretches and hand-written annotations, illustrating an apothecaries larder of different plants, herbs and foodstuff.

Pulling the nub of the candle closer,

Asa squinted her eyes, trying to focus her on her pallet of watercolours.

Twenty different shades lined the tin, and as Asa dipped the tip of her paintbrush into the jar of murky water, she took a breath—a guess—and then went for it, lathering her brush in the paint.

Just as the pale pigment touched the paper, a knock rapped the door, once, twice, slowly, then twice more, faster—the signal.

Asa clicked her fingers, and the front door clicked open. Shoes brushed against the matt, then the elegant jingle of the inside doors bell.

A wild mane of dark curls orbited Cara’s pale face, and the long silver coat she wore fell past her knees, framing the thick soles of her black boots. “Will you come out with me today?” she said quickly.

“Hello to you too.”

“Yes, sorry, hi. But will you? We could go to that new tavern; I heard they do fabulous Munchie Magic Sticks.”

Dropping her paintbrush into the jar with a splash, Asa turned back to her bubbling cauldron. She stirred it three times, clockwise.

“You know I can’t. I have so much work; what with Professor Filby asking for my assistance with these manuscripts,” she said, nodding to the table, “and old Mrs Watkins down the road knocking on my door every hour for her hip remedies. I... I can’t.”

“Right, of course. Well, can we at least open a window? No offence,” Cara said gingerly, and she perched on the edge of the table for a second before standing again. “but it smells like a troll's armpit in here.”

Asa rolled her eyes. “Full offence was taken and no.”

Ignoring her anyway, Cara moved to the small window by the door. “Just a little crack?” she asked. Her hand reached for the iron latch, for the lock keeping it all out. “You won't even notice, but it will do the world of good.”

Breath caught in Asa’s throat, snatched away by the always lurking thief of fear. She stumbled from her stool towards Cara, her leg narrowly missing the corner of her workbench. “I said no!” Asa shouted, and Cara flinched.

“Alright!” She said, shooting her hands up in a sign of surrender. “Sorry.”

Warmth flared to Asa’s cheeks. She bit her lip, hating the guilt, the shame that surged, clawing in her chest.

“No, I—” Asa sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. She had to say it—as much as she hated to. Cara was her best friend; she couldn't hide it any longer.

“I can’t see colours,” she mumbled.

“What?”

“I said I can't see colours! They’ve gone. Dulled, faded to shades of tiresome grey! Everything’s pointless, useless.”

Asa glanced around her tiny home, at the dingy walls—once a bright sunflower yellow—to the flickering white candle on her table and the depressing greyscale pigments of her watercolours.

She looked to the potion summering in her cauldron, a brew which she knew should be a brilliant, florescent purple—Mrs Watkins favourite colour—but appeared to be nothing, just darkness at the bottom of an endless well.

She knew the jars of herbs and crystals on her shelves should glow with life, a wash of vibrant greens and youthful pinks, but all they did was get lost, misplaced in the shadows, hidden in amongst the grey.

Asa wiped her chin, expelling an escaped tear. “It’s as though everything is dead.”

“I don’t...how?” Cara stuttered, “Why?”

“I tried something, a potion, and it failed. When I sneeze, my eyesight worsens,” Heat burst like an exploding ember in her chest and her vision blurred. She punched the table, emphasising each word with a blow. “I’m. A. Failure. A stupid. Colourless failure.”

“Hey, hey, hey, stop! Can’t you make an antidote? You must have something.”

“Oh, thank you, genius!” Asa jibed. “Why didn't I think of that?”

Bubbles spat from the cauldron, bursts of black spurting up, spilling over the side. The smell of burnt toast filled the room, and Asa scurried over. She clasped the spoon, turning the potion anti-clockwise until the liquid settling, calming, like the heat in her chest.

“No,” she continued, quietly, softly, “I need flowers to make the cure, but the flowers I need are Marigolds and—”

“—and you're allergic to them.”

Asa nodded. “Like almost every other flower. And if I sneeze...” Asa shook her head, trying, failing, to dispel the horrifying thoughts. “I can't lose my sight, Cara. If I lose it, I can’t make my treatments, and if I can’t make my treatments, then...then what is the point of me.”

“Don’t you dare say that!”

“Why? It’s true.”

Cara grabbed Asa’s shoulders, shaking them lightly. “It’s not! And anyway,” she said, a smile touching her lips, “your knowledge of herbology and witchy-magic-stuff could fill a library—I mean, it probably does—you could simply order someone to create your treatments, hell, I’d even do it.”

“You would?”

“I would. You’re brilliant. Everybody knows it. Now,” Cara clapped her hands together, taking a seat on the edge of the table. “Tell me what you need; I’ll get it. Tell me what to do; I’ll do it. Although you would be perfect with or without your sight, I want to help make your cure, even if that means missing out on Munchie Magic Sticks. Come on, girl, tell me what to do!”