I do not know if you read my letters or merely cast them into the fire. I would not entirely blame you, were it the latter, but I hope that if you do read this, you shall heed my words.

Miss Scott and I tended in the early hours to a young witch who could have been no more than a year or two your senior. She had, quite foolishly, sought to brew herself a love potion to ensnare the blacksmith's boy, only to render herself mute in the making of it. While I hope you have inherited my—and your aunt's—talents with potions, it is imperitive that you do not allow hubris and girlish foolishness to override sense. Like all magic, potions can be a tremendous fool—but dangerous if not wielded with care.

As always, know I think fondly of you and of the young woman you have become.

With love,

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