“How often the magic is wielded,” Sidra began, crushing a medley of herbs and ingredients together. “How long the magic is cast. And the depth of the magic. A weaver, for instance, casts deep magic standing at the loom, and it takes a good while to weave an enchanted plaid. But someone like a fisherman, making an enchanted net, can work faster and not have to worry about details as much. The magical cost, then, is not as demanding for a fisherman as it is for a weaver.”

Jack was silent. Sidra looked at him and saw how pale he was. She should have used a different example, because she read his mind: he was worrying about Mirin.

“Your mother is very wise and cautious,” Sidra added. “She takes time between enchanted commissions, and she is very faithful about drinking her tonics.”

“Yes. But the cost has already stolen some of her best years, hasn’t it?” he countered.

Sidra finished making the salve. She picked up the bowl and approached Jack, hating to see the sadness in his eyes.

“I may know the secrets of herbs,” she said. “But I’m not a seer. I can’t foretell what is to come, but I do know that the people who wield magic are made of a different mettle than most. They are passionate about what they do; their craft is as much a part of them as breathing. To deny it would be like losing a piece of themselves. And while there is a cost and a direct consequence to spinning enchantments, none of them see it as a burden but as a gift.”

Jack was silent, scowling. But he was listening to her.

“So yes, the magic might steal years from you,” she said. “Yes, it will make you ill and you will have to learn how to care for yourself in a new way. But I don’t think you’ll choose to give up your craft either, will you, Jack?”

“No,” he said.

“Then hold out your hands.”

He obliged, with his harp balanced carefully on his lap. Sidra spread the salve over the backs of his hands, over every knuckle and vein.

“It might take a moment to feel its effects,” she said, transferring the rest of the salve into a jar he could take with him.

Jack closed his eyes. After a minute, he flexed his hands again and grinned. “Yes, this has been a tremendous help. Thank you, Sidra.”

She brought him his tonic and the salve. Jack tucked both jars in his pocket before asking, “How much do I owe you?”

Sidra returned to the table. “You owe me nothing.”

“I was worried you might say that,” Jack said wryly. He began to remove his harp from its skin. “I would like to play for you, while you work. If you will let me.”