She continued stirring, but called out over her shoulder: "Crow's eye. Three."
"Crow's eye… crow's eye…" There were shelves upon shelves of bottle after bottle, and no categorization system that I could recognize. "I don't see it. What do they look like?"
"Seen a crow?"
"Did it have eyes?"
"Like that then. Crow's eye. And be quick, we're almost to a boil here."
Still nothing. "Are you sure you need them?"
She stopped stirring, turned around. "Do you want this Roscover fellow dead," she hissed, jabbing a gnarled finger in my direction, "or don't you?"