In the Land of Tea and Ravens (7 page)

~9~

Choosing a wife was not an easy task for the Messenger King. As the merchant had hoped, his two eldest daughters had left a great impression on the ruler, but his advisor,
Caelin
, was taken by the unnamed young woman. Caelin was a powerful man, a druid with the ability to do and see things normal men could not see or do. “The unnamed one has spirit,” he told his king. And yet, the king saw only the eldest daughters’ beauty. His choice decided
,
he prepared to declare his betrothed. However, before the day came, the king grew mysteriously ill …

~The Tea Girl~

Ravens cawed, their wings fluttering wildly. The sound mingled with the sirens beyond until it was a strange mix of yells, a heralded disordered end to the night.

Grayson stood, brushing dust from his jeans. Boots sounded on the front porch, each step a harbinger of doom.

“Grayson Kramer!” It was a familiar voice that called to him, the deep, accented yell of Richard Newton, Hiccup’s sheriff and an old family friend of the Kramer’s. “You okay in there, boy?”

Grayson stiffened, his gaze locked on the front of the house.

“You should go,” Lyric murmured. There was enough trouble for her in Hiccup without the added difficulty being involved with a Kramer would cause her. The
Kramers
were a prestigious family made rich by years of farming and selling cattle. They owned a good deal of land in the small Delta community.

“Go,” Lyric begged.

Grayson glanced at her, his gaze taking in her urgent, anxious eyes before he moved away, his feet carrying him through the darkened house to the porch beyond. There was no need for words. Despite the fact that the house had once belonged to the Miller family, it had been standing empty and abandoned for years, the property long since foreclosed. Lyric was trespassing.

With his hand resting against the house’s hanging screen door, Grayson asked, “There a reason you looking for me, Sheriff?”

The paunchy, middle-aged Richard Newton stood on the edge of the porch, his stance distrustful, as if he were afraid of the house. Or, as if he were afraid getting any closer would steal something from him, making him less of a man somehow.

Richard’s gaze met Grayson’s through the screen, his thinning brown hair obvious in the glow of headlights from the patrol car parked nearby. “Your grandmother was a might bit worried about you.
Said you vanished without telling a soul.”

Grayson’s fist gripped the door’s frame. Part of the wood crumbled, sending flakes raining down to the floor below. “I’ve long outgrown needing a sitter, Mr. Newton.”

The Sheriff eyed him, his gaze sliding from Grayson to the house and back again. “This
ain’t
a safe place to be
explorin
’, son.
Ain’t
nothin
’ wrong with your granny
bein
’ worried about you. There’s a lot of folk who’d be proud as punch to have Mildred Kramer
checkin
’ up on ’
em
.”

Grayon
pushed the door open, its screeching hinges deafening in the silence. “I was just headed home. I got a little curious is
all.
”

“
Hmmmm
,” Sheriff Newton mumbled. “Curiosity often comes before a fall.
Might be good to remember that.
This house
ain’t
safe. It’s a damned hazard is what it is.” Richard lifted a flashlight, his hand clenching it so tightly his knuckles were white.
“You alone in there?”

Grayson’s jaw clenched, an odd sense of protectiveness overwhelming him. Smiling slowly, he murmured, “Nothing but nesting birds and mice in there, Sheriff.
That, and spiders.”

Richard fought not to shudder, his flashlight lowering. “Get on home with you. I don’t mean to be hard, especially on a strong, young man like
yourself
. I grew up with your father, Grayson. I’m not
relishin
’ the position I’m in now, but this place is condemned, and for good reason. You’re trespassing.”

Grayson stepped onto the porch, running his hands through his dusty hair before walking past the sheriff. Pausing on the stairs, Grayson glanced up at Richard. “Don’t tell me you believe in ghosts.”

The sheriff scowled. “Not ghosts, boy. Demons, however,” he glanced over his shoulder, “that’s another thing entirely.”

Richard followed Grayson down the stairs, his steps hurried. He didn’t stop until he reached his patrol car, his hand gripping the open door. “I
ain’t
never
been much of one for superstition, mind you, but you might want to ask your grandmother about the old Miller property. About your great uncle and what happened to him here.” With that, he ducked into his patrol car, his eyes trailing Grayson as he stepped toward the wood line. It wasn’t until Grayson was cloaked by the trees that the sheriff backed out of the drive. His tires squealed, the wheels showering gravel and dirt as if the hounds of hell were chasing him.

Hidden by the trees, Grayson turned, his gaze finding the house. A light appeared in the doorway, the kerosene lantern throwing an eerie orange glow over the young woman standing there. Ravens surrounded her, a few ducking through the door and flying to the trees nearby. Everything was wet, the rain from earlier having cleansed the earth, and drops of water slid down the leaves overhead to pummel Grayson. There was more rain ahead; the air was heavy with it.

Lyric’s gaze found his. For a long moment, they simply stood with the yard between them, their eyes locked, and a shared guilt tying them together. In this moment, Lyric looked as dangerously surreal as the townspeople viewed her; her wild hair had mostly come loose to shield her face, and her long, gypsy-like skirt was a tiered mass of colors around her legs. The darkness made her eyes appear black, her face orange and shadowed. Ravens cawed, their beady gazes surrounding her.

She should have been terrifying, but Grayson found her eerily beautiful, as if time had frozen her somehow in this moment … had trapped her here. That same overwhelming sense of protectiveness from earlier nearly choked him. He’d seen what life does to the damned. In fact, he continued to live there now, in its shadow, but there were also people who believed in him.
People who were willing to give him a chance at life despite the guilt.
Lyric had no one.

She wasn’t terrifying in this moment. She was devastatingly lonely standing in the doorway of a decaying house surrounded by nothing but tea and ravens.

In hindsight, maybe he shouldn’t have done what he’d done then.

He winked, his hand rising to offer Lyric a mock salute. “I’ll be back,” he promised.

Promises are like candy that never melts, infinite. Promises should never come empty or half full. They are an assurance.

For Lyric, there had never been any promises. No one outside of her family had ever given her more than a day of their time.

Grayson had given her two days. Grayson had made two promises and already kept one.

It was the promise that did it. It was the promise that filled her heart and made it beat different. It was the promise that gave her hope.

In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have made any promises.

If he could go back in time and do it again … he wouldn’t hesitate to make more of them.

He turned then, his body melding into the dark forest. Rain came once more, softer this time, the precipitation hiding his view of the Miller house, but he knew she was there. Alone except for her tea and ravens.

~10~

The Messenger King’s illness threw a cloud of sadness over the land. The people worried about his impending death. They worried what would happen to them if he didn’t survive. Every day the unnamed tea girl walked up the hill from her seaside home to the palace. Every day she stood before the gates holding a pot of tea. Every day she begged for entrance. Every day she was refused. It was on the seventh day that the gates suddenly opened. The king’s advisor stood before her, his gaze peering down into hers. “Why have you come?”
Caelin
asked. The young woman held up her small kettle. “I’ve brought tea to the ailing king,” she answered.

~The Tea Girl~

Mildred Kramer was waiting on Grayson when he walked out of the woods, her short frame silhouetted in the door, a towel clenched in her hand.

Grayson accepted the cloth, his blue eyes lowering. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say …” He glanced at her.
“The sheriff,
Mamaw
?”

She watched him, her eyes crinkling when she scowled. “Those women,” she spat, “I’ve lost too much to them!”

She shuffled into the house and Grayson followed, the door slamming behind them. His grandfather was mysteriously absent, but it had always been that way. When his grandmother was angry, people made themselves scarce.

“What did they do to you?” he asked. “What was so bad that you’d call the sheriff to pull me out of that house?”

Mildred blinked, her wrinkled hands gripping a kitchen chair.
Yahtzee
was set up on the table. Wheel of Fortune played on the small TV on the counter, the volume turned down.

“They killed my brother!” she hissed.

Startled, Grayson froze. “Killed?
Which brother?”
He searched his memory—the stories he’d been told over the years—for anything about murder. Only one memory,
one
uncle stood out. “
Polie
?” he asked. “Uncle
Polie
?” Grayson sighed, his hand finding his grandmother’s shoulder. “He killed himself,
Mamaw
.”

Mildred shook his hand loose.
“Because of them!”
She turned to look at him. “He killed himself because of
them
!”

The anger in her eyes was too much, the hatred a poison that had eaten away all of her compassion. For a woman who often loved too much and forgave too easily, it took Grayson aback.

“You don’t know what they did …” Mildred released the chair, her hands shaking. Slowly, she made her way to the refrigerator, pulling it open just long enough to grab a carton of milk and a Saran-wrapped sandwich. “You missed supper,” she murmured.

Grayson waved off the food. “Tell me,” he insisted.

Mildred left the milk and sandwich resting on the counter, her frame bent wearily as she found the table again, her old body sinking slowly into the chair she always sat in. She clasped her hands, her eyes sliding to his. “There was nothing wrong with my brother. Nothing! He was strong, hardworking, and smart … until he met Violet Miller.” She wrung her hands. “She bewitched him …” She reached for the
Yahtzee
game, picking up the dice as if she needed something to do with her hands. “She made him fall in love with her.”

Grayson sat across from her, his gaze on her hands, on the dice she shook and then released.
A six and a two.

“People aren’t forced to fall in love,” Grayson said carefully.

Mildred snorted. “Maybe not, but those women are masters at using love to drive people mad.” She scooped up the dice. “
Polie
was a decent man. He wasn’t always an honest one, but he was a good one.” She threw the dice.
A four and a three.
“Like our father before him,
Polie
made and sold moonshine. It wasn’t always decent work—”

Grayson stood, his chair scraping back, his gaze on the table, on his grandmother’s wrinkled hands and the dice. “What did the Miller woman do?” he interrupted.

Mildred released the dice again.
Snake eyes.
“A year after they married, he started drinking his own moonshine and spending hours out walking in the fields. No one knew why. He wasn’t a drinker despite what he did for a
livin
’.
Never had been.
Until her.”
Her gaze slid up to Grayson’s. “He started murmuring to himself and took to sleeping in the fields. He even sat at the end of the road—a rifle across his lap—and held up drivers. He wouldn’t let anyone use the road unless they drove him around or paid him a toll, his gun pointed at the back of their heads.”

Grayson moved behind his grandmother, his eyes on the top of her bent head. “He was drunk—”

Mildred’s fist came down hard on the table, and the dice fell to the floor, rolling until they rested against the kitchen’s whitewashed cabinets.
Double sixes.
“He was possessed!” She stood, her chair slamming into Grayson’s shins as she rose. “He wouldn’t have done it otherwise! He wouldn’t have gone into the field that day, he wouldn’t have shot Violet Miller, he wouldn’t have stuck a pistol in his mouth, and he wouldn’t have taken his own life! You understand me! My brother was not a murderer, and he wasn’t a mad man!”

“He killed his wife?” Grayson gasped.

“He was
not
a murderer!” Mildred’s fingers found Grayson’s chest, her blue eyes flashing. “She
ain’t
worth it. None of ’
em
are worth it, you understand? You want to end up worse off than you already are?” Over and over, she poked him. “She’ll destroy you!”

Grayson’s hand closed over hers. He hadn’t realized until now how old his grandmother had become, how frail. “That’s a harsh accusation against a woman I barely know and one you’ve never met.”

“Oh, I’ve met her,” Mildred insisted. “I met Lyric Mason the summer her mother died. She was seven years old and a murderer!”

Grayson inhaled. “She was a child!”

“She was a murderer!” Mildred tugged her hand free. “She was a remorseless child who stood next to her mother’s grave and never shed a tear. There was no doubt she did it.
None
.
She was the only one with her mother that day.”

Grayson’s jaw tensed. “And they proved it was her?”

Mildred flinched. “They never could. There was no blood. No body. Sarah Mason simply disappeared. When the police found Lyric, she kept telling them her mother was dead. I think she would have confessed if Gretchen hadn’t gotten to her first.”

Grayson froze. “Gretchen?
Old Ma’am?”

Mildred didn’t answer. Her eyes lifted, the corners crinkling. Tears filled them, the moisture turning her blue irises into something greyer. “She’ll destroy you, Grayson. Mark my words.” The tears fell. Two single tears.
Nothing more.

The tears should have broken Grayson’s heart. Truth be told, they did. His chest ached for his grandmother, for the young woman she’d once been, the one who’d lost her brother because he knew what that felt like. It ached for the fear he saw in her gaze now. Yet it also ached for a lonely, scared, seven-year-old child. It ached for a little girl he’d never known.

It ached because he knew something his grandmother didn’t.

It ached, because as unbelievable as it seemed, Lyric’s mother wasn’t dead. She was a raven. He didn’t know how that worked yet. He didn’t know what had happened to the women in Lyric’s family, but he knew as fiercely as the hatred he saw in Mildred’s eyes, that Lyric wasn’t guilty.

His heart ached because he’d seen the innocent shame in Lyric’s eyes when she’d shared her tea with him. It ached because she’d never felt anything but hatred in her life.

A new resolve settled over Grayson’s shoulders.

“Have you ever stopped to ask yourself what truly made
Polie
kill himself,
Mamaw
?” he asked. “Have you ever asked if he was as much to blame as the woman he married?”

With that, Grayson turned and walked away, his feet carrying his damp body to the stairs. Each step upward was heavier than the last. Each step was weighed down with knowledge he almost wished he didn’t have. He didn’t know what was worse: knowing something he didn’t quite understand or caring enough to find out the truth.

Damn Lyric and her ever changing eyes. They’d been brown when he’d met her, like warm melting chocolate in the Mississippi heat. Each time he saw her, they seemed to change. Hazel eyes that transformed with her emotions.
Mood ring eyes.

Damn her eyes.

Damn her ravens.

Damn her cinnamon-infused tea.

Damn her loneliness.

Worst of all, damn
his own
guilt. Damn
his own
loneliness. Damn his curiosity. Damn the taste of her tea.
Because if he was being honest, it was damn intoxicating.

Damn her no man’s land.

All of his
damns
brought him to the room at the top of the stairs. All of his
damns
brought him to the window facing the old Miller house.

It was too cloudy outside for a moon. Rain still pounded the earth like a cascade of tears, the water landing in an overgrown field that had seen too much death. The rain was a volley of weeping sobs watering a warzone.

Across the field of high grass, a light burned inside of the old Miller house. It was too misty out for Grayson to make out her shape, but he knew the light belonged to Lyric. He knew it was her because he felt the same pull she did; the same pull that often made him stand at windows staring out into the world wondering if everyone else on the planet hurt as much as he did.

He gripped the windowsill until his knuckles lost color. The scar on his chest throbbed.

Damn it all.