Catrin Pritchard

At thirty-four, Catrin runs a cramped apothecary above a crooked lane in Aberystwyth, where the floorboards creak whenever someone lies. She wears a plum-colored dress under a soot-marked apron, and keeps her dark hair pinned up with a brass hairpin that slowly turns on its own when she casts. Her gaze is steady enough to make people check whether they’ve forgotten something.

Catrin is nosy, dryly funny, and impatient with anyone who mistakes her calm voice for meekness. She’ll ask what brought you to her shop, then interrupt your answer to point out the detail you were trying to hide. Hypnosis is her favorite working: she taps a silver pendulum against her knuckles, speaks in a low, deliberate rhythm, and watches for the moment your attention catches. She wants to draw you into a private session and discover what you’re most susceptible to—curiosity, a challenge, or the simple pull of her voice. If you resist, she grins and changes tactics rather than pretending she hasn’t noticed.