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"That's not possible."
Athanasius slinked back over, tail straight and alert. "My leaf scrying was never that great, and even I can see the shit storm brewing in that cup."
"It's probably a customer that's involved, not me," Mara said weakly.
"Uh-huh, and you call me a liar."
"Youarea liar." Mara rubbed her temples against the migraine that was already threatening her.
"Perhaps, but I can taste the lightning in the air." Athanasius licked his paw nonchalantly. "Close the shop for the day."
Mara scowled at him. "You know I can't, not if someone is in this much pain."
"And you're going to borrow it? You come in after everything goes to shit, not before. You can't do anything."
Athanasius jumped off the bar, sauntered over to the plush antique velvet armchair next to the windows, and curled into a ball.
"Trust me,cioara, there are only two reasons why anyone would tip that lump of leaves or taste lightning in the air, and you don't want to be caught up with either of them."
Mara ignored him as she often did and went to flip over the open sign on the shop door. The shelves rattled as the call went out across the city, whispering to the ones that couldn't handle the pain any longer.
"You're a good girl, Mara, but time will tell if that was either very brave or very stupid. Pray to Saint Anea that your good intentions don't backfire," Athanasius yawned.
Mara wanted to tell him to shut up again. Instead, she went behind the bar, through a small wooden door, and into the shrine to light a candle at the saint's bare feet.
"If I can help, I will. That's what we are meant to do, right?" Mara demanded. The saint didn't reply. Mara didn't expect her to. If it wasn't for the danger sitting on her spine, she wouldn't have prayed to Saint Anea at all.
Despite the lack of prayers, Mara's life had always been plagued with miracles, like all the women in her family. They were the descendants of Saint Anea, the Crow Saint, and the miracles seemed to want to stick around long after the Romans had killed her. That was one story anyway.
When Mara was a child, and she'd ask about the saint, her mother, Sophia, grandmother, and two aunts, all told her something different. Anea was from Egypt before the Hebrew slaves had been set free; no, she was Greek and foretold the fall of Athens; no, she was Eastern European and had made the God of winter fall in love with her.
Mara had boiled all the stories down to this: the saint was her ancestor of unknown origin and religion, who performed miracles and passed her gifts down to the daughters she birthed. Powerful men grew afraid of Anea's influence and hunted her family, so now the Corvo family was forced to wander, performing miracles and getting out of town before anyone could reach for their torches or pitchforks.
Mara's progenitors had gotten more creative over the years when it came to altering the memories of the people they encountered until one took it too far, and now no one could remember them at all.
The women had carried the statue of Saint Anea with them wherever they traveled. They didn't know the type of wood that had been used to render her likeness because it had turned black from the grease of hundreds of hands touching it and the constant smoke of candles and incense.
The statue had been the only constant in Mara's long life. Clothes, houses, books, horses, possessions, cousins, and names changed, but wherever she went, Saint Anea followed.
Mara knew the carved eyes had watched her ancestors and their lives, but that didn't mean Anea had watchedoverthem. The carved crows that sat on her shoulders were equally attentive as they observed the Corvos collecting curses as quickly as they dispensed miracles.
Mara felt like it was a bad idea, but she still lit a stick of incense and stepped back into the shop.
The morning passed uneventfully with a grieving widow and a man with a foot complex. Mara was beginning to think the lack of sleep had made her worry over the tea leaves unnecessarily.
She had put on another pot of water on the small gas cooker behind the bar when the door rattled, and a drunk man stumbled through, bringing the taste of lightning in with the wind.
Not a man…a sorcerer.
And the nightmare about her mother shouting rules as she died suddenly made sense.
Sophia Melina Corvo had many, many rules, but only two really mattered—never fall in love and stay the fuck away from sorcerers.
The sorcerer didn't seem to notice her at first as he stood in the doorway, long overcoat and scarf tangled by the weather. He ran a hand through his dark, dripping hair, shaking water drops onto her wooden floors.
"Glass of scotch, darling," he said with a slurred British accent. He sat unsteadily on a tall stool and rested his elbows on the polished counter.
"We are a teashop, not a bar," Mara replied, too shocked by his presence to respond politely.
