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One
"To tastelightning in the air means to expect danger, change, and sorcerers." — Sayings of the Blessed Crow.
Mara Corvo's teashop was one such anomaly that found itself in Melbourne. It didn't resemble regular teashops with pretty pastel walls, cakes like jewels, and other feminine charms.
This teashop was more like an apothecary or alchemist lab. The shop walls were crammed with books and tiny jars of tea leaves. A wooden counter and bar stretched in a square U in front of the shelves, so wherever a customer sat, Mara could reach them and her carefully labeled supplies.
A large bay of windows at the front of the store let light in. A few armchairs with carved arms sat in front of them for those needing comfort and were partially hidden by the small succulents and plants on the windowsill.
The rest of the store was lit by mismatched lamps and candles and was perpetually filled with warm light. One door led to the back of the store and the apartment upstairs, but no one outside the Corvo family could have told you what they looked like.
The teashop was never in the same place twice, but it was always there when you needed it. Only the brokenhearted could find it because while generations of Corvo women had dealt in desires of all kinds, Mara dealt in grief.
The removal of heartache was a painful and delicate process, but it was the only miracle Mara could perform. She was so good at it that she had never served the same customer twice.
Her red and gold painted door would appear in an alleyway or graffitied side street, and she would send out a message to the universe, inviting anyone requiring help to come in.
The teashop would appear aesthetically different to everyone, much like Mara did herself.
The brokenhearted would arrive like wasps, sharp-edged and ready to attack, or like rain-soaked moths, gray and forlorn.
All were confused in the beginning, wondering why they suddenly found themselves in the strange teashop.
Mara would always greet them warmly, her hands selecting the perfect cup and saucer as she would ask, "Do you want to talk about it?"
They always did.
As their confessions poured out of them, Mara would move about the shelves, taking down ingredients to pinch, drip, or stir into her teapot. Each infusion was unique, even if the griefs were similar.
Mara knew every flavor of grief there was, and she had cataloged them in her mind like a fine collector.
As the tea brewed, the customer's pain was lanced like an abscess in their soul. Mara would pour the tea, and they would drink, sometimes a cup, sometimes the whole pot, depending on the depth and age of their pain. By the time they finished, their grief would be gone.
They'd leave what they had on the bar—coins, letters, wedding rings, or a photo of their dead child—and would step out of the red door and onto the street.
Mara always watched the moment they had taken three steps, and then the memory of the store and the mysterious tea maker would disappear, leaving only the sensation that they could feel themselves finally healing and holding a tentative hope for the future.
In Mara's opinion, the loss of the memory of her was a blessing because, like all the saints in the Corvo bloodline, Mara was cursed.
* * *
The day began, as it often did, with nightmares. Mara's head was pounding, and smoky dread curled and twisted around the base of her spine, warning her that danger was coming.
"I'm bored," Athanasius declared with a long stretch of his back.
"Maybe you can make yourself useful and catch some bugs," Mara suggested without looking up from her book. As a response, he moved the angle of his stretch to point his cat butt at her. "Is that really necessary? Don't you have better things to do like go and lick yourself?"
"Your wit is acerbic this morning. What's the matter? Have a sex dream that left you unfulfilled?"
"Beast," she hissed.
Mara had dreams all right, but they weren't of the sexy variety. They were of the last time she saw her mother, Sophia, alive, spitting out rules and prejudices like venom right up until she died from the curse eating through her.
Mara hadn't dreamed of that night for seven years; it felt like an omen. She hated an omen before breakfast. She drained her Earl Grey and flipped her cup, letting Fate move the pulpy mass of her remaining tea leaves.
With a deep sigh, she flipped the cup back over. Before she could look, a black and gray cat stuck its head in the way.
"That can't be right?" he said. Mara pushed him out of the way with her free hand, shoving him along the smooth polish of the bar. Her body stilled as she took in the contents of the cup.
