Chapter 1 #3
I take a step inside, and then another, carefully avoiding the trowels.
I always imagined my meadery would look exactly like this.
All dark, homely wood, a long wall to display the barrels, stools pulled in close to the bar, a little kitchen in the back, space in the corner for a stage so we can have small folk concerts, rickety wooden shelves displaying my honey and preserves alongside bottles of mead for sale.
A place where people can come and instantly feel as if they’ve been transported to a fantasy world and that magic is real—
“Yeeeeeeoooowllll.”
“Argh!”
I yelp as a white-and-orange ball barrels from behind an upturned plant pot straight at my face.
I dive behind the bar, and the beast howls as it sails over my head and lands on the wooden countertop, where it skids to the end on its butt and hits the wall.
The shelf above its head rattles, and I swear I see tiny birds dancing around its head.
Bzzzzz. My bees race towards it, ready to do battle for my honour.
The huge flamepoint Siamese cat immediately rights himself and starts furiously licking his paw, as if to say, “I meant to do that.” He regards me out of the corner of his eye, daring me to say something about his majestic entrance.
The bees lose their steam before they reach him and settle for sniffing his fur to see if he’s worth harvesting.
“Hey, kitty.” I kneel beside the counter, holding out my hand for him to sniff. “You startled me. But it seems like I startled you, too. I’m not here to bother you. I was just looking at the shop. Your name is Rafe, right?”
“Mrrrw.” Rafe tilts his head to the side, as if he can understand me and is acknowledging that yes, I am allowed to use his name.
He’s a handsome boy, with iridescent blue eyes the colour of the ocean after a storm, a creamy-coloured body, and gorgeous orangey-red points on his ears, nose and paws.
Tentatively, he leans forward, sniffing my fingers with his nose.
He flicks his tail warily, and I see that it has stripes of darker red amongst the orange.
I rub the top of Rafe’s head and the little M in the centre of his forehead.
Once, when my grandmother Mags returned from a trip to Turkey, she told me that the M on a cat’s forehead was left by the Prophet Mohammed out of love for his favourite cat, Muezza, so all would know that cats are sacred to Muhammad.
This cat had the air of someone who knew it.
“Meorrr, meorrrwww.” Rafe leans into me, giving my hand a full-on headbutt. He purrs, rolling over onto his stomach, rubbing his head against the counter and letting out the rumbliest purrs.
That was fast.
For some reason I can’t quite explain, the cat’s affection forms a lump in my throat. Rafe’s been living here on his own for weeks after his person died, and here I am, an interloper in his shop, and he’s just accepted me.
I may not ever be good enough for Warrick, but Rafe likes me.
A lump forms in my throat.
“Thank you. You don’t know what it means to me.
I…I think I might be renting this shop.” I swing my arm around as I rub him under the chin while he flops back and forth.
“I know it doesn’t look like much. But imagine stools along the bar, and old oak barrels stacked up behind.
Imagine wooden tables, comfy chairs, and cosy couches beside the fire.
Board games on a shelf in the corner, and a book exchange—oh, Rafe. ”
“Roooowwwl!” Rafe had just rolled off the bar. He stands on the floor behind it, howling with indignation at gravity for betraying him.
I pick him up. His feet hamster-wheel until I settle him on my shoulder, where he immediately burrows his nose into my hair and starts purring.
He doesn’t seem to even notice the bees marching along his spine.
With my one free hand, I pull my phone from my pocket and head back to the door to read the sign.
I take as long as I need to puzzle it out.
Vacant shop for rent.
If interested, call the number below.
No vape stores, plastic bags, or dog rescues allowed.
The cat comes with the shop, so you’ll have to tolerate him, and he’s a real bastard.
That sign sounds like it had been written by Old Widow Hardcastle. With Rafe still buried in my hair, I dial the number. On my first try, I get an engaged signal, and I realise I’ve mixed up two of the digits. I try again, and a woman picks up.
“Angela speaking. Can I help you?”
“Yes, my name is Autumn Abernathy, and I’m calling about the shop for rent on the village green—”
“You are?”
“Yes. Unless there’s a reason I shouldn’t—”
“Thank the goddess!” the woman, Angela, yells in my ear. “I thought we’d never get a tenant for the place. When can you move in?”
“Um, I’m really just after some information—”
“Are you at the shop? I can bring the keys around right now!”
This is wild. I can’t do this. “I’m not really sure if I should. I need to talk to my husband, and he’s missing—”
“I’ll give you half off the rent for the first three months,” she cries. “Please, just take the place. You know about the cat, right? He comes with the shop. I need to get that damn cat out of my life.”
“You mean Rafe?” I peer over at the sleek, purring body on my shoulder. “He’s not so bad. He’s asleep on my shoulder right now.”
“Are we talking about the same cat? He’s a little shit, and he can get away with whatever he likes because he technically owns the shop.”
“What?”
“Yup,” Angela laughs mirthlessly. “My grandmother left her shop to that cat. I manage the property on his behalf, which also means I have to feed him and clean his litter tray. Sir Scratchalot does not approve of the discount wet food I’ve chosen.
But if he’s taken a liking to you, maybe that’s a sign?
Please let it be a sign. My grandmother was big into signs. ”
“Okay, okay.” I smile at Rafe. “I guess I’ll take the shop. And the cat.”
“Amazing. What name am I putting down on the paperwork?”
“I’m Autumn. And the shop’s name is…” I smile as the perfect name appears in my head like magic. “The Bee-Witching Brews Meadery.”