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A saint whose miracle was purging grief was a saint he didn't need in his life. He rolled over in his too-big oak bed and put a pillow over his head.
Saint Mara could keep her tea and her full bottom lip and her dangerous miracles to herself. He knew her game like he knew every other supernatural hustler's in Melbourne.
She was someone who it wouldn't be wise to forget about. She was dangerous. He didn't buy her sweet 'I want to help people with their heartache' act. She had been far too suspicious and annoyed that he remembered her.
The problem was now Mara was on to him and would know he was keeping an eye out to make sure she wasn't swindling humans with her false promises.
If Mara thought that she'd cured him when she hadn't, he'd still remember her, and she would be none the wiser.
For a sorcerer, Augustus Valentine Vance was a skeptic, and he didn't believe for a single second that a cup of tea could cure all ails.
He would tell Mara a story, drink her tea, and know for sure if she was a fraud or not. Even if the miracle was true, Augustus was a sorcerer held together like a papier-mâché man, constructed of layers of guilt and grief, and not even a saint could heal all of it.
Underneath his pillow, Augustus created the perfect lie. He smiled and planned his next visit to the teashop of the brokenhearted.
* * *
The following day, Augustus put on his favorite red and gold scarf and went to see if the magical pull of the teashop would find him again.
He knew what story he would tell her. He'd crafted it carefully and made sure that he could say it with perfect sincerity. He didn't like lying, but he liked the idea of forgetting Mara Corvo even less.
Augustus knew what to expect this time when he strolled the streets around Chinatown, searching for the shop with the red door.
He was ready and well-rested, and when he let his guard down just enough to allow the teashop's magic to work on him, he realized he was a fool to be so confident.
It led him on a much longer walk this time, old pain rising to the surface like water from a shattered drainpipe. It was as if it was teaching him a lesson not to be so cocky.
If the teashop was unimpressed, it was nothing compared to its saint. Mara had her strange hair pinned up that day, so he had a full view of the bare neck that led up to her frowning face.
"You look disappointed to see me," Augustus said as he hung up his scarf and blazer on the stand by the door.
"After three days, I hoped that your memory had been wiped," Mara replied.
For some reason, the comment irked him. Women usually like Augustus, but Mara acted like he had offended her by merely existing.
He couldn't wait to find out what the sorcerer had done to tangle with the Corvo women so severely that they held a generational grudge.
"Does this mean you don't want to make me tea?"
"I had the feeling you wouldn't be back. You don't strike me as the type of person who would want my kind of services."
"Oh? And what type of person would that be?" Augustus asked as he sat down.
"Deceptive."
"Been listening to your cat, have you? From where I'm standing, you've done more harm to me than I've done to you. Come now, saint. You want to be rid of me, and according to you, it will only take a cup of tea to do it."
Mara looked away from his smile and said, "Will you excuse me for a minute? My last customer accidentally spilled their tea on me." She gestured to the stain on the hem of her shirt and pants.
"Of course, I'll be right here waiting," Augustus replied. He was sure there hadn't been anything on her clothes a moment beforehand.
"If you think to play your games with her, sorcerer, know that I'll stop you," Athanasius said, leaping up in an armchair. Augustus sat down opposite him, crossing his long legs.
"Can't a man be curious?"
"A man could be. Just not you."
"One day, you are going to tell me why you hate sorcerers so much. Did one really curse you?"
