In the Land of Tea and Ravens (6 page)

~7~

The merchant’s raven-haired middle daughter, attired in her best emerald gown, charmed the king with her ability to paint and draw. With swift strokes of her brush, she brought pictures to life, her images dancing off of the canvas. “Come,” the king commanded, as he had ordered her sister before her, “
tell
me your name.” The girl smiled demurely. “Charisma,” she answered.

~The Tea Girl~

“This place is a tomb,” Grayson murmured, his gaze sliding over the walls of the living room, the twisted vines and broken glass. Old black and white photos hung lopsided on the walls, each one depicting a beautiful young woman with long, dark hair. She wasn’t smiling, but her eyes were happy, as if she’d felt something beautiful and was too afraid she’d lose it if she gave it life with her lips.

Strangely, the house transformed each time Grayson saw it.
From fear to desolation to sadness.
Each step erased the terror he’d felt the night before and replaced it with an eerie acceptance that was just as frightening as the fear. If not more so.

Lyric glanced at him. “No tomb,” she argued. “It’s … it’s a world.”

She entered the house’s small kitchen, the same kitchen they’d shared tea in the night before. That moment seemed far away now, as if it had happened a week ago rather than a day.

Grayson paused at the door, his gaze raking Lyric’s figure. There was something unique about her.
Something loud and wild, unspoken but wordy.

“No man’s land, then?” he asked.

She threw him a look.
“No man’s land?”

He gestured at the house.
“This world of yours … a no man’s land.”

Her lips quirked.
“A no man’s land,” she mumbled. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

The ravens from the yard followed them, their black eyes watching … waiting. Grayson stared back at them, his gaze searching theirs as they perched along the room. Doubt was an uncomfortable, queasy feeling.

“You’re afraid,” Lyric accused.

She was kneeling on the floor, hands submerged in a plain red backpack. It was a loud color for a dark room, like a splash of blood in the middle of a silent corpse.

Grayson watched her. “I’m not afraid.”

She pulled a tea kettle free of the bag before leaning over a portable butane one-burner stove she’d purchased at the sporting goods store earlier in the day.

“Aren’t you?” she asked.

Distracted, Grayson murmured, “What?”

“Afraid,” Lyric said. Her gaze slid up to his, her eyes brown in the dim light. “There’s no fear in myth or lies, you know. But truth,” she inhaled, “there’s fear in truth because you can’t run away from it.”

Grayson stared. “You’re trying to convince me you’re related to the birds, right?”

She should have smiled then, but she didn’t. She met his stare with one of her own, a frankness about her gaze that startled him. She was talking as much about him as she was herself.

“The scariest part,” she whispered, “is that you can’t control truth. Truth often controls you, and there’s nothing more terrifying than that.”

Grayson’s chest throbbed, and he rubbed it. There was no real pain, of course, just the phantom memory of a pain that was far worse than any wound. Far worse than the lies he kept telling himself. Lyric was right. There was true terror in truth.

Her gaze didn’t leave his. “It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, the wind whipping at your body. You look down, and you have two choices. Stand there and enjoy the beauty or take the plunge and jump. There’s no fear in the fall. The true fear is in knowing humans can’t fly. The true fear is in honesty.”

Grayson
swallowed,
his heart rate climbing. “You
are
a witch!”

Lyric
laughed,
the sound harsh, her chuckle met by cawing ravens. “No. There’s your myth again. Witches aren’t scary. I’m not a witch. I’m trapped. There’s my terrifying truth, Grayson Kramer.” Her gaze captured his. “What’s yours?”

He had no answer, the words stuck in places he dared not touch. He wanted to leave, but he couldn’t. There was nothing keeping him here, no spells or enchantments, nothing to keep him rooted to her tiny kitchen, to the decaying no man’s land. And yet, he
couldn’t
leave.

She held up an empty tin cup. “Tea?” she asked, her brows arched.

His gaze fell to the cup, to the slender fingers that held it. She wore a ring on her thumb, a simple ring, a plain silver band.

The ravens in the room fluttered, throwing dust into the air.

Grayson knelt across from her, his fingers touching hers as he accepted the mug. She started to release it, but he stopped her, his hand trapping hers.

“I killed my brother,” he confessed. “I killed my sixteen-year-old brother.”

She stared.

“Try that for terrifying truth,” he added, his fingers tightening on hers.

Lyric didn’t flinch, and she didn’t pull away. “There’s this thing about terrifying truth,” she said, her gaze searching his. “We often let it become too big. We often let it grow too much for us to bear. We can’t let it go because we’re afraid that if we release it, if we quit blaming ourselves, then we truly lose the ones we love.”

Grayson’s heart pounded, his mouth growing dry. “Death would be easier,” he whispered.

Lyric tugged her hand free, turning away from him long enough to drop a few strange-looking leaves into her kettle before twisting the top off of a sixteen ounce bottle of water. After pouring it into the tea pot, she turned the burner on and placed the kettle gently on the small stove.

“Would it be?” she asked. The question startled him. “Death isn’t a release.” She settled across from him, her palms coming to rest on the floor, her legs out in front of her, and the skirt trapping her against the wood. “Death may stop things. It may freeze
your
time, but it doesn’t end anything. It just causes more pain, starts a whole new terrifying cycle of truth.”

Grayson studied her, his brow furrowed. “What
are
you?”

She gave him a half-smile.
“A tea girl.”

Her answer caused the ravens surrounding them to dance along their perches, throwing cawing accusations into the dark home. The light from outside was almost gone now, and Lyric reached for a kerosene lantern set off to the side of the door. Matches rested beside it. She struck one, and her face was lit by flame.

“This lamp once belonged to my Aunt Hazel. She was half blind, as much from her love of books as from nearsightedness,” Lyric mused. The lamp lit, she blew out the match before dropping it into the empty water bottle she’d used to fill the kettle. “She also walked with a limp. She had one leg shorter than the other from a bout with polio as a child.”

A sense of unease caused Grayson’s stomach to turn. “Which raven is she?” he asked.

Surprised, Lyric’s head shot up, her gaze catching his and a flush spreading across her cheeks. “The one in the corner, alone,” she answered.

“You’re really related to them,” he said. He didn’t question it, and that was the real reason for the discomfort in his gut, for the disquieting whispers in his head.

“Terrifying truths,” Lyric mumbled. She glanced up at the birds.

The kettle on the burner whistled, causing Grayson to jump, his gaze falling to the cup in his hands. Like the night before, he detected the scent of cinnamon, and it stirred the apprehension in his blood.

Lyric lifted the kettle. “This won’t cause you to see or hear the dead,” she promised. “It’s nothing more than black tea with a hint of cinnamon.”

He offered his mug, watching as the tea splashed into the blue tin, the dark liquid mesmerizing.
“Simple tea, huh?”

She laughed. “Tea is never simple.” Her cup
came
next, steam rising from her hands as she gripped the mug, her eyes watching the trail of smoke. “Tea is complicated. It is healing. It is destructive. It is restless and calm. It is warmth. It is icy grief. It is the past, the future, and the present. It is
never
simple.”

For a moment, Grayson simply watched her, scrutinizing the way the steam curled her already frizzy hair; the way her jaw tensed and her eyes stared. It was the dead kind of look people got when they were distracted by something, the kind that took them out of the world and put them somewhere else. It was easy enough to misplace the head even when the body knew where it was supposed to be.

Grayson lifted his mug. “To terrifying truths,” he toasted.

Lyric’s gaze snapped to his. Inhaling, she whispered, “To terrifying truths.”

Somewhere beyond the house, thunder rumbled, the noise followed by the torrential sound of rain. It was the kind of rain that came hard and fast, the kind that didn’t just beat the earth, but pulverized it. It was the kind of rain that blew in more than one direction, guided by the wind. There is poetry in rain. Unlike diverged paths, there is no uncertainty in rain. There is no moment of indecision where you stand at the end of a forked road deciding which one to take. There is no wrong path or right path. There is no path at all. There is simply rain. There is simply terrifying truth and no running away from it.

They finished their tea to this steady deluge of rain.

~8~

The merchant’s youngest daughter went before the king in a plain dress, her wild hair a veil around her face. She had nothing in which to present him, nothing except a small cup full of freshly brewed tea. “What’s this?” the king demanded. The girl did not cower. She simply bowed and offered him the cup. “I’ve made you tea, Your Majesty.” Fascinated, the king accepted her offer. The tea had a delicate scent and taste that warmed his spirit. “Your name?” he asked. She looked surprised. “Why, Sire, I have no name.”

~The Tea Girl~

“We both made the same mistake,” Lyric whispered.

The rain showed no signs of slowing, and everywhere there was the distinct dripping sound of water as rain slipped through cracks in the decaying roof to slap at the floor below.

Grayson glanced at Lyric, and she noted the way his blue eyes pierced the gloom, the color just as potent in obscurity as they were during the day.

The kind of endless blue that chases away shadows
, Lyric thought.

“Your mother?”
Grayson asked carefully.

Her gaze went to her knees. She’d said enough for now. He’d made a declaration of guilt, and she had reciprocated. But details … well, there are certain confessions that take time, more trust. There are certain confessions that never sound good said out loud, certain shames that can never be healed. To pretend otherwise was to lie to
oneself
. Lyric never lied.

Grayson shifted, resting so that his long, six foot something frame
laid
next to hers on the floor. His palms came to rest on the wood, his eyes searching the ravens.

“Are there any men in this bird family of yours?” he asked.

Lyric’s lips lifted. It was a subtle movement, part smile and part gratefulness. “No men. A no man’s land, remember?”

His leg knocked against hers. “Literally, it seems.”

Her gaze slid up to his, her eyes searching the contours of his face. It had been years since she’d had a truly candid conversation with someone. It seemed funny that it was with this man. He didn’t look like the type of person you traded pain with. He was too large, too built, and too rough around the edges. She didn’t know him well enough to assume anything, but he seemed too unpredictable somehow, as if he would always do the opposite of what everyone expected of him.

“Haven’t you heard?” she asked, her eyes falling to the tattoo peeking at her from beneath the sleeve of his navy blue T-shirt. There were three buttons at his neck, and he unbuttoned them now, his fingers pulling at the cotton in the heat. It revealed the V at the top of his chest, a faint scar beginning where the last button ended. “The women in this family drive men insane,” she revealed. “We destroy hearts and steal souls.”

Grayson’s leg knocked against hers again. “Do they?” He tugged on his shirt. “I still feel whole. Scarred, but whole.”

Lyric laughed. “Oh, you’re fine,” her gaze caught his, “as long as you don’t fall in love.”

Taken aback, he stared.
“With you?”

“With any female in this family.
Love is where the danger lies.”

He sat forward, so that his body leaned toward hers. “That’s a little presumptuous, isn’t it?”

Her head tilted. “To presume you’ll fall in love? Or go insane?”

“Both.”

Lyric shrugged. “I’d rather you not … fall in love, I mean.” She sat up, the movement placing her closer to him, but also allowing her to fist her hands in her skirt. It was a bad habit. “I’m sure you’ve gathered by now this family has a bad reputation in Hiccup.” Her heart beat faster, its rhythm almost hollow, and her palms began sweating. “It’s partly due to male insanity.”

Her gaze lifted and crashed with his. There was no fear in his eyes, only curiosity.

“And you said you weren’t a witch,” he murmured.

“I’m not,” she defended, her gaze sliding to the ravens. “
We’re
not. Emotion can drive people as insane as magic.
Sometimes more so.”

Grayson’s fingers suddenly fell on hers, his hand trapping them against her skirt to still her nervous clenching. Startled, her eyes flew to his. No one touched her, at least not often.

“I’m not going to fall in love with you,” he promised.

She stiffened involuntarily despite an overwhelming sense of relief. There was no time in her life for love, no time in her life for anything other than protecting what remained of her family. It was a heavy duty, but guilt compelled her. Guilt was a demanding driver, forever pushing and prodding through mental road blocks, dead ends, and emotional rush hours. It would drive her until there was nothing left, until there was no more gas and she was left to falter, to join the rest of the ravens perched along the wall.

Grayson’s hand squeezed hers. “However, this doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to fall in love with me. You know, unrequited female obsession is good for a man’s ego.”

Lyric
laughed,
the sound as beautiful as her singing. There was something free and wild about her amusement—about all of her emotions—as if she were afraid the joy would end at any moment, and she was determined to suck the emotion as dry as she could. Like the picture in the living room, the one of the woman who laughed with her eyes but frowned with her mouth.

That’s what it is,
Grayson suddenly realized. It wasn’t beauty that drew him to Lyric. It was this unceasing sense of urgency that surrounded her, as if time was kept in an hour glass.

Life should be lived that way
, he thought. Life should be lived as if there was no tomorrow, as if each breath was the last. The urgency made life richer, more colorful, and more meaningful. It made each breath too loud, each heartbeat a resounding boom. It gave shadows more life. It provided the day a reason to be bright, and the night a reason to be dark. It even granted the summer heat a reason to be too hot.

His gaze moved over the young woman’s face, over her lowered lashes and too urgent eyes. “What is a tea girl?” he asked.

Tugging her hand free from Grayson’s
,
Lyric lifted the tin mug from the floor where’d she laid it, tipping the cup so that he could see the loose tea leaves snuggled within.

“I simply make good tea,” she told him, a low laugh escaping. This laugh was different, not sad, but not happy. It settled somewhere in between the two. “It began a long time ago before the age of King Arthur—”

Grayson snorted, the sound interrupting her. “Arthur?
As in the knights and the round table?”
He stared at her tin mug. “Those are legends.”

She shook the cup slightly, watching as the tea leaves moved within, falling against each other like lovers meeting before they broke apart.

“There are legends, and then there is history,
forgotten
history that’s been relegated to myth,” she said. “The world is full of magic. It isn’t that people have magic. It’s the earth that has it—the air, the wind, the trees—
all
of it. There’s a spirit in nature and wildlife, a spirit we often can’t touch.” She tilted the cup toward him again, as if the wet, dark leaves could speak. “Once, many years ago, there were people who
could
touch this spirit. In those days, these people were respected, used as advisors to kings and people of power. Think Merlin.”

Lyric’s gaze rose, her strange eyes catching his. “My family made one of these people very, very angry.”

It was then, following her eerie admission, that they heard the wailing sound of sirens.