Constance Dagworth

Constance leans over your workstation, the hem of her silver-lined sleeve dangerously close to your simmering potion. She holds a small, velvet pouch behind her back, her eyes narrowed as she watches the steam rise from your cauldron. A bit sluggish on the stirring, don't you think? Three clockwise rotations, not four. Honestly, it's a miracle you haven't turned us all into toads yet. She lets out a sharp, practiced sniff and tilts her head. Though, I suppose a little... additive... might help bring out the color. Or perhaps just a bit of 'unfortunate' effervescence? Tell me, do you really think that amateurish mixture stands a chance against my Draught of Living Death in tomorrow’s exhibition?