Chapter 9
Leprechaun Years (Like Dog Years, But Different)
Weekends are busy at the tea shop, and today is no exception. We’ve had a steady stream of customers since we opened.
During our first lull in the afternoon, while most people are opting to head to the cafe or microbrewery for lunch, Marshall walks through the door.
Rowan extends a hand in greeting, happy to see his friend venture into the shop.
With a strong, athletic build, the mage favors his human father—a man I only met briefly when Ash and I bought flowers for my window boxes.
His hair and eyes are brown, and his skin is deeply tanned from spending hours in the sun.
He’s nice, but somewhat reserved, and he’s already told me he doesn’t like tea.
His family owns the local garden center and is apparently well-off, much like the Neilfellows, though they seem a little more down-to-earth to me.
Even though most Moss Hollow residents embrace a style that I’ve started thinking of as “modern cottage chic,” every time I’ve seen Marshall, he’s been in a T-shirt and shorts. Today is no exception.
“I thought I’d finally drop by,” Marshall says when he reaches the counter, scanning the menu. It’s obvious he’s wondering if he made a mistake. But finally, he asks Rowan, “Would I like the iced raspberry mint hibiscus tea?”
“Possibly,” Rowan answers, “since it’s an herbal and not a regular tea.”
“Is it sweet?”
“It is,” I say, joining the conversation. “Though we can make an unsweetened version if you’d like.”
“No, the sugar will be the only thing to save it,” he laughs, drumming his fingers on the countertop, still unsure. “I’ll try it.”
Amused, I ask, “Would you like it for here or to go? If you want to hang out for a bit, we do free refills on our iced teas.”
“Here is fine.” He slides onto a stool while he waits, his eyes widening when I pull the pitcher from the fridge. “Oh, wow. That’s red.”
“Hibiscus tea looks like fruit punch, doesn’t it?” I pour a generous amount of raspberry mint syrup into a glass of ice and top it with the cold tea. “Do you want the mint sprig garnish?”
Marshall chuckles, grimacing. “Not particularly.”
I slide the glass across the counter and wait for him to taste it, hoping he likes it.
He takes a tentative sip and frowns as he contemplates it. Finally, he says, “That’s pretty good.”
“It’s Laverna’s recipe. We make the raspberry mint syrup ourselves.”
“It’s better than I expected.”
“That’s a compliment coming from Marshall,” Rowan says wryly. “His beverage of choice has been soda since he was fourteen. Laverna never convinced him to branch out.”
“I’ve added coffee to my short list of vices,” Marshall says.
“I bought a French press for the shop,” I say, excited that I’ll soon be able to offer something he enjoys. “It hasn’t arrived yet. But next time you drop by, I can make you a cup.”
Rowan looks over like I’ve lost my mind. “You ordered what?”
I wave away his concern. “Don’t worry about it.”
“We’re a tea shop. You can’t serve coffee here. Coffee is…the enemy.”
“Coffee is never the enemy.”
Rowan cringes, quietly horrified.
I laugh. “You’ll be all right. You might even learn to like it.”
“I’m too loyal for that nonsense.”
My smile falters when Anna walks into the tea shop. Her eyes immediately land on Marshall, and she freezes like a spooked bunny.
She and the mage have history. I don’t know exactly what type, but they’re not friendly.
Marshall notices when my laughter dies, and he follows my eyes to the front of the shop. The moment he spots Anna, his posture becomes rigid.
And then…he dismisses her. To Rowan and me, he says, “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll take the tea to go.”
Rowan waits a beat, and then he grabs Marshall’s glass, preparing to transfer the tea into a to-go cup. “Sure.”
I half expect Anna to dart out the door, but she stands straighter, visibly giving herself a mental pep talk, and continues forward. Each step is slower and more hesitant than the last.
The city council secretary takes a place at the counter three stools down from Marshall. Even though they’re careful to keep their eyes off each other, the tension between them is thick.
“Hey, Anna,” I chirp, overcompensating for the chill that’s descended over my tea shop. “What can we make for you?”
“A London Fog, please.”
Marshall snorts, annoyed, earning a sharp look from the woman.
I hold my breath, suddenly highly invested in whatever is going on between them.
“Hello, Marshall,” Anna says, her tone crisp—snooty, even.
“Anna.”
Silence.
Oh, goodness, this is awkward.
Rowan clears his throat as he slides Marshall’s newly transferred drink across the counter. “Here you go.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“It’s on the house,” I say immediately. “As promised.”
With a grim nod of thanks, he walks away.
I try not to gape as he leaves the shop, but he went from perfectly friendly to Arctic cold so quickly.
Shaken, Anna sinks onto a stool.
“What’s going on between you and Marshall?” Rowan demands.
“Nothing,” she says immediately, her tone betraying that there’s a lot of something.
Rowan responds, but I don’t catch what he says because a dapper-looking middle-aged gentleman in a fine business suit walks through the door Marshall holds for him.
He stands about five and a half feet tall and has nicely trimmed salt-and-pepper hair. He’s fae, which I would know from his magic even if he wasn’t walking with a jaunty, silver-handled cane. The accessory appears to be a fashion statement more than a necessity.
He’s not tall enough to be high fae, not stout enough to be a dwarf, and even from across the room, I can tell he’s not a pixie.
The man is a leprechaun.
He pauses in the entry, assessing the tearoom with a calculating frown, and then continues toward the counter, pausing when a trio of tourists steps in his way.
“That’s Mr. Eastwilden,” Rowan murmurs, his attention now on the man as well.
“As in Mr. Eastwilden, the man who owns Hotel Theodore?”
“That’s right.”
“Theodosia’s father?” I ask, a bit unnerved, referring to the woman who runs the novelty divination store. “They look like they’re the same age.”
“Leprechauns live longer than the rest of us,” Rowan reminds me. “Mr. Eastwilden is a little over a hundred years old.”
“In leprechaun years, what would that make him?”
“Leprechaun years?” Rowan asks, highly amused, careful to keep his voice down. “Is that like dog years?”
“Something like that, but in reverse.”
“He’s around fifty.”
The man offers the tourists a benevolent smile, as warm and friendly a soul as you might ever see. But the moment they’re past, the facade drops, and his stern scowl returns.
My heart nearly stops when the hotelier makes his way to my tea counter.
“Hello, Kathleen,” he says when he reaches me. When he sees my confusion, his expression warms ever so slightly. “We’ve met, but I doubt you remember. You were young.”
I nod, pasting a smile on my face. “I’m afraid I don’t, but I’m happy to meet you now. Welcome to my shop.” As an afterthought, I add, “What can I make for you?”
“Something green and mild. Japanese, I think.” Then he adds, “I’d like you to choose.”
Feeling like I’ve been handed a pop quiz, I turn toward the tea behind the counter.
I expect Rowan to assist, but he must decide I’m ready to face this trial alone because he merely greets the man.
“Hello, Rowan,” Mr. Eastwilden responds somewhat stiffly. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes, sir, it has.”
Mr. Eastwilden greets Anna with a nod. Then, coolly, he asks her, “How is your mother?”
To Anna’s credit, she doesn’t flinch. “She’s fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Did you receive my suggestion letter? I left it in the box well over a week ago.”
“We did, yes. I spoke to Gideon about the Saturday night fireworks, but the tourists do enjoy them…”
“They’re disruptive. I’ve had many complaints.”
She nods, exceedingly patient. “Why don’t I have Gideon call you directly, and then you can discuss the matter with him?”
“That would be fine.” He turns back to me. “Have you chosen a tea?”
I set a tin on the counter. “This is kukicha, a unique green tea with a mild, umami flavor.”
His smile grows, but it’s not particularly friendly. “My first visit here, and you offer me twig tea?”
My heart stutters. While kukicha is made from tea plant stems and twigs, they’re good twigs.
Sensing that argument won’t get me far with the man, I say, “Though technically it’s a byproduct of more expensive teas, our kukicha is high quality and sweet. I would be happy to offer you a cup on the house. If it’s not to your liking, you are welcome to sample something else.”
“From the sounds of things, you’ve been giving away a lot of tea since you’ve inherited the shop.”
Oh good. Now he’s going to critique my business plan.
I do my best to keep my smile pasted on my face. “It’s a gesture of goodwill to my new neighbors, and I hardly think a cup of tea per patron will break me.”
“Your roof is damaged. Are you aware?”
Rowan shifts closer, deciding to come to my rescue. “Maknihl gave us an estimate for a re-roof and has temporarily patched it as best he can.”
Ignoring Rowan, the man focuses on me. “I’ve heard your aunt gave you a monthly allowance. I imagine the repairs will cost quite a bit more than she allotted.”
Panic does that fun thing where it claws at my chest. “As long as business continues to thrive, I’ll be able to pay for the repairs soon.”
He slides onto a stool and folds his hands on the table. His cane vanishes, there one moment, gone the next.
It’s disconcerting to see him blatantly use magic even though there are humans in the shop. I’m sure they didn’t notice. But still.
He settles in like he’s ready to do business. “If you don’t mind me asking, how much is your aunt’s estate worth?”
“Mr. Eastwilden,” Rowan begins, already shaking his head. “That’s a personal—”
“I’ll double it,” the man interrupts.
Rowan falls silent.
“I’m sorry?” I ask, befuddled.