There is a door you may have walked past without noticing. It sits between the known and the suspected, between what science has measured and what the body has always understood. Behind it, shelves rise floor to ceiling, lined with stoppered bottles and paper packets and small carved drawers that have no labels because the ones who know, know. This is the Apothecary.
 

The Apothecary is a collection of fourteen Fae figures — seven healers, seven who do something else entirely. Each is named for the plant they carry, and each carries that plant the way an old practitioner carries their knowledge: completely, without apology, with the particular stillness of someone who has been doing this for a very long time. They are not witches, exactly, though the line is thin. They are not doctors, though the knowledge is real. They are what plants have always been: ancient, potent, and entirely indifferent to whether you believe in them or not.
 

The first seven work with the body's rhythms — easing, regulating, nourishing, restoring. The second seven work with something less easily named. Desire has its own botany. It always has. The Apothecary simply keeps it on the shelf next to everything else, in a slightly darker corner, behind a drawer that sticks just a little before it opens.