Chapter 6 #3
“So I started experimenting with recipes. I learned that many of my mother’s herbal spells and remedies could be infused into mead, and the fermentation process enhanced the magic.
I found that I could talk to the bees about collecting pollen from certain plants so they could infuse the honey with botanicals.
Warrick had all these ideas about the mead business and how he could use all his contacts.
He said that after we sold the recipe, we could afford a bigger house.
He was already looking at places. I didn’t want to leave the cottage, but he was so excited about us doing this together, I left him to manage it all.
And then he heard from his alcohol client that they weren’t interested.
They couldn’t see mead selling to a wider market, and they thought the botanical flavours made it too female-coded.
“We got that news two weeks ago, around the time he got that first big payment. I’d been mentally working myself up to suggesting the idea to Warrick, but I kept hesitating because I’d been dreaming about it for so long and I knew exactly what he’d say.
And he’s probably right, it’s a silly idea, but when I saw the shop for rent the other day, I just… ”
“You just let your own dream shine through, for once,” Rafe says.
“Maybe?” We were getting dangerously close to things I couldn’t talk about. “But it’s all—”
“Drinking one of your blooming brews, witch?”
The voice scratches at the back of my throat. I look up to see Harry leaning over the fence, glaring between Rafe and me and the garden that bursts with life between us.
“Her compost shouldn’t look like that,” he scoffs, jabbing a grubby finger at my pile heaped against the fence. “Not when it’s in direct sunlight, with this hot, dry weather we’re having. She’s never even watered it.”
“I do water it,” I say to Harry. “You don’t have me under surveillance, Harry?”
“I do!” he yells back. “This year’s best garden judges are going to know the truth. I’ve seen you out here, talking to the bees, commanding them to pollinate only your flowers, performing a fertility dance on your compost pile—”
“A fertility dance?” Rafe turns to me with an amused expression. “I’d like to see that.”
“Dancing on my compost pile isn’t against the rules.”
“It is if you’re using magic to make your garden better! It’s cheating. You and that mother of yours. You always cheat, and I’m fed up. I’m going to figure out what you’re doing if it’s the last thing I do.”
Harry stomps away.
“Now you’ve met Harry,” I say. “He takes the garden competition very seriously.”
“I can tell.” Rafe picks up our empty goblets. “We should get back to the shop and finish the next coat of paint, and tackle the next part of your license.”
“I have to book that food hygiene and alcohol serving exam.” I groan. “That’s me done for. I haven’t sat an exam since high school. I was never very good at them.”
“You said you studied history.”
“I also failed history.”
The memories flood my body in a bone-deep wave of shame – all the pressure built up over my first term, the looming sword of Damocles over my head in the form of the exam that would negate all of the high marks I made on my essays, the grim, pitying face of my favourite lecturer, Professor Pearce, when he saw me in the library and told me he hoped to see me in his classes again, knowing that he’d marked my utter shambles of an exam.
It was coming home to my mother and wanting her disappointment, craving her outward representation of my shame, but only receiving her love.
And Warrick, who leapt straight into problem-solving mode and filled in my withdrawal papers.
“Well, you’re not failing this test,” Rafe says with conviction I don’t feel. “I have a cunning plan.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
Back at the shop, Rafe leaves me to paint while he goes next door to get lunch. He’s able to remain human as long as he stays within a twenty-metre radius of me, which thankfully includes Celeste’s bakery.
He’s gone a long time. I’m just about to mount a rescue mission when he bounds into the shop, holding a bag of warm pies, a couple of cream doughnuts, and a heavy-looking shopping bag.
“So I have good news, gooder news, and the best news.” He rubs his hands together.
“The good news is that Celeste had beef and Guinness pies today. The gooder news is that I borrowed her phone and called the council about your food hygiene and alcohol exam. The exams are administered here in the village, at the community hall. They’re booked up months in advance.
The next date available is in November.”
“How is that gooder news? That’s months away. I won’t be able to open until I’ve passed.” I slump. “I never should have done this.”
“I haven’t got to the best news part,” Rafe grins wickedly. “It turns out someone pulled out of tomorrow’s test. So I said we’d take the slot. You could be framing your very own alcohol license this time tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” He plonks a heavy book of regulations down on the desk. “Celeste had this lying under her counter. That’s the test material. It should be easy.”
“Rafe, I can’t sit a test tomorrow! There’s no way I’ll learn everything in that book in one night.”
“Oh ye of little faith.” Rafe flips open the first page. “We’d better get started.”