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 myefforts.
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.”
After the last customer leaves, I whip around in a daze, wipingdown the tables and sweeping the floor. When it’s done, I perform the enchantments on the mead barrels so they refill for the next day.
Rafe flips the sign, locks the door, and comes to stand beside me. He places his hand over mine on the counter.
“What do you want to do to celebrate?” Rafe asks. “Want to go fishing in the church fountain? Or sit on the roof and howl at ghosts? Oh, perhaps you have another enemy I could exact revenge on for you. I have a juicy morsel in the corner of the backroom I caught trying to get into Celeste’s flour stash. I’ve been saving him for a special occasion?—”
“As tempting as it is to share a mouse with you, I think I want to sit beside my fire and drink a glass of mead.” I smile. “With you.”
As soon as the words fly out of my mouth, I shrink away from him. I’m soboring.
“I mean, you don’t have to. I know you have exciting cat things to do.”
“More exciting than sitting by a warm fire with a treat?” Rafe’s eyes widen with delight. “That’s the perfect cat evening. I’ll have a glass of your favourite brew, mead wench.”
I grab two cups from the tray. My hand hovers over the Hex Appeal tap – the love drink, the one that releases inhibitions, but I shake my head to myself and pour us a mug from the Spell the Tea tap and bring them to him by the fire.
Rafe lounges on the low sofa, and there’s a chair opposite him, but he pats the space beside him, and I settle into it. When he takes his cup from me, his fingers brush mine, and the bees are back buzzing beneath my skin.
He drapes his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him, his chest to my back, his warm breath brushing my ear. He clinks his cup to mine.
“To Bee-Witching Brews,” he says, his low voice like a purr in my belly. “And the most remarkable witch I know.”
