Chapter Eight #3
Madame Bracken looked at me, and though her stern expression didn’t so much as flicker, she didn’t say anything more.
She went back to her pot, each brisk stir wafting a sweet, fragrant steam my way and making me aware for the first time of the painful emptiness in my belly.
She set the pot aside and sliced up a large hunk of bread, slathering it thick with butter and honey, then ladling whatever was in the pot into a teacup.
My newly awakened stomach was gnawing at itself by the time she set the small meal before me and if I had cared what she thought of me I might have been a little embarrassed at the way I tore into the bread.
I’d finished half of it in two bites before turning to the cup of tea.
I paused the moment the rim touched my lips, my brain already alert enough for self-preservation to seep through the fogginess. I shot her a glance over the teacup.
“What sort of tea is this?”
Madame Bracken arched a brow from her seat across the table.
“I’m not a hedgewitch, herbalist, potioneer, or whatever else you’re imagining,” she said, flapping a hand at me. “Dagda’s arse, it’s sweet tea. Your body is running on fumes, you need a good dose of sugar.”
I watched her over the rim as I took a sip.
She could hardly blame my wariness, could she?
It wasn’t as though she’d been especially warm towards me – or anyone else – over the course of her stay.
I was about to tell her as much, but was momentarily distracted by the explosion of flavour over my tongue.
Complex and sweet, the taste of fruits and fragrant herbs layered over the rich, bitter flavour of the dried leaves.
It was so good I couldn’t help but take a full gulp, even though it was still slightly too hot to do so and prickled at my throat all the way down.
“This is… very nice tea.”
She sniffed, which seemed to be her begrudging way of accepting my weak compliment.
“Yes, well. You don’t get to where I am without learning to take care of the people around you.”
“Your family?”
Her head snapped up, eyes sharpening as they widened.
“Your sons, and grandsons,” I clarified.
By the suddenly closed look on her face, I realised her taciturn nature didn’t just apply to that relationship with magic we’d skirted around. She seemed a little horrified that I knew she even had a family, let alone that she’d shared so many details in an apparently long forgotten rant.
“Yes, my family,” she said finally.
I took another sip, just for something to do as the silence stretched and wobbled.
“Well, I appreciate it.” I offered a wry smile; “Though honestly after the week I’ve had, I might need something a little stronger.”
She snorted out a little laugh.
“You and me both, Rosaleen.”
I didn’t think I’d ever heard her say my name before. I was always girl or you there or, if she was particularly vexed, a simple click of her fingers. I didn’t realise I was smiling until she narrowed her eyes at me, the wicked green disappearing into the folds of her weathered face.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You have an accent.”
I hadn’t realised it before. It was soft, barely there at all; only in the sing-song way she said my name did I hear it, so similar to my own father’s cadence that it made my chest simultaneously glow and ache.
“Everyone has an accent.”
“Oh for gods’ sake,” I groaned. “Are you always this suspicious of small talk?”
“Do you want to know the key to a long life such as my own, Miss Rosaleen?”
I shrugged, and nodded. Why not? The old woman’s eyes flashed mischievously, and she leaned across the table, crooking a gnarled finger at me until I met her halfway.
“It’s minding your own business.”
I blinked at her - then burst out laughing. She leaned back in her chair with her arms crossed, a smirk playing about her lips as my peals of laughter eased into minor hiccups.
“Oh gods,” I sighed, still half-laughing. “You are much better company than you’d like anyone to believe, aren’t you?”
She inclined her head, and perhaps flattery did get you everywhere, because she conceded enough to add; “I lived on the Isles for a time.”
“I could tell. Your accent reminds me of someone.”
She wrinkled her nose, seeming most disgusted. “Not that Captain whatsit?”
I paused at the unexpected leap of my Flame, my skin warming.
“Oh, I – Well actually, I meant my father. He was from the Isles too, it’s where his coven, erm –”
I broke off, my brain suddenly misfiring with flashes of Caelan’s smirk against my throat and the lilt of his voice in the dark.
A spark of flame went somersaulting through me and I pressed a hand to my warm face to confirm the flush that was spreading through my cheeks – then promptly tried to hide my flustering with another long sip of tea.
Madame Bracken wasn’t fooled.
“Good gods, are you steaming your face over that tea, girl?”
The awkward little laugh snuck up on me and I ended up inhaling my tea, then spluttering it back out with a cough. I pulled my sleeve over my hand and dabbed sheepishly at the little bit of tea I’d dribbled down my front. Ugh.
“I suppose it does remind me of the Captain, too. A bit.”
“And that’s what’s got you red as a hen’s wattle?”
“I’m sorry, red as a what?”
“You’re blushing,” she translated, a little impishly.
“Oh,” I said, like this was news to me. “I suppose I am.”
Had I always been this transparent? Sorcha had been needling me about the Captain before I’d even admitted anything to myself.
And now, my most decidedly stand-offish guest had taken one look at me and unveiled not one but two closely guarded truths in the space of a half hour.
She sat there watching me until I felt compelled to elaborate, and I couldn’t fight the smile that caught on my lips as I blurted the words out.
“He… kissed me. The Captain.”
My blush burned a little brighter, and I squirmed inwardly even as my Flame gave a happy little leap in my chest, bouncing from rib to rib.
Amid the awful whirlwind of guilt and heartbreak that was the last two days, it was comforting to feel something good.
To acknowledge what had happened, to say it out loud – or some small piece of it, at least.
Madame Bracken froze for an infinitesimal moment – then came to life with an almighty click of her tongue. It was actually rather impressive how the green of her irises disappeared with the vigour of her eye roll.
“Dagda spare me. You young people only think about one thing,” she grumbled. I thought there may have been a hint of amusement in the way her lip twisted, but then she gave a brisk clap of her hands and rose to her feet.
“Right,” she said, in that same curt manner. “You’re feeling better?”
I nodded, and she did the same before turning on her heel and striding away without a hint of a shuffle.
I shook my head, laughing a little dryly under my breath; it must have truly pained her to endure the handful of personal details we’d swapped.
She’d practically flown out of here in her discomfort - in fact, I realised as my eyes snagged on her chair, she’d been in such a hurry she left her shawl behind.
I eased off my seat, pausing a moment to see if my head was likely to go spinning off once more, but I was steady on my feet so I snatched up the shawl and hurried out the kitchen door.
“Madame, wait!”
She was already halfway across the tavern, crossing the floor with that same determined stride that had carried her so hastily from the kitchen. The old woman didn’t turn as she approached the door, but I waved the shawl at her as I followed, still calling her name.
“Madame Bracken?”
She ignored me. Odd – I hadn’t thought her hard of hearing, though I supposed she had to have been well into her eighties. I cupped my mouth with one hand and shouted out once more as she shoved the door open.
“Madame Bracken!”
“Good gods, what?”