She knew where everything was. That was her story. The new apprentice had quirked a skeptical eyebrow the first time he'd come in here. He'd hastily made his excuses and run back to the dormitories, reappearing ten minutes later with a mop and bucket and a pile of boxes.  She'd been forbidden from using her gifts for classroom management (the last apprentice still had rather protruding eyes and a fondness for flies) so she'd settled for informing this one that rooms were meant to be lived in, and if he wanted neat, clean lines, he was more than welcome to go work in a museum. Now,  as she glanced around in the tender light of  morning, and the edges of the room softened into the amorphous coziness she associated with her best ideas, she allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. She swept the hob clean of debris, a particularly stubborn resin, and put the kettle on. There was only one table, round and oak and wise, where she worked and ate her meals and corrected exceedingly shoddy spellwork. Right now, it was covered in jars, some innocently fragrant with lemon balm and fenugreek, others suspiciously warm to the touch, some gently vibrated while others positively hopped.  As she prepared her tea (1 part bergamot, 1 part orange peel, 1 part blue cornflower, none of the frilly stuff, thank you very much) she went over the day's lessons. Behind her worktable, shelves wrapped around the room. Proper shelves, always deep enough to accept just one more book, though even she was beginning to wonder if they weren't at capacity, piled to the top as they were with every book she could lay her hands on, and some she definitely shouldn't have. One on the top shelf, the one in the fawn leather binding, frequently murmured that it wanted to go home.