She broke off as the handle of the door leading back into the showroom jiggled and squeaked. It turned halfway, then stopped. On the other side, Artax meowed, and a man’s voice murmured.

“It’s open,” called Lishta, scooping up the tin and tucking it into her apron pocket. “Please do come in.”

The door opened a crack and Artax slipped through, triggering a string of French profanities from Henri. Flapping her hands at the bird, Lishta crossed the room and pulled open the door, revealing a short, startled, bald man.

“I’m sorry,” he said, fiddling with the button on his tweed jacket. “It’s just… Well, this sounds ridiculous, but it seemed like the cat wanted me to let it in here, or maybe it…”

With an encouraging nod, Lishta clasped her hands behind her back and waited.

“It wanted me to come in.” The man’s voice dropped to a whisper. He cast an apologetic smile at Maren, who returned the expression and busied herself with tidying up the scattered spools of thread on the counter. Hallie always threw them in the sewing box in a tangled mess, but Maren liked to keep them neat.

“Perhaps he did,” said Lishta, scratching Artax’s back as he wove around her ankles.

The man coughed and blinked, staring up at the towering shelves. “Is it really true?” he whispered. “That you sell dreams?”

“It is, indeed.” Beaming, Lishta took the man’s elbow and led him to the counter. “What are you looking for, my dear?”

“I’m not sure.” The man didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands; he stuffed them in his pockets and yanked them out again. “How does it work?”

Maren tucked the last spool of thread into the sewing box and stowed it away under the counter. She opened a wide-mouthed jar and slid it over to Lishta, who reached inside and pulled out a handful of pale pink packets. They looked like tea bags but were the size of buttons.

“We craft them ourselves,” said Lishta, holding out the sachets. The man picked one up cautiously and sniffed it. “Everything is hand-collected, portioned, mixed, and ground.” Lishta gestured at the coffee grinder on the counter, an ancient contraption with a hand crank on the top and a little red drawer in its base. “And sterilized, of course.” She pointed to the silver machine in the corner, which let out a burp of steam. “We’ve got hundreds of premade dreams, but we can craft anything you like.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start.” The man held the sachet up to the light to inspect its hand-sewn edge.

The door swung open again, and a tall woman strode in. Her dark hair swirled behind her, and she wore a slash of deep-plum lipstick. She slapped her purse onto the counter beside the bald man, who jumped and dropped the dream sachet he’d been looking at.