I set out my tools to work the enchantments to empty the mead barrels. My neck prickles from Rafe’s gaze as I crush vervain and jasmine flowers in a mortar and pestle. I definitelydon’twatch his muscles working under my husband’s shirt as he hauls out crates of mead. I’m focused utterly on sprinkling my crushed herbs over the barrels while repeating the incantation backwards. It will take a few hours for the barrels to feel empty.
While we wait, Rafe and I pick up a wheelbarrow each and head back to the village. By the time we arrive at the shop, I’m gasping for air, and my t-shirt sticks to my back beneath the warm sunshine. I curse Warrick for insisting I didn’t need to learn how to drive.
“I could have driven over after work and picked those up,” Celeste says as we haul the bottles inside and stack them against her sacks of flour and sugar.
“We’ve imposed on you more than enough,” I grunt as I drop a heavy crate on top of the stack. “Besides, Rafe needs the exercise. Word on the street is that he’s been shown up by Mr Muffins.”
“That’s a lie. Don’t believe a word she says. Mr Muffins quakes before my magnificence.”
It takes two more trips to move the bottles into Celeste’s shop. Rafe and I return the wheelbarrows to the cottage.
“You know, I’ve never tried mead,” Rafe says as he packs the last few bottles into a single box he’ll carry back. It’s from my blackberryand elderflower batch – a protective mead. “I didn’t play enough D&D.”
“Mead isn’t just for geeks. It’s become more popular in recent years.” I swipe the bottle back from him. “Micro meaderies are opening all over the UK and Europe, and the market has been growing at a steady eleven per cent per year, and is estimated to be worth $1.5 billion globally by 2033?—”
“I appreciate the economics lecture, Oh Supreme Bee Commander, but I was actually hoping you’d let me try some.”
“Oh, right. Of course.” I wipe down two ceramic goblets – made by my grandmother for rituals – and fill them with the elderflower mead. I hand one to Rafe, and we sit down in the two egg chairs on the patio, looking out over the garden and hives. The bees dance around us, occasionally wandering along the rim of my goblet or walking across my legs.
“Skål.” I hold up my goblet. “That’s Old Norse for ‘cheers’.”
We clink goblets. I watch Rafe as he takes a sip. His eyes widen, and his whole face lights up, and the warmth in my belly spreads out through my ribcage. “This is delicious. It’s like a medieval rave in my mouth.”
“It’s really more of a winter drink. It’s so warm and cosy. But I’m hoping the flavours from the summer flowers will give it an all-year appeal, and I can serve it cold and sparkling at the meadery. If I even get to open a meadery.”
“Whyareyou so nervous about the paperwork?” Rafe watches me with that feline intensity. “Far less competent people than you get these licenses every day, and they don’t have the advantage of magical powers or a handsome sidekick with little regard for the law who can squeeze through small spaces.”
“I just…” I shake my head. I’ve never told anyone about my problems with reading before, and I’m not about to start. “I’m used to things not working out for me.”
“I find that hard to believe,” he says. “Look at this beautiful garden. Opening a shop is nothing compared to what you created here.”
“I’ve had a shop before.”
Why did I say that?
Being around Rafe untethers me. Thoughts tumble out of me before I can assess them for danger. And this is definitely danger territory.
“I sense a story behind this.” Rafe peers at me over his goblet. “Spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill. It wasn’t even really a shop. I had a stall at the village farmers’ market selling my honey. For two weekends. And then I quit.”
“Why?”
“Drink your mead.”
“Why, witch? Tell me, or I will keep doing this.”
He pokes me gently in the ribs.
“Rafe, stop.”
“Never. Why don’t you want to tell me? Does it have to do withhim?”
“Just forget about it.” There’s no way to tell this story without making Warrick look bad. And it’s not the truth, not at all. But then I wonder why I’m still defending him, even to myself, when he was cheating on me.
“I’ll annoy the truth out of you, Honey Witch. It’s best to admit defeat now.”
I take a mouthful of mead. Elderflower softness dances on my tongue, and I find the courage to speak.
