Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
I found her old porcelain teapot nestled behind a row of mason jars. It was cream-colored with a rose motif and a chip on the spout. My heart gave a pang as I ran my fingers over it. She used to make chamomile tea in this same pot, humming softly while it steeped. The sweet scent of it was a core memory—one I had held onto despite my mostly forgotten childhood.
I filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove, then opened the little vial Goody Albright had given me. The mixture shimmered, no longer silver but a swirling blend of orange, gold, and pale green. It smelled like autumn—cinnamon and cloves, nutmeg and a hint of something floral underneath.
I poured the shimmering mix into a delicate teacup with tiny pink roses around the rim, the kind of cup you only brought out for special occasions. Then I added the hot water and a spoonful of real sugar from Grandma’s blue enamel canister.
The liquid bloomed into color—rich amber with streaks of gold and green—and the steam that rose from the cup shimmered like colored fog. I hesitated for a moment. The cup felt warm and comforting in my hands, but what if I couldn’t handle the memories? What if they broke me?
Then again… hadn’t I already been broken when I got here? I had the feeling that was one reason Hidden Hollow had called me—because losing Craig and my house all at once was just too much. I’d been having thoughts of ending everything. But after meeting Harmony and Goody Albright and all the other women in town, I was no longer feeling like that. I had hope now—even a sense of possibility—there was a community here I might join. This seemed like a place I could belong.
“I’m strong enough,” I whispered. “I can do this.”
I brought the teacup to my lips. The flavor exploded on my tongue—warm, spicy, and sweet. Like Autumn in a cup. I sighed and let it settle deep into my belly, warmth curling through me like firelight.
I curled up on the denim couch with a knit throw over my legs and the teacup cradled in my hands. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows and sending dry leaves skittering across the porch. But inside, the cottage felt warm and cozy. I loved it.
I sipped the tea and I waited…and waited…and waited.
But no memories came.
At last I sighed. Was it the sugar? Had I dulled the magic somehow? Or wait—I was supposed to drink it under the moon, wasn’t I? I’d have to ask Goody for another dose and do it right next time. I told myself I didn’t mind. The tea was worth drinking for the flavor alone—it didn’t really have to be sweet to be enjoyable.
Leaving my little nest on the plump denim couch, I went back to the kitchen and rinsed the cup. I dried it carefully, placing it back on the shelf along with the others in the set. Then I wandered into the bathroom and found, to my surprise, another steaming bubble bath waiting for me.
This time, I didn’t hesitate.
“Thank you,” I said out loud, speaking to the cottage. “I don’t mind if I do.”
I undressed, pausing briefly with a strange sense of self-consciousness. Was someone watching? Was he watching—the one with golden eyes under the bed?
Well, let him, I thought defiantly. Let him see that I was no spring chicken, no perfect, skinny waif. I was soft and round and middle-aged, and I had the wrinkles and rolls and stretch marks to prove it.
I stepped into the tub and sighed. The water was perfect—hot but not scalding—with thick, fragrant bubbles that smelled of vanilla and honeysuckle and something a little more wild underneath. I sank in up to my neck, feeling the tension melt from my shoulders.
No memories came, but for the first time in years, I felt something like peace.
I thought of Craig…of the pain…the slow unraveling of his life, of our life together. I missed him, I did. But this… this was the first time since his diagnosis that I felt a flicker of myself. The old me—the one who used to dream and wish and have hope for the future—was slowly returning.
When the water cooled, I drained the tub and stepped out. A soft pink towel had been laid out for me on the closed lid of the toilet, warm and fluffy and smelling faintly of lavender. Beside it was a pale green nightgown made of the softest silk I’d ever felt. I slipped it on and felt it slide like a whisper over my bare skin.
I was nervous to go back to the bedroom, but I reminded myself of Madam Healer’s words. This presence wanted me—but not to hurt me. I was going to be okay—I hoped.