In the Land of Tea and Ravens Page 5

  “This lamp once belonged to my Aunt Hazel. She was half blind, as much from her love of books as from nearsightedness,” Lyric mused. The lamp lit, she blew out the match before dropping it into the empty water bottle she’d used to fill the kettle. “She also walked with a limp. She had one leg shorter than the other from a bout with polio as a child.”

  A sense of unease caused Grayson’s stomach to turn. “Which raven is she?” he asked.

  Surprised, Lyric’s head shot up, her gaze catching his and a flush spreading across her cheeks. “The one in the corner, alone,” she answered.

  “You’re really related to them,” he said. He didn’t question it, and that was the real reason for the discomfort in his gut, for the disquieting whispers in his head.

  “Terrifying truths,” Lyric mumbled. She glanced up at the birds.

  The kettle on the burner whistled, causing Grayson to jump, his gaze falling to the cup in his hands. Like the night before, he detected the scent of cinnamon, and it stirred the apprehension in his blood.

  Lyric lifted the kettle. “This won’t cause you to see or hear the dead,” she promised. “It’s nothing more than black tea with a hint of cinnamon.”

  He offered his mug, watching as the tea splashed into the blue tin, the dark liquid mesmerizing. “Simple tea, huh?”

  She laughed. “Tea is never simple.” Her cup came next, steam rising from her hands as she gripped the mug, her eyes watching the trail of smoke. “Tea is complicated. It is healing. It is destructive. It is restless and calm. It is warmth. It is icy grief. It is the past, the future, and the present. It is never simple.”

  For a moment, Grayson simply watched her, scrutinizing the way the steam curled her already frizzy hair; the way her jaw tensed and her eyes stared. It was the dead kind of look people got when they were distracted by something, the kind that took them out of the world and put them somewhere else. It was easy enough to misplace the head even when the body knew where it was supposed to be.

  Grayson lifted his mug. “To terrifying truths,” he toasted.

  Lyric’s gaze snapped to his. Inhaling, she whispered, “To terrifying truths.”

  Somewhere beyond the house, thunder rumbled, the noise followed by the torrential sound of rain. It was the kind of rain that came hard and fast, the kind that didn’t just beat the earth, but pulverized it. It was the kind of rain that blew in more than one direction, guided by the wind. There is poetry in rain. Unlike diverged paths, there is no uncertainty in rain. There is no moment of indecision where you stand at the end of a forked road deciding which one to take. There is no wrong path or right path. There is no path at all. There is simply rain. There is simply terrifying truth and no running away from it.

  They finished their tea to this steady deluge of rain.

  ~8~

  The merchant’s youngest daughter went before the king in a plain dress, her wild hair a veil around her face. She had nothing in which to present him, nothing except a small cup full of freshly brewed tea. “What’s this?” the king demanded. The girl did not cower. She simply bowed and offered him the cup. “I’ve made you tea, Your Majesty.” Fascinated, the king accepted her offer. The tea had a delicate scent and taste that warmed his spirit. “Your name?” he asked. She looked surprised. “Why, Sire, I have no name.”

  ~The Tea Girl~

  “We both made the same mistake,” Lyric whispered.

  The rain showed no signs of slowing, and everywhere there was the distinct dripping sound of water as rain slipped through cracks in the decaying roof to slap at the floor below.

  Grayson glanced at Lyric, and she noted the way his blue eyes pierced the gloom, the color just as potent in obscurity as they were during the day.

  The kind of endless blue that chases away shadows, Lyric thought.

  “Your mother?” Grayson asked carefully.

  Her gaze went to her knees. She’d said enough for now. He’d made a declaration of guilt, and she had reciprocated. But details … well, there are certain confessions that take time, more trust. There are certain confessions that never sound good said out loud, certain shames that can never be healed. To pretend otherwise was to lie to oneself. Lyric never lied.

  Grayson shifted, resting so that his long, six foot something frame laid next to hers on the floor. His palms came to rest on the wood, his eyes searching the ravens.

  “Are there any men in this bird family of yours?” he asked.

  Lyric’s lips lifted. It was a subtle movement, part smile and part gratefulness. “No men. A no man’s land, remember?”

  His leg knocked against hers. “Literally, it seems.”

  Her gaze slid up to his, her eyes searching the contours of his face. It had been years since she’d had a truly candid conversation with someone. It seemed funny that it was with this man. He didn’t look like the type of person you traded pain with. He was too large, too built, and too rough around the edges. She didn’t know him well enough to assume anything, but he seemed too unpredictable somehow, as if he would always do the opposite of what everyone expected of him.

  “Haven’t you heard?” she asked, her eyes falling to the tattoo peeking at her from beneath the sleeve of his navy blue T-shirt. There were three buttons at his neck, and he unbuttoned them now, his fingers pulling at the cotton in the heat. It revealed the V at the top of his chest, a faint scar beginning where the last button ended. “The women in this family drive men insane,” she revealed. “We destroy hearts and steal souls.”

  Grayson’s leg knocked against hers again. “Do they?” He tugged on his shirt. “I still feel whole. Scarred, but whole.”

  Lyric laughed. “Oh, you’re fine,” her gaze caught his, “as long as you don’t fall in love.”

  Taken aback, he stared. “With you?”

  “With any female in this family. Love is where the danger lies.”

  He sat forward, so that his body leaned toward hers. “That’s a little presumptuous, isn’t it?”

  Her head tilted. “To presume you’ll fall in love? Or go insane?”

  “Both.”

  Lyric shrugged. “I’d rather you not … fall in love, I mean.” She sat up, the movement placing her closer to him, but also allowing her to fist her hands in her skirt. It was a bad habit. “I’m sure you’ve gathered by now this family has a bad reputation in Hiccup.” Her heart beat faster, its rhythm almost hollow, and her palms began sweating. “It’s partly due to male insanity.”

  Her gaze lifted and crashed with his. There was no fear in his eyes, only curiosity.

  “And you said you weren’t a witch,” he murmured.

  “I’m not,” she defended, her gaze sliding to the ravens. “We’re not. Emotion can drive people as insane as magic. Sometimes more so.”

  Grayson’s fingers suddenly fell on hers, his hand trapping them against her skirt to still her nervous clenching. Startled, her eyes flew to his. No one touched her, at least not often.

  “I’m not going to fall in love with you,” he promised.

  She stiffened involuntarily despite an overwhelming sense of relief. There was no time in her life for love, no time in her life for anything other than protecting what remained of her family. It was a heavy duty, but guilt compelled her. Guilt was a demanding driver, forever pushing and prodding through mental road blocks, dead ends, and emotional rush hours. It would drive her until there was nothing left, until there was no more gas and she was left to falter, to join the rest of the ravens perched along the wall.

  Grayson’s hand squeezed hers. “However, this doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to fall in love with me. You know, unrequited female obsession is good for a man’s ego.”

  Lyric laughed, the sound as beautiful as her singing. There was something free and wild about her amusement—about all of her emotions—as if she were afraid the joy would end at any moment, and she was determined to suck the emotion as dry as she could. Like the picture in the living room, the one of the woman who laughed with her e
yes but frowned with her mouth.

  That’s what it is, Grayson suddenly realized. It wasn’t beauty that drew him to Lyric. It was this unceasing sense of urgency that surrounded her, as if time was kept in an hour glass.

  Life should be lived that way, he thought. Life should be lived as if there was no tomorrow, as if each breath was the last. The urgency made life richer, more colorful, and more meaningful. It made each breath too loud, each heartbeat a resounding boom. It gave shadows more life. It provided the day a reason to be bright, and the night a reason to be dark. It even granted the summer heat a reason to be too hot.

  His gaze moved over the young woman’s face, over her lowered lashes and too urgent eyes. “What is a tea girl?” he asked.

  Tugging her hand free from Grayson’s, Lyric lifted the tin mug from the floor where’d she laid it, tipping the cup so that he could see the loose tea leaves snuggled within.

  “I simply make good tea,” she told him, a low laugh escaping. This laugh was different, not sad, but not happy. It settled somewhere in between the two. “It began a long time ago before the age of King Arthur—”

  Grayson snorted, the sound interrupting her. “Arthur? As in the knights and the round table?” He stared at her tin mug. “Those are legends.”

  She shook the cup slightly, watching as the tea leaves moved within, falling against each other like lovers meeting before they broke apart.

  “There are legends, and then there is history, forgotten history that’s been relegated to myth,” she said. “The world is full of magic. It isn’t that people have magic. It’s the earth that has it—the air, the wind, the trees—all of it. There’s a spirit in nature and wildlife, a spirit we often can’t touch.” She tilted the cup toward him again, as if the wet, dark leaves could speak. “Once, many years ago, there were people who could touch this spirit. In those days, these people were respected, used as advisors to kings and people of power. Think Merlin.”

  Lyric’s gaze rose, her strange eyes catching his. “My family made one of these people very, very angry.”

  It was then, following her eerie admission, that they heard the wailing sound of sirens.

  ~9~

  Choosing a wife was not an easy task for the Messenger King. As the merchant had hoped, his two eldest daughters had left a great impression on the ruler, but his advisor, Caelin, was taken by the unnamed young woman. Caelin was a powerful man, a druid with the ability to do and see things normal men could not see or do. “The unnamed one has spirit,” he told his king. And yet, the king saw only the eldest daughters’ beauty. His choice decided, he prepared to declare his betrothed. However, before the day came, the king grew mysteriously ill …

  ~The Tea Girl~

  Ravens cawed, their wings fluttering wildly. The sound mingled with the sirens beyond until it was a strange mix of yells, a heralded disordered end to the night.

  Grayson stood, brushing dust from his jeans. Boots sounded on the front porch, each step a harbinger of doom.

  “Grayson Kramer!” It was a familiar voice that called to him, the deep, accented yell of Richard Newton, Hiccup’s sheriff and an old family friend of the Kramer’s. “You okay in there, boy?”

  Grayson stiffened, his gaze locked on the front of the house.

  “You should go,” Lyric murmured. There was enough trouble for her in Hiccup without the added difficulty being involved with a Kramer would cause her. The Kramers were a prestigious family made rich by years of farming and selling cattle. They owned a good deal of land in the small Delta community.

  “Go,” Lyric begged.

  Grayson glanced at her, his gaze taking in her urgent, anxious eyes before he moved away, his feet carrying him through the darkened house to the porch beyond. There was no need for words. Despite the fact that the house had once belonged to the Miller family, it had been standing empty and abandoned for years, the property long since foreclosed. Lyric was trespassing.

  With his hand resting against the house’s hanging screen door, Grayson asked, “There a reason you looking for me, Sheriff?”

  The paunchy, middle-aged Richard Newton stood on the edge of the porch, his stance distrustful, as if he were afraid of the house. Or, as if he were afraid getting any closer would steal something from him, making him less of a man somehow.

  Richard’s gaze met Grayson’s through the screen, his thinning brown hair obvious in the glow of headlights from the patrol car parked nearby. “Your grandmother was a might bit worried about you. Said you vanished without telling a soul.”

  Grayson’s fist gripped the door’s frame. Part of the wood crumbled, sending flakes raining down to the floor below. “I’ve long outgrown needing a sitter, Mr. Newton.”

  The Sheriff eyed him, his gaze sliding from Grayson to the house and back again. “This ain’t a safe place to be explorin’, son. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with your granny bein’ worried about you. There’s a lot of folk who’d be proud as punch to have Mildred Kramer checkin’ up on ’em.”

  Grayon pushed the door open, its screeching hinges deafening in the silence. “I was just headed home. I got a little curious is all.”

  “Hmmmm,” Sheriff Newton mumbled. “Curiosity often comes before a fall. Might be good to remember that. This house ain’t safe. It’s a damned hazard is what it is.” Richard lifted a flashlight, his hand clenching it so tightly his knuckles were white. “You alone in there?”

  Grayson’s jaw clenched, an odd sense of protectiveness overwhelming him. Smiling slowly, he murmured, “Nothing but nesting birds and mice in there, Sheriff. That, and spiders.”

  Richard fought not to shudder, his flashlight lowering. “Get on home with you. I don’t mean to be hard, especially on a strong, young man like yourself. I grew up with your father, Grayson. I’m not relishin’ the position I’m in now, but this place is condemned, and for good reason. You’re trespassing.”

  Grayson stepped onto the porch, running his hands through his dusty hair before walking past the sheriff. Pausing on the stairs, Grayson glanced up at Richard. “Don’t tell me you believe in ghosts.”

  The sheriff scowled. “Not ghosts, boy. Demons, however,” he glanced over his shoulder, “that’s another thing entirely.”

  Richard followed Grayson down the stairs, his steps hurried. He didn’t stop until he reached his patrol car, his hand gripping the open door. “I ain’t never been much of one for superstition, mind you, but you might want to ask your grandmother about the old Miller property. About your great uncle and what happened to him here.” With that, he ducked into his patrol car, his eyes trailing Grayson as he stepped toward the wood line. It wasn’t until Grayson was cloaked by the trees that the sheriff backed out of the drive. His tires squealed, the wheels showering gravel and dirt as if the hounds of hell were chasing him.

  Hidden by the trees, Grayson turned, his gaze finding the house. A light appeared in the doorway, the kerosene lantern throwing an eerie orange glow over the young woman standing there. Ravens surrounded her, a few ducking through the door and flying to the trees nearby. Everything was wet, the rain from earlier having cleansed the earth, and drops of water slid down the leaves overhead to pummel Grayson. There was more rain ahead; the air was heavy with it.

  Lyric’s gaze found his. For a long moment, they simply stood with the yard between them, their eyes locked, and a shared guilt tying them together. In this moment, Lyric looked as dangerously surreal as the townspeople viewed her; her wild hair had mostly come loose to shield her face, and her long, gypsy-like skirt was a tiered mass of colors around her legs. The darkness made her eyes appear black, her face orange and shadowed. Ravens cawed, their beady gazes surrounding her.

  She should have been terrifying, but Grayson found her eerily beautiful, as if time had frozen her somehow in this moment … had trapped her here. That same overwhelming sense of protectiveness from earlier nearly choked him. He’d seen what life does to the damned. In fact, he continued to live there now, in its shadow, but there were
also people who believed in him. People who were willing to give him a chance at life despite the guilt. Lyric had no one.

  She wasn’t terrifying in this moment. She was devastatingly lonely standing in the doorway of a decaying house surrounded by nothing but tea and ravens.

  In hindsight, maybe he shouldn’t have done what he’d done then.

  He winked, his hand rising to offer Lyric a mock salute. “I’ll be back,” he promised.

  Promises are like candy that never melts, infinite. Promises should never come empty or half full. They are an assurance.

  For Lyric, there had never been any promises. No one outside of her family had ever given her more than a day of their time.

  Grayson had given her two days. Grayson had made two promises and already kept one.

  It was the promise that did it. It was the promise that filled her heart and made it beat different. It was the promise that gave her hope.

  In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have made any promises.

  If he could go back in time and do it again … he wouldn’t hesitate to make more of them.

  He turned then, his body melding into the dark forest. Rain came once more, softer this time, the precipitation hiding his view of the Miller house, but he knew she was there. Alone except for her tea and ravens.

  ~10~

  The Messenger King’s illness threw a cloud of sadness over the land. The people worried about his impending death. They worried what would happen to them if he didn’t survive. Every day the unnamed tea girl walked up the hill from her seaside home to the palace. Every day she stood before the gates holding a pot of tea. Every day she begged for entrance. Every day she was refused. It was on the seventh day that the gates suddenly opened. The king’s advisor stood before her, his gaze peering down into hers. “Why have you come?” Caelin asked. The young woman held up her small kettle. “I’ve brought tea to the ailing king,” she answered.