10. Little Black Dress of Tea
Little Black Dress of Tea
We spend two hours in the library but find nothing helpful. I do, however, discover a book on gnomes that I’d like to buy my father for his birthday—if I can find it in the local bookstore.
I carry Rowan out in my purse, trying not to suffocate him this time. Then I turn on the side street and pause in the small alley behind the library. After a quick look around to make sure there’s no one watching, I open my purse and scoop him out.
He flaps his wings as he emerges, nearly smacking me in the face, and then lands on a nearby brick wall.
“I’m going to the shop now,” I tell him. “I have to learn everything there is to know about tea by mid-June.”
“You’re not going to become a tea sommelier that quickly.” Rowan follows me out of the alley and onto Main Street, landing in a tree ahead of me. When I’m close, he says, “But I could help you.”
There are people around. They prevent me from talking to him directly, so I pull my phone from my pocket and pause near the tree and pretend to take a call. “You want to come with me to the tea shop?”
“I spent most of my days with Laverna.”
“I did see a perch upstairs.” I think about it, worried it will violate some kind of health code. “I suppose as long as no one sees you…”
“I’ll meet you in the tea garden.” He leaves the tree, flying swiftly down the street.
As I pocket my phone, I watch him disappear into the cloudy sky, feeling a bit guilty that we didn’t find anything that will help me change him back.
“That’s a screech owl,” a man says from nearby. “We see them a lot. Or we see that particular one a lot. I haven’t figured out which it is yet.”
I turn toward the voice. The man has a solemn face and startlingly green eyes.
He’s probably in his mid-thirties, and his features are sharp but pleasing, bordering on beautiful.
His hair is so dark it’s almost black, and it’s cut short, telling me he’s probably not high fae even though I sense that magic on him.
He must be a mage.
“I’m Ansel,” he says.
“I’m—”
“Kathleen. I know.”
And then he walks away.
I stare after him, befuddled.
Ryder pauses in the walkway to join me. The elf is carrying a brown paper bag stamped with the bakery’s logo. “I see you’ve met our local sorcerer.”
“Sorcerer?” I ask him.
A mage who goes into the profession of magic is a sorcerer, but you don’t hear about them a lot these days.
Magic doesn’t pay the bills like it used to when medieval kings had enemies to smite.
Not that people don’t have enemies that need smiting—but you can’t just hire a sorcerer on a job recruitment site.
“That’s right,” Ryder says. “Ansel Breckon, sorcerer extraordinaire, owns Moss Hollow Rocks and Gems.”
“Oh…he does the fireworks.”
“That’s right.” Ryder flashes me a flirty grin. “Hi, by the way. How are you? Are you on your way to your shop?”
“I’m fine, and I am.”
“I’ll walk with you. Meg called two minutes ago, begging me for a raspberry scone. She’s alone in her grandmother’s boutique and desperately needs sustenance.” The handsome elf leans a smidgen closer. “I think she just wants an excuse to see me.”
“Can you blame her?”
“Oh, I like you.” He falls into step beside me. “Have I told you that?”
I wave to Anna as she crosses the street ahead of us. “A few times, I think.”
He acknowledges Ash’s sister as well, giving her the ’sup nod that seems a little out of place in this storybook village. Then he turns back to me. “Look at you being a social butterfly.”
“I’m trying, but there are so many people to keep straight. I still haven’t met half the shopkeepers.”
“Come to the town meeting on Friday,” he says. “They’re dreadfully boring, but most of the shopkeepers show up. Gideon usually buys a few platters of semi-stale cookies from the grocery store, and the cafe provides several carafes of lukewarm coffee. It’s a good time.”
“You’re really selling this.”
He grins, showing off his dimples. “Oh, come on. It’s going to be as dull as dirt. You have to come.”
“Will you be there?” I ask.
“I will. Shall I save you a seat next to me?”
“How many enemies will I create for myself if I say yes?”
He laughs. “You make it sound as though half the town is in love with me.”
“I’d be surprised if they weren’t.”
“You’re delightful.” Ryder pauses on the street, tugging me to a stop, his lips twitching with good humor. “I’m going to keep you—we’re going to be best friends.”
“Are we?”
He continues walking. “The kind with benefits, no doubt.”
“I doubt, but the offer is flattering.”
“Your call, of course. Just let me know when you change your mind.”
“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” I ask as we near my shop.
“Because, apparently, I’m only allowed one.” He gives me a knowing look. “Or so my last girlfriend informed me.”
I shake my head, laughing despite myself.
“And this is where we part,” he declares when he deposits me at my doorstep. “A quick kiss goodbye, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Please tell me that’s never worked.”
“Oh, it has,” the elf laughs, already heading toward the street, catching the eye of more than one female tourist as he goes. “More times than I can count.”
Shaking my head, I open the door and head to the back to let Rowan in. He flies inside, landing on the back of a chair. “Ryder is a better option than Ash.”
“Still eavesdropping, I see.” I walk behind the counter and fill the electric kettle with filtered water. “I hate to disappoint you, but I prefer my men a little less…friendly.”
“I’ve noticed,” he says wryly.
I shoot him a smile. “If you were really looking out for me, I don’t think you’d try to shove me toward a self-proclaimed player.”
“Ryder is all talk,” Rowan announces confidently. “He fell in love with an elemental elf when he was in his early twenties. She tried to kill him, and he’s never recovered. Now he protects his heart by pretending he doesn’t have one.”
“An actual elemental elf? Like one of the royal ones?”
“They met at his college.”
“To be fair, that would make anyone shy away from relationships.”
He gives me an owlish nod of agreement. “He hasn’t gotten close to another woman since.”
“That you know of.”
“I do know. I see things. I hear things.” He gives me a golden-eyed look of disdain. “Sometimes things I wish I could unsee and unhear.”
I set the teapot to boil and join him at the table. “Okay, let’s gossip later. It’s time to get down to business. What do you know about tea?”
“It’s a beverage.”
“You’ve been tremendously helpful. Should we call it a day?”
“There are five main types—black, which is fully oxidized. Green, which is either pan-fried or steamed after it’s picked to prevent the tea from oxidizing.
Oolong, which is semi-oxidized and can sit anywhere between black and green in terms of flavor.
White is minimally processed, and pu’er is aged.
There are also yellow and purple teas, but we won’t cover those today. ”
“You forgot herbal tea.”
“I didn’t forget. Herbal tea is not a tea, but a tisane. True tea must contain the tea plant.”
“Laverna sold herbals,” I can’t help but point out. “I have a whole shelf of them.”
“She did, but today, we’re going to focus on tea.”
“What about teas mixed with herbs or dried fruits?”
“We’ll get to them later. The tea snobs aren’t going to care how you pronounce chamomile. But they will care what estate your new shipment of Darjeeling came from, which flush it is, and what year it was harvested.”
“And Darjeeling is…a black tea?” I say the last bit triumphantly, glad I remembered.
“Correct.” Then, like he’s quizzing me, he says, “And what country is it from?”
“India.”
“And what other teas are from India?”
“Assam, Nilgiri, masala chai—oh, but that has spices in it, so we’re ignoring it today.”
“Yes, but that one counts as acceptable in many tea snob circles. So does jasmine and, occasionally, Earl Grey.”
“So those are okay, but if you throw in dried apples, suddenly, it’s not a tea snob tea?”
“We don’t question the process.”
“I had cinnamon apple tea with Ryder yesterday. It was delicious.”
“Laverna stocked several good ones.”
“I’m not sure I can work in an industry that shuns cinnamon and apples—two well-known providers of happiness.”
“You’re squirreling, Kit. The flavored teas are fine. We’re just not talking about them today.”
“Unless they happen to be masala chai or jasmine. And maybe Earl Grey.”
He huffs. “Correct.”
The electric kettle beeps, alerting me that the water is boiling. “What should we try first?”
“Black tea, since you boiled the water.”
“Aren’t you supposed to boil the water?”
“It depends on the tea. It’s fine for most blacks, but many greens or oolongs become bitter if the water is too hot.”
“I’ve been making your fussy oolong at home with boiling water.”
“I forgive you.” Though his response is patronizing, it’s also laced with humor.
I smile as I turn to the wall of teas behind the counter. “All right. A black tea. What about a Darjeeling, since we were just talking about it? This one says it was harvested in autumn of last year.”
“I actually prefer most Darjeeling at 185 degrees.”
Frustrated, I turn back to look at him. “But it’s a black tea.”
He gives me an owl shrug. “When it comes down to it, most tea rules are merely guidelines.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Now I need to remember guidelines, too.”
Rowan chortles, which is an interesting sound for a bird to make. “Just take notes. You’ll be fine.”
By the end of the day, I’ve tested twenty-seven different teas, all varieties grown in India. Rowan said focusing on a region is the best way to start picking up on tasting notes.
Even though I only had one or two sips of each, I’m feeling a little jittery as I stare into the tea garden, dreading my bike ride home. The rain that was promised in the forecast is currently coming down in great sheets.
The plants are happy—I can sense it. But I am less so.
“Can you fly in this?” I call to Rowan.
“Not well,” he replies from his perch on the chair in the tearoom. “Owls are designed for stealth, not rainstorms. My feathers aren’t waterproof like a duck’s.”