cover cracked and index cards falling out of the sides. Old Ma’am’s tea book.
It’s been so long, a bird murmured. This raven seemed older somehow than the rest, even though she was the youngest in death. I couldn’t remember …
“Ma’am,” Lyric whispered, “ it’s okay.”
Old Ma’am had passed, as they all had, into the guise of a raven in death. Sometimes in the transition, minor memories were lost. The tea book had been one of those memories.
Lyric lifted it reverently from the trunk, her breath whooshing as she blew at the dust. Like a cloud of ash and death, the dust scattered. There wasn’t anything special about the book, nothing that an ordinary woman would find enthralling, but Lyric wasn’t ordinary.
Pulling open the cover, Lyric let her fingers slide over the tea recipes, the old tea girl story, and the Raven’s Song that lay within. The tea book was their history. It was like a patchwork quilt with tea recipes dating back to the days of the original tea girl. Holding it, Lyric realized something … she wasn’t ashamed of her family’s history. It was a dark history, but it was also filled with good moments, with Southern nights and days sitting at her grandmother’s knee sipping tea.
Every moment counts, Lyric thought. She glanced up at the silent raven, the one who never spoke to her. It was the one part of her life that had always haunted her, the one bird she was as afraid to hear speak as she was eager. Because if she was being honest with herself, she was afraid of the raven’s scorn.
Lyric clutched the book to her chest, her heart somehow lighter. Days of searching, and she had them both, the tea book and the cup. Old Ma’am had left them for her. Lyric was their protector now, despite the fact that her mother had been the true tea girl. It has passed to Lyric when her mother vanished. She hadn’t been ready for it then, but she was now. She had to be.
She glanced up at the ravens, her gaze scanning the house. The home had fallen into disrepair long before Old Ma’am was taken to a nursing home. There’d been no money when Lyric was a child for Old Ma’am to keep it up. There’d only been enough money to make the house payments. It seemed wrong that it was the way it was now, a dying house, a dying property, and a dying history. Lyric had made two mistakes in her life. The first had been killing her mother. The second had been running away. She’d chosen to go live with a distant aunt when she was thirteen, completely distancing herself from the house, her grandmother, and her own guilt.
“Why?” Lyric asked suddenly. “Why me, Ma’am? I deserve it less than anyone else in this family.”
A raven fluttered downward, its soot-colored wings eerie in the lantern light. It’s often the people who deserve it less who come to appreciate it the most.
Lyric’s hand reached for the bird, but the raven shied away. That was the thing about the birds. They were her family, but their spirits were as much ravens as they were the women they’d been before. They were wild.
Protect the cup, Lyric , Old Ma’am said. You’ll know when to pass it down.
Lyric inhaled. She’d found the tea book, and she had the cup. There was no reason to remain in Hiccup.
Somehow, her feet found the room’s window, her gaze flying to the Kramer house. There, opposite her, was his shadow, this hurting man looking for absolution. He’d never find it because life didn’t work that way.
You can’t stay, a raven called.
It was Aunt Violet. She was an obstinate woman who’d died in the Miller fields with Grayson’s Uncle Polie . The gun he’d used to shoot Violet and himself was lying in the trunk tucked within the yellowed wedding dress. Lyric had no doubt both Polie and Violet had been a little deranged. The family’s tie to the tea cup had been too much for both of them. They were a legend in Hiccup now, a Southern Romeo and Juliet. Violet’s love had driven Polie insane, and he’d
It’s been so long, a bird murmured. This raven seemed older somehow than the rest, even though she was the youngest in death. I couldn’t remember …
“Ma’am,” Lyric whispered, “ it’s okay.”
Old Ma’am had passed, as they all had, into the guise of a raven in death. Sometimes in the transition, minor memories were lost. The tea book had been one of those memories.
Lyric lifted it reverently from the trunk, her breath whooshing as she blew at the dust. Like a cloud of ash and death, the dust scattered. There wasn’t anything special about the book, nothing that an ordinary woman would find enthralling, but Lyric wasn’t ordinary.
Pulling open the cover, Lyric let her fingers slide over the tea recipes, the old tea girl story, and the Raven’s Song that lay within. The tea book was their history. It was like a patchwork quilt with tea recipes dating back to the days of the original tea girl. Holding it, Lyric realized something … she wasn’t ashamed of her family’s history. It was a dark history, but it was also filled with good moments, with Southern nights and days sitting at her grandmother’s knee sipping tea.
Every moment counts, Lyric thought. She glanced up at the silent raven, the one who never spoke to her. It was the one part of her life that had always haunted her, the one bird she was as afraid to hear speak as she was eager. Because if she was being honest with herself, she was afraid of the raven’s scorn.
Lyric clutched the book to her chest, her heart somehow lighter. Days of searching, and she had them both, the tea book and the cup. Old Ma’am had left them for her. Lyric was their protector now, despite the fact that her mother had been the true tea girl. It has passed to Lyric when her mother vanished. She hadn’t been ready for it then, but she was now. She had to be.
She glanced up at the ravens, her gaze scanning the house. The home had fallen into disrepair long before Old Ma’am was taken to a nursing home. There’d been no money when Lyric was a child for Old Ma’am to keep it up. There’d only been enough money to make the house payments. It seemed wrong that it was the way it was now, a dying house, a dying property, and a dying history. Lyric had made two mistakes in her life. The first had been killing her mother. The second had been running away. She’d chosen to go live with a distant aunt when she was thirteen, completely distancing herself from the house, her grandmother, and her own guilt.
“Why?” Lyric asked suddenly. “Why me, Ma’am? I deserve it less than anyone else in this family.”
A raven fluttered downward, its soot-colored wings eerie in the lantern light. It’s often the people who deserve it less who come to appreciate it the most.
Lyric’s hand reached for the bird, but the raven shied away. That was the thing about the birds. They were her family, but their spirits were as much ravens as they were the women they’d been before. They were wild.
Protect the cup, Lyric , Old Ma’am said. You’ll know when to pass it down.
Lyric inhaled. She’d found the tea book, and she had the cup. There was no reason to remain in Hiccup.
Somehow, her feet found the room’s window, her gaze flying to the Kramer house. There, opposite her, was his shadow, this hurting man looking for absolution. He’d never find it because life didn’t work that way.
You can’t stay, a raven called.
It was Aunt Violet. She was an obstinate woman who’d died in the Miller fields with Grayson’s Uncle Polie . The gun he’d used to shoot Violet and himself was lying in the trunk tucked within the yellowed wedding dress. Lyric had no doubt both Polie and Violet had been a little deranged. The family’s tie to the tea cup had been too much for both of them. They were a legend in Hiccup now, a Southern Romeo and Juliet. Violet’s love had driven Polie insane, and he’d
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