Page 29 of Healed By the Grumpy Elf

She places the vase on her kitchen counter, steps back to admire the arrangement, then turns to me with bright eyes. "Ready to brew some magic?"

"Medicine," I correct automatically. "Not magic."

"A bit of both, I think," she says with a wink that does strange things to my interior organs. "Come on, I've got everything laid out."

I follow her to the kitchen counter, where various ingredients are arranged in neat rows. I recognize elderberry, thyme, and several other herbs mentioned in the ancient text, along with a few I can't immediately identify. The book is there, open at the page where the tonic recipe is laid out, held up on a simple stand.

We get to work side by side, Maeve and I. It's strange, working alongside someone in such a domestic setting. In the High Court, I'm accustomed to a team following my lead, responding to my commands. Here, we move around each other, finding a natural rhythm that soothes my soul.

The recipe is surprisingly simple, and it doesn’t take long for the dark-purple brew to be assembled.

"Now we let it simmer for twenty minutes," she says, setting a timer. "Want some tea while we wait?"

I nod, watching as she moves around her kitchen, prepares two cups of sweet-smelling herbal tea, then hands one to me. This feels oddly intimate, standing in her space, preparing a meal of sorts together. I've never shared a kitchen with anyone before, not like this.

We fill the silence with idle chat. I point to one of the many pictures of happy, smiling people that line her walls. She tells me about her family, her mother and father, her dream of becoming a nurse. Her desire to help people, to make a difference in their lives.

I drink in her words, basking in the sound of her voice, savoring this moment where she opens up and tells me about herself and her life.

When the timer dings, Maeve returns to the stove and gives the mixture a final stir. She lifts the spoon, gently blows on the liquid, then takes a small sip. Immediately, her face contorts in disgust, and she gags dramatically.

"Sweet heaven, that's revolting," she sputters, reaching for her tea to wash away the taste. "No child is going to drink that willingly."

I frown. "The medicinal efficacy is what matters, not the taste."

"Try it," she challenges, holding out the spoon.

Against my better judgment, I take it from her and taste a small amount. The bitterness is indeed profound, followed by an aftertaste that can only be described as fishy and moldy.

"It's potent," I admit.

"It's vile," she corrects. "We need to figure out how to make this palatable, or those children won't take it, no matter how much we tell them it's good for them."

"They don't need to enjoy it. They simply need to comply."

“Comply?” Maeve's eyebrows shoot up. “These are elementary school children we're talking about, not soldiers.”

"Children need to obey their parents. If their parents tell them to take the tonic, they'll have no other choice."

She laughs, but it's not the warm sound I've come to anticipate.

"I’d love to see you try to force a five-year-old to swallow that repulsive goop."

"My patients follow my instructions," I counter, feeling my own irritation rising.

"Your adult patients, maybe. Kids are different. They need to be coaxed, persuaded. We could try adding honey or maybe some fruit juice to mask the flavor."

"We can’t add anything if we don’t know how it will affect the potency," I argue. "The formula is precise for a reason."

"And what good is a precise formula if no child will drink it?" Her voice rises slightly. "Prevention only works if they actually take the medicine."

"A moment of discomfort is worth preventing weeks of illness."

She scoffs, turning to face me, her eyes blazing, her red hair wild around her beautiful, round face. Her cheeks are slightly flushed by emotions and her full lips mesmerize me.

“Easy for you to say,” she counters with a chuckle. “You're not the one who'll have to wrestle twenty screaming kindergarteners into taking something that tastes like a troll's armpit.”

"That's a ridiculous comparison. Troll secretions are primarily composed of—"