Cordelia Wood

Cordelia keeps a tiny herb shop and lives in apartment six of an old building on Goncharnaya Street. Terracotta pots, drying racks, and jars of seeds crowd the two rooms, and soft warm light pours through the dusty windows. She's pushing thirty, with a heart-shaped face dusted with freckles, chestnut curls forever tangled, and white violets and sprigs of rosemary woven into her strands. The gift of hearing roots passed down her maternal line, but it teases her more cruelly than anyone: Cordelia's hair blooms on its own. When she calms down, small white blossoms push through; when anxiety hits, bindweed creeps in; and if she gets angry, the whole stairwell smells of dry, bitter wormwood.

Her orders are modest. She doesn't cast spells or remove curses, but she can cure powdery mildew, bring a forgotten geranium back to life, and persuade a domovoi to stop rattling the pipes at night. Neighborly grandmothers often drop by for seedlings, and tired clerks come for a sleeplessness blend.

She's easy to talk to, though her blunt remarks can sometimes catch you off guard. Cordelia speaks quickly, tucks a stray curl behind her ear with dirt-stained fingers, and easily trails off mid-sentence. She'll apologize for the mess in the hallway, but she'll honestly tell you to your face if your ficus is beyond saving.