Need, I decided, tasted of honey and salt. I didn’t like it. Still, I knew to test the tincture before paying for it and so I touched a single drop to my lips. The cloying sweetness clung to my tongue, and I shuddered. Even that droplet opened a craving in me, a well that begged to be filled. I re-corked the bottle.

“Careful with that,” Marna said. “Heart’s Desire is habit-forming.” The shopkeeper was a middle-aged woman with greying hair and a softness about her waist and jawline that belied her no-nonsense reputation. She used the tincture’s official name, the one written on the bottle in her elegant script. Sioned always called it Need, and so I did, too.

“It’s not for me.” I didn’t like to need anything or anyone. I didn’t like craving. “It’s a gift for a friend.”

The Sable Mark was one of the higher-end bottle shops, if not the easiest to find. The storefront was unassuming, with no sign or shingle to advertise the wares within, only a black sigil burned into the plain wooden door. But people liked Marna, and her expertise was generally considered to be worth the extra trouble. I had heard that the Guildmistress herself was known to come to The Sable Mark with her more obscure requests.

Most people came looking for something they’d misplaced or forgotten – a mouthful of Joy, a dram of Courage – each with its own distinct flavor and effect. Marna never asked what they wanted it for, or why they chose to come to her instead of searching for it in a more conventional, less alchemical treatment. She simply brewed what her customers wanted or plucked a bottle from the shelf.

Marna gave me a measuring look, as if deciding whether or not she ought to be concerned. Finally, she dipped the neck of the bottle in black wax, pressing her seal against it, and wrote my information down in her ledger. Liliane M—., she wrote, and Heart’s Desire, for Sioned G—. The Guild was strict about record-keeping, and for good reason: the regulations are intended to prevent the dishonorable use of its products.

“If you were to choose for yourself,” Marna asked as she wrapped the bottle in paper, “which would it be?”

“Peace,” I said after a moment. “If you have such a thing. Or Contentment.”

“I have them,” she said. “But they are as temporary as this one.” She gestured at the bottle in my hand. The golden liquid glittered with false promises.

And I knew firsthand how false they were. Once, in a fit of misguided hope, I had spent a week’s supper money on half a gill to share with Sioned, just to understand why she craved it so. But the potion’s seductiveness had frightened me – that, and the hopelessness of knowing that what I wanted was unattainable, that my heart would never be eased, with or without alchemy.

All I learned was this: that Sioned needed the potion to feel desired, and that my heart’s desire was to be needed by her.

“Then I may as well give the lady what she wants,” I said lightly, and bid Marna goodnight.

* * *

I almost didn’t go in. But a hint of honey lingered at the back of my throat, and I couldn’t make myself walk away. I opened the door without knocking. She would be expecting me.

“I brought you something.”

“A gift?” Sioned laughed. She managed to sound delighted and languorous at the same time, as if she had no idea why I was here, as if she hadn’t recommended The Sable Mark herself. Her golden curls spilled down over one shoulder. She was wearing a gown I hadn’t seen before, blue shot with silver, with a high collar that clasped at the back of her neck but left her arms bare.

Sioned was something more than a courtesan, something less than a royal. That was part of her allure, I supposed. Nobody knew exactly where they stood with Sioned. She was also my friend – had been, since childhood – and even I didn’t know what I was to her.

Her eyes sparkled with sudden mischief. “Here,” she said, taking a pair of delicate glasses from a sideboard. She poured a thimbleful into each, careful not to spill, and swiped the lip of the bottle with a finger to catch the last drop, which she licked away. Her breath caught. She held out one glass to me. “Let’s celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” Against my better judgment, I took the glass by its stem.

She laughed again, a sound like the ringing of a bell or the tinkling of glass against glass. “Does it matter? The crescent moon. The color of your hair. My new gown.” She stood and spun in a slow circle to show me, and I saw that her back was also bare.

I knew I should set the glass down. I knew I should walk away before I needed more than she had to give. I knew I would be left wanting.

I drank anyway.

The world slid away. So, too, did Sioned’s gown. It pooled at her feet, silver threads glinting like slivers of moonlight on water. Her hands tangled in my hair, her legs tangled with mine, and I tasted nothing but the honey and salt on her lips.

Later, the sweetness faded. Sioned was gone, and I was alone with only the bitter, inevitable aftertaste of my own never-ending need.

* * *

The door chimed when I entered The Sable Mark. Marna appeared from the back, flyaway tendrils of hair sticking to her damp face. She dried her hands on her apron. “Liliane,” she said. “I hadn’t expected you so soon. What do you need today? Peace?” Her knowing smile was gentle. “Contentment?”

Grief, I knew, tasted of sour plum and ash. Jealousy was bergamot laced with copper. Passion – Need’s bedfellow – was apple and coriander. I had tasted all of these, and wanted none; I had each of them in plenty. I could swallow Peace or Contentment by the gill, and nothing would change.

Another thimbleful of Need would have to do.

* * *

Ⓒ Christine Hanolsy