Ember Heartwick's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Ember Heartwick had three hours before her first guest arrived, and she still did not know how to keep him from getting sick. She stood in her new teahouse, a small building with wooden eaves and paper walls, and read the note again. A demon merchant would come at dusk. A human weaver would come with him. They had agreed to talk about trade, but only over tea, and only at a neutral table. Ember had begged for the chance to host them. This was why she had built the place: humans and demons at one table, no fear between them. The problem was the tea itself. Human throats burned on the spiced brews demons loved. Demon stomachs turned sour on the mild human blends. One wrong pot could sicken a guest and end her dream before it started. Ember spread her herbs across the counter. She had mint, lavender, and bitter root, each fresh from the willow grove behind the house. None of them worked for both. She had tried six blends that morning. Three tasted like ash. Two made her own tongue itch. The last one she had spat into the sink. Her inherited kettle sat on the stove, black and cracked across its whole surface. Her grandmother had brewed in it for forty years. The cracks glimmered when heat rose through them, and the water always tasted of stone and something warmer underneath. Ember filled it now with plain water and no leaves. She only wanted to think. A small cat leaped onto the counter. Its fur was dark, its eyes lit like coals, and small horns curved back from its ears. The demon cat had followed her home the day she signed the lease. It sniffed the herb bundle, then pushed the mint aside with one paw. It sat on the bitter root instead. Ember almost shooed it away. Then she stopped. The cat wanted the root, not the mint. Demons liked bitter. Humans liked bright. She had been trying to blend the two into one flavor. That was the mistake. She should not mix them at all. She poured the kettle's plain hot water into two cups. In one she steeped bitter root. In the other, mint and a thread of lavender. Then she poured a splash from each cup into a third. The kettle water carried both flavors without fighting them. She sipped. It was warm and clean, bitter at the base, bright at the top. Her tongue did not itch. Her stomach stayed calm. One base, two crowns. The kettle was the key, not the leaves. She could serve the same pot to both guests and finish each cup at the table to their taste. Ember set out three cups and wiped the counter clean. Then she heard boots on the wooden steps outside. The demon merchant had come early, and she had one pot to prove her whole idea could work.