Page 6 of Magic & Matchmaking
“It’s going to take the shop some time to get used to you.” Morty reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Really, this will pass.” She clapped three times, the sound ringing in my ears.
Suddenly, everything went still. No more forks or plates or cups trying to kill us. Well, me.
Morty shot me a smile. “See? Right as rain.” She stood, dusting the skirt of her dress, her bracelets jangling.
I gestured to the carnage, pieces of porcelain and glass everywhere. “This is not right as rain. This is most definitely not right. It’s wrong... as rain.”
“Good one,” Herman said drily.
“You didn’t tell me the shop was going to hate me,” I hissed at Morty.
She walked behind the counter and fished her wand from her apron pocket. She pointed it at a few tins, which rose into the air and dumped tea leaves into a metal sieve with a lid. I stared at her, not sure what to do.
“What are you doing standing there? Go sit.” She shooed me away.
I patted my hair, even more of it coming loose during that entire debacle, as I made my way toward one of the tables. I pulled out the chair and moved to sit in it when it slid backward. I fell straight to the ground.
“Well, there goes this whole idea,” Herman said from the floor, where he still hid under the table, his wings tucked into his sides.
“Oh, pish posh.” Morty rushed over to help me stand and pointed at the chair. “You behave.”
The chair slid forward and into the back of my legs, forcing me to sit.
Morty bustled back behind the counter and grabbed a kettle. She dipped it into the water barrel, and when she lifted the kettle, it glowed red as it heated the water inside.
I glanced around the little tea shop. Mismatched bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed with clear tins of brightly colored leaves for sale. Vines snaked over the top row of shelves, adding pops of green to the little store. Potted plants sat in between the shelves, leaves and soft pink petalscurling out. I ran my hand over the worn brown tabletop, then my gaze drifted over to a plush earthen-green sofa pushed up against one of the windows. Tall chairs lined the bar top. My racing heart slowed, and I breathed in the scents of cinnamon and clove.
I imagined walking across the street and back into my father’s store, where I’d likely have to clean out the griffin pen, then feed the three-headed snake, and then attempt to bathe the cats. They were the worst of the lot. A whole litter of invisible cats that I had to bathe. I shuddered.
Another plate flew off the shelf and toward my head. I ducked while the plate sailed into a shelf. Morty didn’t even bat an eye, lifting the kettle from a neat line of them on the counter and setting it on a tray that she brought to my table while she hummed.
The scents of apple pie hit me: caramelized apples, nutmeg, vanilla, a buttery crust. A tin of different colored tea leaves and dried chopped apple sat on the wooden tray. Next to it was a brass kettle with flowers engraved around the side. She closed the lid over the small tin of leaves, then placed it into a porcelain cup, which was engraved with earthy green vines that snaked up the sides. She lifted the kettle and poured the hot water over the tin. I watched as the flavor bloomed in the water, coloring it a deep brown. My mouth watered. She lifted two more small saucers of cream and sugar from the tray and set it on my table.
“Wow,” Herman said, and I looked over, realizing he’d emerged from his hiding spot to watch the tea pouring.
I agreed. I’d been here more times than I could count, but the tea ritual never got old. Morty lifted the tray and took it back to the counter, then joined me and Herman at the table as I took a sip of the fragrant liquid. All my worries melted away.
I could handle a few rogue plates and cups. I could do this and still take care of my father. The flavors sat on my tongue, filled me with warmth. I could have the independence I’d been craving for years and still be able to watch over my father.
I hoped I wouldn’t regret the next words that came out of my mouth. Morty watched me with a keen eye.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it. I’ll take over Steeped in Love.”
Chapter Four
RIVEN
Squeals erupted outside of my cart, calls for my name ringing through the air. Draven sat across from me, glowering, which was his usual countenance, but this time, I didn’t disagree. The squeals were so high-pitched I was afraid they’d burst my eardrums.
“Riven! Riven, will you play a song for us?” a woman called from outside the rolling cart.
“Witch’s tits,” Draven muttered, shoving a hand through his thick dark hair. “Do they ever leave you alone?”
“Will you sign my panties?” another feminine voice called.
Draven cocked a brow. “What do you put in those songs of yours?”
I patted the lute sitting next to me on the cushioned seat, the cherry wood smooth under my palm. “Looking to steal my secrets?” I asked.
