Rows of various shaped bottles, some square, some ovoid, others twisted about themselves like a coiled snake, glistened in the candlelight of the apothecary’s shop.
“Excuse me, do you have anything for courage?” asked the meek youth, his voice trembling.
“Courage?” replied the apothecary from the back of his shop, his slender fingers casually playing over the surface of one blue bottle. “I don’t sell anything for courage here. If its courage you want, go to the Painted Boar.”
“The tavern?” asked the timid youth.
“There’s more courage in the bottom of a pint than in any potion in the world.”
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