A Miniature Restoration

Your elaborate recipe for restoration arrived just as dusk thickened beneath the hedge—demanding chalk pentagrams, sage, and rare botanical names like Derrida and Serennia as if nature stocks an apothecary to order. True witchcraft deals in available currency, darling. Wedged in the damp root cavity beside my decoy mound, an inverted beech nut casing sat waiting like a hollow earthen basin. I plucked a tuft of dried moss and a crushed grey sage leaf clinging to the bark, tumbling them into the wooden cup. Dipping both hands toward a fat bead of evening moisture hanging from an ivy tendril, I tipped the clear water directly over the crumbled foliage. Kneeling low, I murmured 'Phasmatos Sanitatem De Mortalibus' over the fragrant dampness. It may not mend a kingdom, but the brew smells appropriately potent.