Malin – Meant to Be #4
Beside her, Jacien’s cocky facade finally cracked.
His shoulders slumped, and for the first time, she saw the sheer exhaustion of a man who had witnessed too much suffering.
“I know what you wanted to do. I wanted to do it too, but that would not help in the long run. It would take a much bigger change than Four Winds to make the people in this area safe. We will find ways to help, but right now, you have a path you must follow.”
His words did not stop the furious magic simmering within her, but they gave her the clarity needed to refocus on their ultimate goal.
Ahead, the Teahouse’s door swung open as two women slipped inside, their silhouettes briefly visible against the warm glow spilling onto the cobblestones. Malin’s breath caught. The store was open. The knot in her chest loosened slightly, replaced by a flutter of anticipation.
“Can you wait on the porch?” she asked, voice sharper than she meant.
“No problem. I’ll be right outside. Freezing my balls off,” he said as he pulled his coat tighter.
She took a breath, feeling the cold settle deep in her lungs, and pushed open the door.
Inside, it was warm and dark, the air was heavy with the scent of spices and flowers: jasmine, bergamot, cinnamon.
The space was narrow and long, with delicate wooden tables and chairs arranged with surgical precision.
Along the left wall, glass jars of loose-leaf teas crowded the shelves, each labeled in careful handwriting.
The far end of the room was curtained off, a swath of blue velvet that matched the sign out front.
There was no one at the counter, no voices. Just the faint, tinny rattle of a kettle somewhere behind the curtain, and the steady tick of a clock.
She moved to the counter, hand unconsciously settling near the dagger at her hip. The metal was smooth under her palm, a still unfamiliar comfort. There was a bell sitting on the counter. She rang it and waited.
After a minute, a thin, reedy voice called from the back. “One moment!” It was soft, but not timid. There was laughter behind it, like a private joke.
The curtain parted. A small woman emerged carrying a tray of porcelain cups. Her hair was a luminous silver-white woven into an elaborate braid crown, but it was her eyes that made Malin stop breathing. They were an improbable shade of pale, transparent blue.
They were her own eyes looking back at her.
The woman froze, the tray tilting dangerously in her trembling hands. “Elowen?” she breathed.
A cold shockwave blasted through Malin’s nervous system.
The room tilted violently. She thought her aunt was dead, long buried and lost to time, but the fierce, undeniable familial resemblance staring back at her was completely shattering her reality.
If not her aunt, she could not imagine who else this woman could be.
A cousin, perhaps? They had to be related in some way.
To hear her mother’s name spoken in that fragile, hopeful voice made Malin’s blood run completely cold. She could not even feel her legs.
“No,” she forced the word past the massive knot in her throat. “I’m her daughter.”
The woman’s face went through about six emotions in two seconds: shock, hope, fear, joy, then embarrassment, and finally, a fierce kind of pride.
She set the tray down and came around the counter, hands out. “You could be her twin when we were younger,” she said, and for a second her voice sounded so much like her mother that Malin’s knees almost buckled. “You probably don’t remember me, since you were only a few months old when we met.”
Malin stood there, frozen by the sudden proximity. Wrapping her arms around her, the older woman pulled her into a deep, enveloping hug that smelled comforting like flowers, fresh bread, and vanilla.
A bright, infectious laugh escaped her lips, shaking her entire body against Malin’s chest.
An involuntary laugh burst from Malin in response. The sound was rusty and awkward, but it was real.
“I’m Bratha. Bratha Tenb. Your mother is my sister, so you… You must be my niece, Malin.”
Tears pricked the corners of Malin’s eyes as she nodded, her throat entirely too tight for words. A volatile collision of fierce joy and profound grief battered her chest.
To look into a face so hauntingly familiar, to feel the warmth of a living aunt she thought was dead when she was only a baby.
She never knew her enough to miss her. Yet, the sudden discovery brought a crushing sorrow for the decades spent in isolation, mourning a family that had been breathing all along.
A cascade of questions raced through her mind, shattering the illusion that her mother’s secrets had finally been fully exposed.
How could her Aunt still be alive? She thought the secrets were out.
Bratha beamed. “Come, sit. Let me make you something to drink. You must be freezing.” She gestured to a table near the window, already moving to the back to fetch a pot of something hot and dark.
A heavy numbness settled over Malin, but she did as she was told, lowering herself into the delicate chair and looking out at the street. Jacien was standing out there, pacing, rubbing his hands together, with his eyes never leaving the teahouse.
A hesitant breath escaped her lips as she leaned back.
The vivid memory of her dream washed over her, bringing her a profound sense of peace as the crushing anxiety completely dissolved.
She knew it in her bones. This was exactly where her mother wanted her to be.
She had no clue what her Mom wanted her to do next, though.
The tea house was brighter now, a slice of honeyed dawn bleeding through the lace at the windows.
Malin scanned the room: small, lacquered tables; chairs of such fine spindle work she doubted they could hold a grown man’s weight; shelves stacked with jars of leaf, bark, and dried fruit, each labeled in artistic loops.
Along the back wall, a row of teapots sat like sentinels.
They each had a different flower or beast painted on them.
They were not just pretty; they were delicate and beautiful art pieces.
Bustling from the back, Bratha carried a tray loaded with cups, sugar, and a pot so thin Malin was afraid to touch it.
The woman’s energy was as frenetic as a hummingbird’s.
It was as if she couldn’t stop moving, with her hands always arranging something or smoothing a wrinkle in her apron.
After checking on the ladies at the other table, she returned and poured tea for both of them.
When she returned, she did so delicately, folding her hands as if afraid her excitement might spill.
“I can’t believe you’re here. After so long!
It’s uncanny.” Bratha’s voice was lighter than Elowen’s, more animated, but every word carried that familiar, clipped precision.
She set her gaze on Malin’s face, studying every line as if searching for a secret.
“I haven’t seen you since you were a baby.
You don’t remember, of course. I left before your first birthday.
” A flicker of sorrow crossed her face, quickly masked by a smile.
Malin took the cup, careful not to break it. The tea was hot and bitter, perfumed with citrus and some elusive spice. “You knew I was coming?” she asked, cautiously. She still didn’t trust the dream. Or herself.
Bratha laughed, waving a hand. “No. Your mother and her prophecies. She always told me that I would meet you one day. She never could tell when, but… I knew it would happen eventually. I know of you, though. Your mother told me in her letters that you are a healer of some kind. She was always talking about you in our letters. I feel like I know you. She was so proud of your accomplishments and strength.” Her fingers drum on the table.
“She always said we’d meet again, when the need was greatest. It’s a silly thing, but when I saw you walk in, I thought for sure it was her. ”
Malin hesitated. “She’s… in trouble. That’s why I’m here.”
Bratha’s smile dimmed, but her eyes didn’t waver. “Tell me.”
Malin found herself telling the story, more than she intended: the attack in Media, the betrayal, her mother’s collapse. She kept it clinical, but Bratha listened as if every detail mattered.
When Malin explained the nanotech, Bratha blinked. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about those matters. I didn’t have a head for those things as Ellie did.”
Malin sipped her tea, the warmth seeping into her bones, smiling at the nickname for her mother. “How did you get out? Of Media,” Malin asked.
Bratha grinned, the lines at the corners of her mouth deepening.
“Your mother did it. I was older when my magic came in. The government found me. I don’t know how she did it, but these Resistance people saved me before they could chip me.
I found out that she made the plans, paid off the smugglers, and helped me come here.
She took care of everything.” She looked down.
“I thought I’d never see any of you again.
I so rarely get letters… I miss all the friends and family in Media.
When I met Therin, I knew this was the place for me to settle.
Fellspire isn’t perfect, but…” She shrugged. “I can be safe with my magic here.”
A sharp pang of envy pierced Malin’s chest. Bratha had an entire life, rebuilt from nothing, and she looked perfectly content. “Do you have family here?” she asked, softer than she meant.
Bratha beamed. “It’s just my Husband. Therin is a local official. He has a brother who works in the Hold leadership.” She grew more animated, hands fluttering with the words. “I run the tea house. He does politics. It’s a good trade.”
Malin nodded, letting the calm of the place soak in. For the first time, the ache of exhaustion, the days of stress and travel, settled in her bones.