Tall shelves line the walls, and rows of high tables are stacked with candles in every color, figurines of old gods, talismans in odd shapes with odder sigils inscribed on them. I pick up a jar full of amber-colored oil on the first table and tilt it before my face. Glittering snowflakes seem to swirl and dance inside in a stream of purple and gold, but there’s no label. No price tag. The lid is sealed with black wax. I set it back down and give Daniel a questioning glance. He shrugs and we move on.

There’s a silver-plated bowl with claw feet that holds bags filled with herbs. Mojos, maybe nation sacks? But again—no labels, no price tags. There are jars upon jars of incense sticks in candy colors all jammed together. Each one smells different than the last. I recognize blackberries baking in the summer heat and antique roses climbing over a trellis, fields of French lavender and the soft crush of damp, green moss on a forest floor. But none of the jars are labeled.

There are brass oil burners and baskets full of quartz. Chicken feet curl like dead spiders next to fans made of oily black feathers. Bones in more shapes and sizes than I knew existed are sorted into wooden trays. Ribbons in every shade of the rainbow are wound on wooden bobbins as big as my wrist. And bottles of oils in slippery greens, creamy yellows, burning oranges, and ruby-rich reds line up next to one another.

There are impossible things like jars full of indescribable blue and purple light and bottles that sigh when you pop the cork. There are unusual things like mushrooms with red-spotted caps growing on stacks of old, soggy wood, and butterfly wings that are as vibrant as the day they were harvested.

I turn from the wares on the tables to one of the bookshelves. But immediately, I realize that these are unlike the books in any other store. The covers are hand bound in dyed leather or stiff linen. Some of the books are just jumbles of old parchment bound together with braids of brightly colored yarn. Others have brass or silver locks with missing keys. There are very few with titles, and those that do have them are named things like A Story of Spells in the Seventh Tongue or Rainmaking for Backward Lands. I can’t make heads or tails of them.

We are alone in the store. It’s dark inside, as the moon decal and awning seem to block most of the natural light. Fortune’s Gate seems impossibly large once you’re in it. I don’t see a counter or register anywhere. Above me hang rack after rack of drying flowers, the ceiling lost behind them.

“Does this place seem weird to you?” Daniel finally leans over my shoulder and asks.