the smuggler’s bible


Albena the witch fills her cauldron with the good stuff.

“The purity of your magical vision,” she says, hoisting a burlap sack, “is directly related to the purity of your ingredients.”

She splits a seam and lets the bag tip. The water hisses and shimmers—the glow lights up Albena’s face, and she is smiling wide. “That being said, the better components are not always the most expensive. Get it?”

Igen nods. She uncorks her tiny bottle of blue-black ink and pours it in.

“I want to read the letters,” she says. “Every time that bastard ever wrote my name.”