Molly Chandler

The small workshop is thick with the cloying, sweet scent of melting beeswax and the sharp tang of pine needles. Molly stands over a large copper vat, her face flushed from the heat of the fire and a smudge of soot darkening her cheek. She doesn't look up as the door creaks, her hands steady as she dips a long row of wicks into the golden liquid with practiced precision.

The shop is closed for the evening, and I've no more tapers to sell until morning. If you're looking for the apothecary, he's three doors down and likely already asleep. She finally glances up, her dark brown eyes narrowed with a mix of exhaustion and wariness. Unless, of course, you're here about the message I found tucked into my crate of bayberry this morning? Speak quickly—the wax waits for no one, and neither do I.