In a forgotten corner of the city, at the end of a nondescript back alley, was a small health food shop. It had been there more than forty years and was once popular. Now, a dwindling number of faithful regulars still dropped in for their traditional arthritis remedies, but it was no longer enough to pay the rent.
The owner was a white-haired old man called Mr. Robins, who lived in a flat above the shop. One evening, just before closing time, he sat at the counter with the day’s meagre takings and a pile of bills. He sighed and put his head in his hands.
The door opened, and a young woman entered. She was dirty, her clothes were torn, and she shivered in the cold. “Please help me,” she begged him, “I’ve had nothing to eat all day.”
Mr. Robins was a kind-hearted man, so he sat her down, brought her a hot drink, and made a bowl of porridge from the shop’s last bag of oats. She looked around as she ate, taking in the empty shelves and the peeling paint on the walls.
She finished the last spoonful and put down the bowl. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind, and you have proved yourself worthy.”
There was a flash and a loud bang, and the room filled up with smoke. When it had cleared, the beggar was transformed into a beautiful young woman in a black velvet cloak. “Because you are a good man, I will help you,” she told the astonished shopkeeper.
From somewhere in her cloak, she took out a dusty leather-bound book and a cauldron. “Now. What can I make for you?”
Mr. Robins could only stare.
“Come on!” she urged. “What is it your customers most desire?”
With an effort, Mr. Robins pulled himself together. “Er… to stay young, I suppose.”
