One

The Tea Shop

The tea shop tended to vanish.

It always reappeared—but never in the same place twice. It occupied a corner of Main Street for a good two years, until a tourist tried to force the front door open. Then the shop snapped out of existence, leaving a very confused tourist standing in a bed of overgrown ferns. And once it vanished, it was often days or even weeks before the tea shop’s new address became known.

Finley Barnes knew the trick: like all magic, you could only see it if you knew where to look.

She touched a hand to the wooden gate and pushed it open. The rusty hinges creaked so loudly that three ravens looked up from their perch on a neighbor’s garbage bins. The lids had been thrown back, and the ravens were happily ripping into the plastic bags.

“Looks like someone didn’t pay them this week,” said Eddie Elloway. He stood a few feet from Fin, watching the ravens with interest.

“Maybe they forgot,” said Fin. “Not everyone remembers the ravens.”

Eddie snorted. “They should. Then they wouldn’t wake up to garbage scattered all over their yard.” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a lumpy napkin. He’d crammed several bread crusts inside, the edges still sticky with almond butter and honey.

He tossed one of the crusts onto the sidewalk. Or what counted as a sidewalk in Aldermere. Tree roots had cracked the pavement, and moss filled in the edges.

One of the ravens perked up, bouncing in place. Then it leaped, wings slicing through the air, and landed about ten feet from Eddie and Fin. It edged closer and swallowed the bread crust, wariness giving way to hunger.

“We’re two feet away from a Don’t Feed the Wildlife sign,” said Fin.

Eddie had lived in Aldermere his whole life; he gave the sign a casual glance. “Ravens don’t count. Besides, those signs are for tourists who might try and feed bears. Or worse. Before you moved here, a bigfoot found someone’s old campsite, and it took forever to convince her to leave.”

“I’m still not sure I believe you about the Bigfoot,” said Fin without conviction. “I’ve never seen it.”

“Not the Bigfoot,” said Eddie. “A bigfoot. There’s a difference. And if you don’t believe me, ask Nick over at the gas station. He was the one who relocated her. Anyways,” he said, as if this concluded the conversation, “it’s not like the ravens will leave any food behind.”

It was true; the ravens had eaten every crumb and were eyeing Eddie as if hopeful for more.

Fin turned toward the tea shop. “You coming?” she called over her shoulder.

But she knew the answer already. Eddie preferred the sweeping space of the outdoors, the fresh scents and wildness. The tea shop was warm and dark and quiet. Fin loved it for exactly the reasons he never would.

He shook his head. “Are you sure you want to . . . ?”

She wasn’t sure. Fin was never sure of anything. That was her problem.

“The science fair is less than two weeks away,” she said. “I won’t do a good job if all I can think about is how I have to talk in front of people.”

She felt the fear like a living thing—her stomach shriveled up, her fingertips went cold, and words fled her mind. And the waiting was the worst part. She was jittery and distracted, the constant worry like a song she couldn’t get out of her head. The more she tried not to think about the science fair, the more she did.

“Just one last time,” she said. Eddie dug more crumbs out of his pocket and tossed them to the flock of ravens.

No, not a flock. An unkindness. That was the right term.

The tea shop’s door was heavy, and Fin had to use her hip to shove it open. There was a circular streak across the floor where the door dragged. The first things Fin always saw were the rows of bookshelves lining the hallway. The shelves held leather-bound tomes and modern paperback romances—Talia’s collection.

The tea shop’s main room looked as though it had once belonged to an apothecary. There was an old wooden counter, and behind it, the tea kept in mason jars with handwritten labels. Sunlight glinted off chamomile blooms, the tight curls of dried oranges, and the dark brown Ceylon leaves. Atop the bar sat a heavy mortar and pestle. It was made of rose quartz crystal—pink, with veins of white.

When a person ordered a cup of tea, Talia took down the jars of herbs and blossoms and sifted a blend into the mortar. A customer whispered a memory into the tea—and then the memory was gone. It was the price that such magic demanded. Fin didn’t know what memories she had lost to the tea shop; it wasn’t like she missed them. As for the tea itself, Talia placed it in a thoroughly modern stainless steel ball, steeped it for five minutes, and then the customer drank it in the tea shop. A simple trade, one Fin was glad to make.

Just breathing in the scents of the tea shop—bergamot, spice, honey—made Fin feel better. As if a weight were being lifted from her shoulders.

“Talia?” she said quietly.

She had never seen the tea shop empty before. There was no sign of the older woman.

She stepped a little closer to the counter, unease roiling in her stomach. For a moment, she wondered if the tea shop was closed—maybe Talia had forgotten to lock the front door. The idea of being somewhere she shouldn’t be sent a shiver through Fin, and she clenched her teeth against the desire to leave.

It would all be better once she got the tea.

She just needed to do something—like ring the bell at the counter or call out. But her fingers were cold and she didn’t trust her voice to be loud. She rose on tiptoe, peering over the counter.

And finally she heard a noise.

A groan—and the sound of it made Fin jump. It seemed to be coming from the back room. Fin had never been there; a metal nameplate read EMPLOYEES ONLY—STOREROOM. Today that door was open a few scant inches.

The groan came a second time.

Fin stepped closer, heart throbbing. She placed her fingers against the door and pushed.

“Talia?”

She hoped to see Talia in the storeroom, looking for some obscure blend. But instead Talia lay, unmoving, on the floor.

Talia’s hair was iron gray, and her tan face was wrinkled like crumpled linen. But for all that she must have been old, her eyes were bright and sharp as cut glass. Now those eyes were filled with pain. Her leg was at an odd angle, an antique stool was on its side, and a broken jar lay beside her.

“Talia.” Fin stepped carefully around the glass. “What happened?”

“Reached for the Lapsang souchong on the top shelf,” Talia said tightly. The corners of her mouth pinched into a pained smile that turned into a grimace. “The stool broke.”

Sure enough, one of the stool’s three legs had come loose. It had rolled away into a corner.

“Listen, Fin,” said Talia. “Go next door. Tell Frank to call an ambulance.”

Fin’s heart felt as if it was trying to scale her rib cage and escape through her throat. It wasn’t just the sight of Talia, indomitable Talia, on the floor. The thought of knocking on an unfamiliar door, asking someone she didn’t know to call 911—Talia might as well have asked Fin to walk into oncoming traffic.

“Fin,” said Talia. In Talia’s raspy voice, Fin’s name sounded like a plea.

Fin nodded, once. Then she turned and ran from the room, across the tea shop proper, and into the front yard. Eddie would know what to do.

To her relief, he was still feeding the ravens. Some of Fin’s panic collapsed in on itself, and she breathed easier. “Eddie,” she gasped. “Talia’s hurt—we need to get Frank to call an ambulance.”

Eddie dropped the last of the bread crusts. One bold raven darted forward, snagged it, and flapped away. “What?”

“Talia fell,” said Fin. “She said to get Frank to call 911.”

Eddie stood a little straighter. This was the difference between them: unexpected things set Eddie aflame with excitement, while they doused any bravery from Fin.

“I’ll go,” he said, and jogged toward one of the nearby houses. Fin watched him, then turned back toward the tea shop. She had left the front door open, and sunlight spilled into the dark interior. It made the place feel strange . . . too open. Part of Fin wanted to retreat, to just leave, but she couldn’t do that. Talia needed her.

Fin hastened to the back room. Talia had managed to pull herself upright against a wall. “Did you find Frank?” she croaked.

“My cousin Eddie’s taking care of it,” said Fin.

Talia nodded. She closed her eyes for a few moments, breathing hard through her nose. Fin stood there, feeling awkward and useless. “What—what can I do?”

Talia opened her eyes. Her face was chalky white with pain. “The EMTs—they might not be able to find this place. The magic . . .”

Fin understood. “You want me to stick around just in case? Show them where the tea shop is?” she asked. “Can I show them? I mean—”

“Check the drawer behind the counter,” said Talia, her voice strained. “There’s a spare key. As long as you carry it, the tea shop will let you guide people in and out.”

The cash register was an antique; it looked like an old typewriter, with its worn metal keys. Fin checked the drawer beneath it. There was a roll of tape, bits of twine, scissors, old pens, and a normal key. It was attached to a key chain of a glittery crescent moon. It was oddly heavy in her hand.

Fin hurried back to Talia. “I found the key.”

“Good, good,” said Talia. “You’ve been a great help, dear. Thank you.” She gave Fin another pained smile. “Go out the back door; tell the EMTs to use that one. I just told the shop to lock the front.”

Only in Aldermere could such a sentence be uttered and believed.

The silver lock matched the key in Fin’s hand. It was a deadbolt, and Fin was quietly grateful that most of her old apartments had come with such a lock, so she knew how to use it. She unlocked it with an easy twist of the lever and stepped outside.

The back door led out onto a small porch—and beside that, a gravel driveway. The fresh air was a relief against her skin; for once, the tea shop was too small and dark, as if Talia’s pain had filled up every corner.

Her legs shaking slightly, Fin walked to the driveway. The gravel was clogged with dandelions and tufts of grass. Eddie stood on the sidewalk, face shining with sweat. Fin waved at him, and he caught sight of her.

“Did you find Frank?” asked Fin. She wasn’t sure what she would do if Eddie hadn’t. The inn was a ten-minute walk away—maybe if she ran . . .

“He was home,” said Eddie. His gaze went to the tea shop. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Wait?” said Fin, making it sound like a question. “We have to wait,” she said, more decisively. “Just in case the EMT people can’t find the tea shop.”

Realization sharpened Eddie’s features. “Oh, yeah.” He bounced on his heels, impatient and eager. Fin sank to a crouch so he wouldn’t see that her knees were unsteady.

They waited, and every moment dragged.

It took the EMTs about thirty minutes to arrive, which was pretty fast. They must have been nearby. Fin heard the whine of sirens first, and she walked closer to the street, the key still clutched between her fingers. The ambulance pulled up to the curb, and two people got out: a young woman and a slightly older man. They glanced around as if bewildered.

Fin took a step closer. “This way,” she said, but her voice was too quiet and they didn’t hear her.

“Hey,” called Eddie. He waved, and this time the EMTs heard. Eddie pointed at Fin, and she gestured toward the back.

“There’s a back door around here,” she said, and the EMTs’ gazes snapped toward her. The older man blinked twice, then nodded. There was a flicker of confusion as he looked at the tea shop—that was probably the first time he saw it.

He wouldn’t know magic for what it was. Most people never did. Even the tourists who believed in Aldermere’s reputation mostly came for tarot readings and postcards featuring Bigfoot. Magic wasn’t bright flashing spells or turning people into toads. It was quiet and creeping, and it had a way of stealing into the cracks of the sidewalk and into the very water.

Everything happened quickly after the ambulance arrived. Fin led the EMTs around to the back, where they found Talia on the floor. Fin watched as Talia was loaded onto a stretcher, carried up and into the ambulance. She thought she should have taken Talia’s wrinkled hand in hers and given it a friendly squeeze. But that was what a brave person would have done, and Fin had never been brave.

When the ambulance’s doors slammed shut, Fin stood on the broken sidewalk and watched it drive away. It turned a corner and vanished from sight.

Fin couldn’t move; the bitter taste of fear lurked on the back of her tongue. And despite the fact she should have been sorry for Talia, she felt sorrier for herself.

Talia was gone.

The tea shop was closed.

And there was no magic to banish Fin’s fears.