She had no idea how long she had been in the small, musty-smelling room. It was lit by a single candle, now guttering down to its last few minutes of life. There were shadows in the corners, shifting and changing as the candle flickered, and she imagined there were movements within the shadows as well; more creatures with demands, with questions, always with questions.
They came to her, some babbling dementedly, some struggling to fit through the small door to her room, some so tiny that she feared to trip over them. But they had one thing in common; they expected omniscience. What was this plant? What did this do? When would it stop? How would it make them feel?
Why did they expect she would know?
She reached a trembling hand across the table for the bottle, for relief. But there was no bottle there.
There was a knock at the door, and something called her name.