Twenty

Matches

Cedar and Fin walked back to Brewed Awakening.

They made the journey in silence, each lost to their own thoughts. Cedar ran her thumb absentmindedly around the roll of receipt tape. Fin was too busy trying to figure out a plan to ask what the other girl was thinking. Teafin had been at the inn; she had torn Mom’s nameplate off, for some unknown reason, and now she was . . . where? She’d vanished from the parking lot.

Teafin moved through Aldermere like a ghost, causing chaos wherever she went. Maybe that was her aim—to disrupt life beyond recognition. Fin couldn’t guess at Teafin’s intentions, no matter how much she racked her brain.

“You do know we’re being followed, right?” asked Cedar.

Fin looked up sharply. “What?”

Cedar nodded and Fin turned in a half-circle, half expecting to see her own face peering back at her. But there was no one.

“Who?” Fin said blankly.

Cedar pointed. “That raven has been following us since we left the inn.”

Sure enough, there was a small raven perched atop a parked car. It bounced along, landing on one of the car’s mirrors and gazing at them expectantly. It took Fin a moment to recognize the slightly ruffled feathers around the bird’s neck. It was the raven, the one she’d rescued from Teafin. The raven let out a little chatter of clicks and clacks that sounded like fingernails dragging across an old fence.

“Did your mom forget to pay the ravens?” asked Cedar. “Is this a new intimidation tactic or something? If we don’t feed them, they stalk us?”

“No,” said Fin. “That’s the bird I brought to Nick.”

Cedar tilted her head, studying the raven. “She’s kind of cute. You think she knows you helped her?”

“Nick thought so,” Fin said. “He told me to give her treats sometimes, said that she’d decided to keep me. Whatever that means.”

Cedar let out a small, wistful sigh. “That sounds kind of nice, actually. Someone choosing you.” Before Fin could say anything else, Cedar walked through the doors to Brewed Awakening. “Come on, you need your packages.”

Fin and Cedar dodged around a cluster of teenagers drinking chai lattes.

“Hi, Dad,” Cedar said, leaning behind the register. “Just grabbing these—thanks.”

Mr. Carver gave Fin a friendly smile before going back to mixing some kind of frozen drink. “Hey, girls. You thirsty? Hungry?”

“No, thank you,” said Fin, on reflex.

Cedar emerged with Fin’s forgotten boxes. “Thanks,” said Fin gratefully. “I don’t know what I’d have done if I lost them.” She imagined trying to explain it to Mr. Hardin and had to suppress a shudder.

“It’s fine.” Cedar gave her a small smile. “And—I mean. Thanks for telling me about . . . things. Oh, and here.” Cedar picked up what looked like a heel of old bread and forced it into Fin’s hand.

Cedar seemed to regard their trip into the water tower like it had been an adventure, rather than a mishap. Fin would have thought Cedar too busy or too . . . well, cool to be interested in things like tea monsters or magic.

Fin left the coffee shop with her packages and the decision to invite Cedar over to the cottage at some point. Maybe the other girl liked mystery books too, or they just could hang out.

The raven was still sitting on the car. She hopped closer to Fin, head cocked with interest. It was only then that Fin realized why Cedar had given her the bread crust.

“I think this is for you,” said Fin, and tossed the bread. The raven flapped her wings, caught the bread, and fluttered down to the road. She pinned the bread under one talon and began tearing hunks off.

“Glad you like it,” said Fin. It was weird to be talking to one of the ravens, but it wasn’t the weirdest thing to happen. And besides . . . this was the kind of magic that had endeared Aldermere to Fin. The kind that was a little strange but good.

Fin checked the addresses on the three remaining packages. One was for Mrs. Brackenbury and the others for a house a few doors down from Brewed Awakening. Fin turned left and strode down the street, determined to complete this job without any more mishaps.

The house was old but well-kept, with pruned rosebushes in the yard and moss-covered rocks leading up to the front door. Fin knocked, feeling that familiar flutter of fear as she did so. Knocking on doors never got any easier, no matter how many times Fin did it.

The door opened and a stern-faced woman appeared. Mrs. Petrichor. Her hawk-sharp eyes alighted on Fin. “Oh, good,” she said, taking her two packages. “I was wondering if these had gone astray.”

“Deliveries were delayed this week,” said Fin apologetically.

“Understandable, with everything going on.” Mrs. Petrichor reached into her back pocket and withdrew a dollar, slipping it into Fin’s hand. Cash tips were rare—most often she received other kinds of things that functioned as currency in Aldermere: cut flowers, baked goods, future favors. Once she’d received a note from the Reyes family that simply said, Return in time of need.

Fin pocketed the dollar and walked away.

The last delivery was Mrs. Brackenbury. Fin hefted the package more comfortably under her arm and set off. It was only a two-minute walk down the street, and then Fin saw the familiar wide porch with its swinging seat, suspended with rope and made soft with velvet cushions. As was her afternoon custom, Mrs. Brackenbury sat there, a newspaper between her wrinkled fingers. Her hair was always curled and dyed, and she smelled a little like violets.

“Finley,” Mrs. Brackenbury said, rising from her seat. Mr. Bull wagged his stub of a tail hopefully. Fin knelt beside him and scratched behind one ear. His head tilted back, jaw slipping open and tongue lolling happily.

“Hi, Mrs. Brackenbury,” said Fin from her place beside the dog. “I’ve got a package for you.”

“Good, good.” The older woman opened the door and said, “Come in, I can put a pot of hot water on.”

Fin hesitated. Part of her wished to leave the package and return home—Eddie still wanted to go over their science fair presentation; Fin needed to figure out a way to entrap Teafin; Mom was still looking at Fin with that mixture of disappointment and unease; and who knew what Aunt Myrtle was up to. All in all, Fin had quite enough on her mind without making small talk with an old lady.

But Mrs. Brackenbury was already through the door, Mr. Bull heaving himself to his paws to follow, and the door was wide open. There was no way to refuse, not without being rude. Fin sent one last wistful glance over her shoulder, then walked inside, pulling the door shut behind her.

The house was a little cluttered in that way older people’s houses were—shelves filled with books and framed pictures, trinkets and memories hugging every flat surface. Fin could tell the house was a mobile home from the faux-wood walls and faded carpets. She and Mom had lived in one for six months once.

“Would you like chamomile, hon?” Mrs. Brackenbury moved about the kitchen with surprising agility, filling two teacups with hot water. She put both on the table, then went to rummage atop the refrigerator for tea bags.

“Sure,” said Fin. She hadn’t had real tea since—well, since the last cup of Ceylon she’d drunk had crawled up out of a garbage disposal. She didn’t think she’d ever have a taste for it again.

Mrs. Brackenbury set out a small plate of packaged cookies and Fin took two, because it was polite and because they were chocolate hazelnut. “So how is school?” asked Mrs. Brackenbury, sitting down.

“Busy,” Fin admitted. “There’s the school science fair this weekend.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Mrs. Brackenbury beamed at her. “That’s at the inn, isn’t it? I’ll stop by if I’m feeling up to it. It’s always marvelous, seeing what young people are making these days. What are you working on?”

“A terrarium and poster of local lizards and plants,” said Fin.

Mrs. Brackenbury gave her a shrewd little look. “You’re working with your cousin, aren’t you?”

“Eddie, yeah,” said Fin, startled. “How’d you—”

“Because you’ve shown about as much interest in lizards as you have in flying to the moon,” said Mrs. Brackenbury. “I’d have expected you to do something more along the lines of seeing what kind of bookmark you could make out of . . . I don’t know, what’s fashionable these days? Recycled tin cans or something.”

Fin shrugged. “It’s what Eddie wanted to do, and I . . .” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence, so she didn’t. Eddie usually took the lead and she followed; it was the way they’d always worked since she’d moved here. She was fine with that.

“How’s your mother, dear?” asked Mrs. Brackenbury.

“Also busy.” Fin nibbled at a cookie for something to do. Her tea was still too hot to drink. “The other inn manager has been on maternity leave, so Mom’s doing both their jobs.”

“She works hard,” Mrs. Brackenbury said, blowing gently across her cup. “Sets a good example—but I admit, when I think back on those years with my kids, I wish I’d worked a little less and spent more time with my family.” She gave Fin a knowing glance, then picked up a cookie. “Maybe it’s that way for you too?”

Fin shrugged. There was a doily beneath the sugar bowl and Fin stared fixedly at the swirls of lace.

“Or maybe you don’t.” Mrs. Brackenbury sighed. She sounded, abruptly, a little tired and a little sad.

She must be lonely, Fin thought. Mrs. Brackenbury’s kids were all grown. This was probably why Mrs. Brackenbury sat on her porch so often—looking for someone to talk with. An uncomfortable squirm of guilt went through Fin; she should stop by more often.

“How are things in town?” asked Mrs. Brackenbury. “How’s Ben doing after that fire?”

“I think he’s okay,” said Fin, still looking down. “I saw him at the inn today. He said it was probably an electrical thing.” Which was technically true. “Mrs. Petrichor is still suspicious, though.”

“Oh, Petra.” Mrs. Brackenbury gave a derisive snort. “She’s always seeing arson everywhere. She’s getting up there in years, and while some of us originals are slowing down, I don’t think she ever will.” She gently placed her teacup back in its saucer with one quaking hand. “We’re all getting old. It’s a shame about Talia. I’m going to need to see her when she gets back.”

Fin frowned across the table. “I—I didn’t know you bought tea from Talia.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Brackenbury. “Been going to visit Talia since we were back in Redfern. I remember the old town, you know. It was—different from this one. But still, like no other place in the world.” Her eyes focused on something far in the distance. “It was wilder then, you know? People complain about the Bower’s Creek monster and the knives here, but this is nothing. Redfern was . . . much, much more dangerous. People were reckless with the magic. They took it for granted. Never bought any tea back then—when I was younger, I didn’t really have anything I wanted to change about myself. I’d go to visit, talk about books. But . . .” She let out a gusty breath. “Times change. After I had my kids, it wasn’t a good time for me. No one tells you about that, you know. I went to Talia when I needed help. I’d bring the tea home, use it when I needed it. Last time I went was—well, I think it was the day that Talia fell.” She touched a finger to her wrinkled lips. “She still puts rose hips and raspberries in my tea. Such a good flavor.”

But Fin was only half listening. Her mind had snagged on the last bit of information that Mrs. Brackenbury had told her.

“You went to Talia’s the day she fell?” Fin asked. “She—she let you brew the tea on your own? You knew how to do it?”

“Of course,” replied Mrs. Brackenbury. She picked up a cookie and dipped it into her tea, nibbling at it. “Brew for four minutes, then toss the leaves into my neighbor’s woodstove. She never minds, as long as I bring pastries.”

For ashes, Fin remembered. Had everyone else truly known about the burning of the tea leaves after they were used? Maybe Talia would have told Fin, if she’d been old enough to take the tea home.

“It’s a shame my tea was in my grocery bag,” said Mrs. Brackenbury. “I’ve had to go without.”

Fin went utterly still. “The tea—the tea was stolen from you?”

“Yes, dear. With the rest of my shopping.” Mrs. Brackenbury’s thin mouth pursed. “I need to stop by the Ack soon too.”

A thought was taking form; Fin sat there in silence while Mrs. Brackenbury talked about her grandkids.

Mrs. Brackenbury had been mugged. But not for her cash or even her jewelry—the thief had taken her grocery shopping. No one had thought to question it, because criminals were supposed to be unpredictable. But now Fin wondered if in fact the groceries hadn’t been the target. What if it had been the tea?

Which meant—which meant that the first tea theft hadn’t been at Mr. Madeira’s home.

It had been Mrs. Brackenbury.

Fin’s mind was still whirling when the phone rang shrilly. She jumped in her seat, sloshing tea across her saucer.

Mrs. Brackenbury hauled herself up and walked to the phone. Fin watched her go. This was the chance she needed to escape. Hastily, Fin picked up her teacup and downed the rest of the chamomile, ignoring the scalding heat down her throat. She took the cup to the sink, intending to wash it out. There were a few open drawers in the kitchen and Fin found herself glancing into one as she walked by. It held the kind of junk that all houses did—stray bits of paper, old letters, pens and—

A matchbox.

Fin went still.

It was a tiny matchbox, the letters faded from age. Without consciously making the decision, Fin pulled the drawer fully open and picked up the matches.

Stealing was wrong. She knew that. She hated to do it. But this drawer was dusty and old and surely Mrs. Brackenbury wouldn’t notice, right?

Her breathing coming hard, Fin chanced a look into the hallway. Mrs. Brackenbury was still on the phone, her back to the kitchen.

Be brave, she thought. Be brave.

She looked at Mrs. Brackenbury again, then at the matches.

She thought of silver tea-ball eyes, of shadows moving in the dark, of magic that should be put to rest.

And then she slid the matchbox into her pocket.