It takes three shops before I find what I’m looking for. The elderly woman behind the counter brightens when I explain what I need.
“Ah, for a fellow herb enthusiast!” She clasps her hands together. “How wonderful. Let me show you our finest equipment.”
I follow her through the cramped shop, my mind racing. This has to work. This has to be the key to reaching whatever part of Astra is still buried beneath all that careful politeness.
“These are our premium storage jars,” the merchant says, lifting a set of glass containers with tight-fitting lids. “Perfect for preserving dried herbs. See how the glass is slightly tinted? That protects the contents from light damage.”
I nod, though I have no idea what “light damage” means. “I’ll take a full set.”
“Excellent choice. And these”—she moves
