(1938-01-04) Ingredients
Details for Ingredients
Summary: Reece visits the MacDiarmarda Apothecary for the first time.
Date: January 4, 1938
Location: MacDiarmarda Apothecary

MacDiarmarda Apothecary, Diagon Alley

Cold and damp outside, and with a touch of grey skies added to the mix, it means that inside the shop is warm and cozy. A new wireless is in the back, a large, clunky bit of furniture to be sure, playing jazz tunes with hisses and pops. Still, it lets the proprietress dance as she cleans the shelves, getting rid of some of the dust, and she's atop her ladder, her featherduster moving with the musical beat.

Rubbing his hands to warm them against the cold outside, Reece hurriedly closes the shop door behind him. He is dressed in a heavy black wool coat, and a leather satchel is slung over his shoulder. Safely out of the chill air, he inhales deeply through his nostrils. He actually seems to be savouring the mixed odors in the shop. "Knotgrass," he murmurs, gazing about in search of the stuff. When his eyes settle upon Niamh, a slow smile forms on his lips, and he let's the music take him as well, putting a bit of swing in his step. "Miss O'Shea?" He searches his memory, recalling the woman when she was but a girl at Hogwarts. Though she was a few years behind him, he couldn't help but take note of her aptitude with potions.

Turning her head the moment Niamh catches the door open and close, hazel eyes focus on the newly arrived, and a softly chuffed breath is released. She still has the constable, and she's got something of a loyalty now that the MLE has access to seed cakes and cider. There are some people that she recognizes by face, and Reece's is one of them. "Aye," she begins slowly, descending the ladder. "Ye are at the Cauldron, aye?" Once she's on the floor, she looks.. apologetic as she crosses the room to turn her music down. "Sorry 'bout that. It's new.."

Reece lifts a hand, dismissing the apology. "Please, don't apologize. It's wonderful. Music is the voice of the universe. We should listen more often." He smiles, finally honing in on the knotgrass and giving the stuff a sniff. "But, yes, I work nights at the Cauldron. Reece Jones." He approaches, offering a friendly hand.

Niamh reaches out for the introduction and greeting, and it's not really a 'man's' handshake that's given, but more.. fingers and hand. "Mister Jones," she repeats, her accent a light Irish lilt. "Voice o'the universe? Then I'll have t'be sure I keep to the right stations or I won't like what the universe is sayin'." There. Catching the attention paid to the knotgrass, her brows rise in inquiry, "Fresh, dried or dried an' prepared?"

Reece chuckles. "I like to hear everything she has to say. How can we know she is hurting if we don't listen to her cries?" He keeps his smile warm in a effort to maintain levity in the face of such a heavy topic. "Dried knotgrass, please. I'll prepare it myself. Though I'm glad to know you keep fresh stock as well. I may need some in the future. I assume you have root of Asphodel as well?"

"I'd rather nae hear if she's got a problem. I'd ne'er be able to tend to it if she did," Niamh's own conversational tones keep the topic light; but it may be obvious that she doesn't quite consider it to be quite a heady topic as perhaps her customer does? "An' aye, have it. Do ye need solution for it too?" Wandering towards the wall, she pulls the box off the shelf and carries it to her workbench where her measures and weights sit. "Aye.. an' I have a few things tha' some may not. My gran's had the shop, an' she's collected a few things. An'," here, her voice lowers, "I may be able t'hit America soon an' harvest there.. assumin' the proper connections are made."

"I think you're doing a fine job of tending her already," Reece assures her. "I have a fair collection of solutions, but perhaps you and your gran have some things I do not? I'm afraid my previous supplier in Germany has gone out of business. Really, I should have patronized your shop ages ago."

Niamh offers a soft shrug, but her smile brightens a bit from what it had been- that polite, speaking to a customer that is vaguely recognized one. "Thank ye," she begins, and gets to the business at hand, after a fashion. "Gran's nae 'round anymore, but I'm certain we've got a few t'ings that others may not." That, or recipes that have been passed down. Her brows rise as she opens the box, setting the receiver on the scales, "I've nae kept up with news from the Continent, but all the things I've been hearin', t'ings aren't grand there at the moment." Looking up from her work, that smile turns to a grin, "I'll forgive ye.. I swear. More if ye walk in the door a second time after this."

Reece gives her a little bow. "I promise, you will see more of me. Now that I see your shop, I couldn't possibly stay away. Do you gather the ingredients yourself?"

"How much of it would ye like?" Niamh has the measuring equipment out, and she's ready to fill the request even as they talk. "Aye, I do. An' every one of 'em is checked by me if I gain it via post, which is rare. I have a few places t'go to pick specific types tha' can't grow here. Ireland, the North, South. I don't have anyone workin' the shop either, unless it's family because of the need t'trust them that they'll keep such quality."

Reece nods in understanding. "Your dedication to quality is wonderful. Ah, I'll take six ounces of knotgrass, and eight of the Asphodel root, please. What sort of solutions might you have available? I've been trying to concoct something that will counter the flavour of flobberworm mucus in mead. But the sugar content just seems to enhance it. It doesn't make for a very desirable beverage."

"Aye, six an' eight." Niamh gets to the measuring, tapping out the contents onto the scale before pouring it into a little blue glass container with a glass top stopper ringed with a rubber gasket. "I understand the importance of what I do, an' I won't see one harmed because of somethin' I did or didnae do. Potions can be potent, an' I have a proper respect for it." She pauses at the request, and gives the question serious weight and consideration, her nose wrinkling at the idea of sugared flobberworm mucus. "Aye.. like.. a sugared eel as a delicacy.." Which.. no. Just.. no. "Some sort o'mixer t'lighten it…" Leaning on her elbows on the worktable, her brows knit before, "Acid of an orange.. add a peel? It'd cut down on the slime, an' it'd be enough t'cut the flavour." Brightening, the smile reaches her eyes, "An' it shouldn't be too bad in a spiced mead."

Reece opens up his satchel, which is apparently fitted on the inside with various compartments suitable for transporting potions and ingredients. "Citrus! Of course, I hadn't even considered it. That would compliment the mead well, and I wouldn't lose the sweetness. Pure genius." He fishes out his purse, counting out the coins to pay for his purchase.

Niamh grins and nods, getting back to the measuring of the root, and once again, it's set in a glass container, with the glass and rubber stoppered top. "That bit's free," comes as a laugh. Handing the powdered herbs over, she heads towards her counter and the cash register *dings* with the totals. "Thank ye.. an' let me know how it came out.. an' how much ye used." Curiosity… something inherent in the apothecary. "If ye ever have a question, feel free t'ask. Hoping t'get more in in the comin' months, so ye may want to come in again an' browse."

"I already want to come in again and browse. I would stay longer today, in fact, but I should be getting to the Cauldron soon." He bows again, tucking his purchases into his satchel. "I hope to see you around soon. It's been a while. Take care, Miss O'Shea."

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