In his workshop, the Keeper flips the pages of a thick book. The smell of newly pressed wood pulp wafts from its blank pages, mixing with the faint musky odor of hide fresh from the tannery.

"Your time is coming, my young one. Let us begin."

He lays the book on his workbench and gestures, a quick twist of one hand. Dozens of vials with colored stoppers float off their shelves and hover above him in neat rows. He moves quickly, plucking one vial after another out of the air to shake, sprinkle, or drip its contents into a heavy pot.

"The first ray of sunrise, glitter from a shooting star, the thu-thump of a heartbeat, a whisker of wildcat, a clump of dried earth, a chip off an old block, a droplet of tsunami, the flame of a candle, a warm summer breeze, a fleck of pure gold, a can of alphabet soup...."