10. Little Black Dress of Tea #2
I wander back into the room. Even with the drapes open, it’s dark in here thanks to the storm. If we stay any longer, I’ll have to turn on the lights.
“Do you want to ride back in my purse?”
He sighs. “I was once a respected mage…”
“Yes, and then you turned yourself into a bird.”
Something is bothering me about that—something I can’t put my finger on. It’ll come to me eventually, but right now, it’s making me crazy.
A knock sounds at the front door, drawing our attention. Ash stands just beyond the rain-soaked window, holding a black umbrella in a feeble attempt to stay dry.
He didn’t mention he was going to come by today.
“Make yourself scarce,” I command Rowan, hurrying to the door.
“You’re already sparkling,” he scoffs and then flies to the upstairs apartment.
“Hi,” I say when I open the door, nearly losing my grip on it when a cool gust of wet air sweeps inside and tries to yank it from me. “It’s gotten chilly out there, hasn’t it? Come on in.”
The councilman enters the shop and then turns, closing the umbrella outside and giving it several shakes to remove as much water as possible.
“I think it’s a lost cause,” I say. “Just lean it against the door. I can mop up the water later.”
Ash turns to me. “You best lock it, or you’ll have early patrons.”
“Tea is nice on a rainy day,” I say, feeling bad that I’m not open yet. “Would you like a cup? I believe I owe you one.”
“That would be welcome, but I’m not here to impose on you. I saw Laverna’s bike out front, and I came to ask if you’d like a ride home.”
“Did you bring your cabriolet again?”
“I did.”
“I’ll gladly join you. I wasn’t looking forward to riding the bike in this. Do you want tea before we leave, or do you need to get going?”
“I have time.”
Technically, it’s late enough that we both should be thinking about dinner. But it’s cozy in the teashop, and now that Ash is here, I’m in no hurry to leave.
I turn to my wall of tea. “What would you like? Irish breakfast?”
“Something decaffeinated, if you have it.” He sounds tired. “I’ve had too much coffee.”
“Rough day?”
“Rough week.”
“More loose dragons?”
“Thankfully, no.”
Since it doesn’t seem like Ash is in the mood to make a decision, I pick a decaf English breakfast from the collection. Rowan would probably scoff at my simple tastes, but to me, it’s the little black dress of tea—simple, right for multiple occasions, and you don’t always know what’s in the blend.
Rather delighted by that thought, I carefully measure tea into the infuser, pour water over it, and then set the timer.
When I return to the table, Ash asks, “May I ask what you were thinking about that sent a wave of happiness throughout the shop?”
“You felt that?” I ask self-consciously.
It would be nice to learn how to control my magic instead of merely being a vessel in which it exists. Maybe Rowan’s experiment will benefit me as much as him.
“I did.” Ash’s face is solemn, but it’s at ease, and his eyes are soft.
And that makes me happy. Whether I can control it or not, my magic is like a blanket hot out of the dryer. And what could be nicer than that?
“I was just thinking about tea,” I say as I sit across from him, waiting for the timer to go off. “I’m enjoying it. Who knew there was more to it than dunking a tea bag into a mug of microwaved water?”
He smiles, looking down at the table, trying to hide his amusement. His hair is up again, like it always is for work. But I want to reach over and free it.
It looked soft last night. What would it feel like between my fingers, or tangled in my hand as we kissed?
Whoa. Slow down there, Kit.
“And now you’re sparkling again,” he says quietly, contemplating me. “What has you glowing?”
My cheeks flush hot.
“Humor me,” he says quietly. There’s a playful note in his velvet tone that twines around me and coaxes me to divulge secrets.
“You’re using magic on me,” I accuse, laughing.
“Just a little.”
“I was thinking about your hair,” I admit, watching the surprise play over his face.
“What about my hair?” He looks truly flummoxed.
I bite my bottom lip before I answer, trying not to grin. I’m not just twitterpated—I’m also happy, and my summer magic is responding. “I like it.”
Ash closes his eyes, a smile tipping his sharp, perfect lips. “You’re intoxicating.”
I remember what Rowan said about Ash living in a state of perpetual melancholy, and it tempers my joy. And just like that, the warmth ebbs. It dissipates like smoke, leaving us with nothing but the damp chill of the rain.
Ash opens his eyes, frowning softly. “What happened?”
“I can’t control it.” I shrug, avoiding his eyes. “It comes and goes at will.”
He studies me for a few seconds and then changes seats, choosing the chair right next to me. “How do I make it come back?”
It builds again, startlingly responsive to this man. And it’s not just the sparkles that tinge the air around me when I’m feeling butterflies, but the warmth that is the core of my season—the ethereal, intangible, cloud of joy that surrounds me when I’m happy.
Warmth and sparkles—that’s what he’s drawing from me.
But why?
Why does my magic respond to Ash like it does? I’ve never felt anything like it. But I’ve rarely been around high fae. And never a winter high fae.
A satisfied smile lights Ash’s face. Thankfully, it’s not a smug smile, nor a patronizing one.
But suddenly, his amusement vanishes, and his brow wrinkles as though worried. “This is why mages kidnapped your kind. I never understood it, but now I see. Your magic is addictive.”
Several hundred years ago, a rogue group of mages in Pennsylvania began abducting pixies, hoping to sell them on the human black market. But who could be happy in captivity? They only summoned storms.
We become worthless the moment someone traps us.
Unfortunately, the mages found a way around that. Instead of kidnapping the pixies to sell, they started siphoning their magic and sold that instead. They drained the pixies, pulling raw magic from them like a nurse drawing blood.
Not wanting to think about it, and trying to lighten the mood, I attempt a smile and joke, “Am I in danger?”
“I’m not going to kidnap you.” Ash smiles reassuringly, his expression warm. Then his eyes move to my mouth. Slowly. Curiously. After several long heartbeats, he murmurs, “I am tempted to keep you though.”
I draw in a soft breath, butterflies rioting in my stomach. As the rain patters against the windows, serenading us with its rhythmic melody, Ash leans in.
My eyes fall to his lips before fluttering shut. I feel his breath, smell his crisp, cool magic…
And then the tea timer goes off.
We pull back abruptly, both of us avoiding each other’s eyes like we were doing something we shouldn’t have been.
Only when I’m hurrying over to the tea do I remember that Rowan is upstairs, probably spying on us like the little fowl mage he is.
“Do you like cream, milk, honey, or sugar in your tea?” I ask Ash.
“I drink it plain.”
I wrinkle my nose at the thought and bring Ash’s tea to the table. “Here you go—one depressingly unsweetened and decaffeinated cup of English breakfast.”
“You might want to work on your marketing.” He chuckles softly. “You aren’t going to have a cup?”
“You will not believe the amount of tea I’ve ingested today.”
“Rough job.”
I grin. “The worst.”
We sit together as he drinks his tea. This time, we ignore my wayward magic and talk about the town and his work.
When it’s time to leave, I almost forget my owl.
“Just a minute,” I say as Ash is headed for the door. “I need to run upstairs real quick.”
It’s dark now, the clouds masking the evening light and making it look later than it is.
“Rowan,” I whisper, looking around the quiet space. His perch is empty.
“Rowan!” I call again, but there’s no reply.
I search until I find the owl door in my office, directly behind an empty cardboard box that looks like it was scooted aside.
He must have left.
I glance outside. The rain has slowed, but it’s still pattering against the windows.
Worried, I remember what I told him about making himself scarce. He didn’t think I wanted him to go out in the storm, did he?
Uncomfortable, I cross my arms, chilled. The air up here is cold, and the space doesn’t feel so cozy anymore.
Though guilt eats at me, I assure myself Rowan will be okay out there. It’s not like he hasn’t had years of practice at being a bird.
But as I make my way down the stairs, I glance out the window again, into the graying evening and the water that’s puddling on the cobblestone streets.
He will be okay…won’t he?