Chapter 18
XVIII
The morning of Bee-Witching Brew’s grand opening, I wake to rain hammering the roof.
“It’s a sign,” I moan, stroking Rafe’s soft fur as I lie in bed listening to the windows rattling and the drips plinking into the bucket from the leak in the bathroom ceiling.
It’s not a sign. It’s weather. And it won’t hurt anyone. I shall demonstrate. Rafe stands and grandly prances towards the window, where he scratches to be let out. I open it, and he darts outside, only to race back in two seconds later, fur sodden.
The sky, he howls pathetically as he butts his damp head against me, trying to burrow into my pyjama top. It has betrayed us.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. No one is going to come out in this weather. We’ll be lucky if we see a single customer all day.
“I guess we have to open anyway,” I mumble as I slide out of bed and pull down my leather corset.
I’m melting. I’m meeeelting. Rafe slumps into the warm spot I left behind on the sheets, using a paw to pull the covers over his head.
By the time we make it to the shop, the rain’s coming down in sheets.
I’m soaked through and cursing myself for letting Warrick talk me out of getting a driver’s license.
It’s just after lunch, and we’re opening at 2 PM.
Celeste pops her head in just as I turn on the power to my new till.
“It’s dead out there. I’ve only sold three meat pies all day.
No one’s in the village. I’m keeping the pies I made for you warm, but maybe we should hold off the grand opening? ”
My heart sinks. No one’s going to come. And it’s fine, it really is, we could delay the opening for a couple of days, and it’s not a big deal.
But I can’t stop thinking that this is a sign. That maybe I’m not cut out to be a shop owner, at the whims of forces that I can’t control.
Rafe leaps up on the counter and headbutts me, his tail flicking.
We’re opening, he says firmly, with all the confidence of a ten-inch tall furry critter who believes that he’s a reincarnated Egyptian god.
At 2 PM, I flip over my new handmade sign from CLOSED to OPEN. Rafe, now in human form, makes me do it three times while he videos me for his social media account, and by the third time, I’m visibly trying to hold back tears. The village is absolutely deserted. Thunder cracks overhead.
We sit down at one of the empty tables and share a pie. The fire burns down to embers. No one comes in. Even Rafe is deflated.
“Maybe we should just close early?” I say. “There’s no point staying open—”
“What’s that?” Rafe jabs a finger at the window.
I blink. It’s hard to see with the rain coming down, but a tourist coach has just pulled up on the other side of the green.
They’re common, as Argleton is one of those classic ‘chocolate box’ English villages, and tourists like to take tours into Loamshire county to see the countryside.
It’s not exactly a good day for it, but I guess the tourists are getting a look at ‘authentic’ British weather.
Rafe’s pulling on his coat and grabbing the pile of drink discount fliers we had printed. “I bet those poor, damp sods will love a warming glass of mead beside the fire. I’ll run over and spread the word.”
He races across the green as a bunch of old people hop off the bus. I poke at the fire, stirring it back to life even though there’s no point. I stand just in time to watch the tourists unfurl umbrellas and race for the open doors of the pub.
“I guess that’s a bust.” I step back from the window, swiping at my eyes. I’m such an emotional wreck about a little weather.
The bell tinkles at the door.
I look over in surprise. A couple stand in the doorway behind Rafe, shaking the rain out of their umbrellas. They’re both wearing t-shirts for an Arizona retirement village. They’ve come from the coach.
“Hello there.” The woman peers around the room through her coke-bottle glasses. “Your friend told us about the meadery. Are you open?”
“Er, yes! We are.” I step behind the counter, suddenly completely unsure of what to do with myself. “Welcome to Bee-Witching Brews. But, um, isn’t the rest of your group at the pub?”
“They are,” says the woman. She has short grey hair and a little sword on a necklace, and rings on every finger. “But this is the third quaint English village we’ve visited and the third country pub. I’m bored, and I saw your fire through the window and the medieval sign. I’m intrigued.”
“Did you know my wife writes medieval romance novels?” Her husband beams. “She’s obsessed with castles and knights and all that stuff. I’m Ralph, and this is Linda. We’ve never been able to visit the UK before, but we saved our pennies, and here we are.”
My chest flutters as I lead them over to the bar. Rafe catches my eye and beams.
“The tradition of mead brewing dates back to ancient Mesopotamia, and likely even further,” I say as I hand them printed menus.
“My mead recipes have been passed down in my family, although some – like our Spell the Tea mead – are my own creations. And this shop was originally the stables for the inn – it’s been standing since the 14th century. ”
The man, Ralph, snaps photos while Linda peruses the menu.
“I’ll have one of your Mead for Mischief, to inspire my next story, and Ralph will try Spell the Tea.
” She leans across the counter and whispers to me.
“I’ve been ordering his drinks for him for thirty-eight years.
I just order what I want to try, because he’ll let me finish half and never complain. We’ll have a half-pint each.”
“My husband used to do that for me,” I say as I hold their tankards under the taps to pour their drinks. “But he never knew what I actually liked to drink.”
“He’d better be an ex-husband, now.” She narrows her eyes at me from behind her glasses.
“It certainly looks that way.”
Ralph pays, and I hand them their drinks. “Oh, this is delightful.” Linda hands her cup to her husband. “Ralph, taste this.”
They swap drinks, and both of their faces break into smiles. Celeste arrives then with a tray of mince pies straight from the oven, and within moments I have my very first customers sitting contentedly at a table in the corner, drinking and talking beside the now-roaring fire.
Rafe goes out back and returns in his cat form. He rubs around my ankles, and I bend down to stroke his fur. “It’s really happening,” I whisper. “We’re open, and we have customers.”
I don’t know. You’re not a real tavern until someone’s tried illegal magic and you’ve broken up at least one brawl.
“Rafe!”
I’m kidding, Fermentation Fairy. I never doubted you.
“Thank you for believing in me.” I patted his head. “I don’t think I could have done this without you.”
That’s a lie, but also, I’m a cat, so I will happily take all the credit and demand a can of tuna for my efforts.
Linda returns to the bar to refill their tankards. “We told the whole tour group on WhatsApp that they had to come,” she says. “We go to a pub in every village we visit, but how often do we get to drink mead?”
In a few minutes, my empty meadery is hopping. Villages start to wander in, drawn by the lively crowd, roaring fire, and the two-for-one mead coupons we handed out at the tasting. I should have known a little bit of rain won’t keep British people from free booze.
I can hardly take a breath between explaining the menu and the history of mead and ringing up purchases.
Rafe is in his element. He prances along the counter, little nose sniffing out morsels of pie from customers’ plates.
Occasionally, when he tires of being fussed over, he trots out back, changes into his human form, and comes out with a tray of fresh mugs or a cloth to wipe down tables.
He never actually wipes down a table, but he’s so busy talking that he sells several customers on a second pint of mead or takeaway bottles, so I forgive him.
Mina shows up with Oscar the guide dog, two men in tow and a raven on her shoulder. “Are ravens allowed inside?”
“Only if they agree not to poop on any customers.”
“Quoth promises he won’t do that as long as no one quotes the Poe poem to him.” Mina pats the raven’s head, and he makes a contented croaking noise.
Just as I’ve cleared away the last of the pie plates and the tourists reluctantly start wobbling back to their bus, Rafe trots out to the backroom and returns in his human form, in the new shirt we brought online that perfectly matches the blue of his eyes, and his fiddle pressed up against his chin.
He leads the crowd in a series of famous folk tunes.
People push the tables aside and dance reels and Ceilidh.
The bar is suddenly crowded with people wanting another round.
The Spell the Tea mead is our most popular, but a lot of people love Hex Yeah, too.
Grandmother Mags taught me that prosperity spells are always winners.
At some point, I look at the clock and realise that it’s 10 PM. Closing time. How did the day go so fast? Rafe finishes his song and ushers everyone out the door.
“Thank you for the perfect evening,” Linda beams as she pulls on her jacket.
Ralph tries to help, but he’s weighed down by several bottles of mead.
They missed their bus back to London, but decided they were having so much fun that they’d get a room at the pub and return on the train in the morning.
Several other tourists from their bus decided to do the same thing.
“I’ll definitely be writing this place into one of my books.
I need a leading heroine like you, a magical mead mistress – what do you think, Ralph? ”
“She’ll need a dashing hero,” Ralph says.
“I think she already has one.” Linda looks over at where Rafe is collecting mugs and tankards. She turns back to me and winks.
My whole face glows with warmth, and I don’t think it’s from the fire. “Enjoy your time in England.”