The tent carried the harsh scent of cinnamon and old books. Draped in a loose white wrap like one of those ancient popes sat a man at the far end of the room, where a single window let in warm morning light.
"This is him," Matilda whispered as we walked closer.
With every step toward him, unease crawled up my spine, and I fought the urge to turn back.
He sat cross-legged on a woolen mat, eyes closed, palms pressed together like a man in prayer.
"What is he doing?" I whispered back to Matilda.
"Meditating, I guess," she whispered, uncertain.
I took the moment to look around the tent. Pots and spoons were arranged neatly on a small table. Smoke curled lazily from a burning incense stick beside him.
"Um, hello," I began nervously, but he did not move. Did he even know someone had walked in? "You see, we really need an antidote because our friend is sick. And we seriously have to leave on time, and..."
"Ouch."
Matilda nudged me sharply, eyes wide. "Isabel, be patient."
