Tea Leaves & Thunderstorms

Charlotte had vowed—very dramatically, and with a spoon still in her mouth—that if the storm didn't subside by sundown, she would duel the weather herself.

"Picture it, Elias," she said, sitting on top of the worn armchair, her braid streaming down like a droopy vine. "Me. In a nightgown. Armed with a broken broom handle. Yelling at the clouds like some bereaved heroine with an axe to grind."

Elias, sitting cross-legged near the hearth, didn't look up from mending the hem of her cloak. "Will it be raining during the duel?"

"Obviously. It adds ambiance."

"Then your broom will be waterlogged. You'll lose."

Charlotte threw a pillow at him. It hit a dusty bookshelf instead and knocked over a ceramic frog. The frog's painted eyes stared at her accusingly.

"This is domestic tyranny," she muttered.

Elias smiled into the folds of the cloak. "This is peace."

She hesitated.

Was it?

The fire popped like an old man's laughter. Rain pounded the windows like a nagging cat. Everything had the scent of cinnamon and soap and something rich she couldn't identify.

Peace had always seemed a trick before. Something to tease her then snatched away just as her fingers were about to close. But here—in this wonky little house set amongst half a forest and a very strong-willed goose—peace tasted like something real.

Honeyed tea. Elias's soft voice. The inane frog figurine.

She drifted over and slumped beside him, dropping her head onto his lap without so much as a by-your-leave. He didn't jump. Just continued sewing.

"You're too quiet anymore," she said. "It's suspicious."

"Perhaps I'm conspiring."

"Oh? What evil schemes are those?"

"To make you believe you're happy."

Charlotte blinked upward at the ceiling, which bore a cryptic stain in the shape of a dancing ferret.

"Bold of you," she said. "I'm notoriously hard to please."

"Infamously."

She laughed.

Then—

"Do you really think I'm happy?"

He did not respond immediately.

Instead, he reached down and touched her nose.

"I think," Elias said gently, "you're remembering how to be."

The words struck her like thunder in reverse.

She shut her eyes.

"I have fantasies every now and then," she confessed. "About palaces. About people calling me cruel and clever. About wars and ballrooms. And about you. Standing by my side, always seeming to want to say something to me and never quite getting around to it."

Elias froze.

"And now?" he asked.

Charlotte ran a hand up his chest and pulled gently on the string at his throat—the one supporting a silver charm in the shape of a crescent moon.

Now you're here. With tea. And sewing kits. And ridiculous patience."

"It's not ridiculous."

"It's scandalously ridiculous."

Elias leaned forward, his forehead touching hers.

"In another world, I watched over your crown," he whispered. "In this one, I watch over your smiles."

She kissed him then, laughing in mid-kiss because the goose outside let out a honk of disapproval.

And as their laughter mingled with the rhythm of the thunderstorm, Charlotte thought—yes.

This was not the tale she was born to. Not the one she was pulled into. Not the one fate had penned with bloody hands and shattered ink.

This was the one she was choosing.

One kiss. One spoon battle. One rainstorm at a time.