Page 21 of Will It Hurt?

For the past ten years, ever since my mother’s death and Elder Mariana’s assignment to the High Coven’s council, it had only been us three holding down the covenstead.

I stepped into the pantry, pushing aside the overgrown money plants that hung from the ceiling and brushed against my curls.

More than once, the pesky plants had tangled themselves into my hair.

Trying to wrangle myself free of them was a pain in the arse, but despite the inconvenience, none of us ever really thought about pruning them.

We loved the little touch of green they brought to the small, cramped space with only a single window.

On the other side, snow fell in lazy little wisps.

Typical, I thought. The weather would certainly ease up after I got home.

I took a deep breath, letting the smell of the pantry settle over me.

Bundles of herbs hung from the rafters, tied with twine, their fragrant leaves drying in the dim light—rosemary, sage, thyme, and sprigs of wild chamomile.

Those were Maia’s, placed there so she could dry them out for her potions.

Turning a corner, I studied the shelf that had been built into a narrow gap, standing sideways as though it was waiting for someone to pass it in a doorway.

The covenstead had strange and odd angles that no one could explain, and it seemed as though our elders had simply decided to build furniture to fit the house.

But this little corner of the pantry was solely my own.

Some people collected Pokémon cards, others had a nasty drawerful of stolen thongs from one night stands… I hoarded tea.

It was a rather tame hobby, in the grand scheme of things, but one that brought me immense joy. Maybe it was the wytch in me that adored throwing things into a pot and stirring with infinite patience.

Rows of mismatched tins and jars stared back at me, foraged from charity shops or acquired through hand-me-downs from elders who had once lived in the house. Loose leaves, dried petals, curled roots, and fragrant spices… All waiting to be steeped into something that soothed my soul.

I’d spent countless hours arranging the teas into an order that made sense to me. Each shelf was divvied into the strength of the teas as my tongue registered it.

The top shelf held the softest, most delicate flavors—wispy leaves in shades of green twisted into tight spirals. Or white tea buds still covered in their silvery down with crisp flowery blossoms that would unfurl like little faeries in hot water.

There was a bag of hand-sifted pu erh that one of the elders had brought back from a trip to China. Its scent was a perfect mix of light roasted warmth and honeyed fruit, and I’d rationed the leaves out so that it would last the longest.

The middle shelf was for everyday teas—easy to drink herbal concoctions. Several personal blends filled squat jars in shades of incongruous colors—deep red berries, golden calendula petals, sharp green peppermint leaves, and the comforting earthiness of dried nettle.

Tiny tea bags made of muslin hung from hooks above, washed and dried, ready to be filled with a custom mix, tied with twine, and dropped into a waiting teapot.

Cinnamon sticks, cracked into little shards, sat haphazardly in a small wooden bowl beside curls of orange peel and star anise. I’d been reaching for this concoction more and more lately—the flavors were perfect for winter.

The lowest shelf was filled with darker, richer teas.

And if I were honest with myself, these were the least used in my collection.

Black tea leaves, bold and smoky, lay next to blends infused with vanilla, clove, and bergamot.

A small wooden chest held pressed tea cakes I’d purchased from a dodgy Instagram advert, waiting to be chipped and steeped in clay pots.

At the very edge of the shelf sat a dark honey jar with its dipper, the surface crystallized just slightly at the edges.

I pulled a muslin bag from its hook and popped open the earl grey tin. Just a smidge went into the bag, along with bergamot, a cracked cinnamon stick and just a dash of peppermint.

The kettle whistled softly from the hearth, and I tied the little bag together with a string, just tightly enough that the bag wouldn’t unravel, but not too tightly that the string would snap beneath my fingers.

Anaia remained curled in a croissant shape on the windowsill, undisturbed by the shrill noise of the kettle.

I slid my fingers into an oven mitt and retrieved the heavy iron contraption from the hearth, pouring boiling water into two waiting mugs and dropping the tea bags into them.

Wispy brown tendrils dispersed into the water, infusing it with one of the oldest remedies known to man.

The winding stairs to the loft was a tricky contraption. The person who created this wrought iron deathtrap probably didn’t have feet bigger than a size five. Only the tips of my toes fit on each step, and I balanced precariously as I carried the steaming teas in my hands.

Maia met me on the top step and relieved me of a mug.

She was dressed curiously today in a pair of flared jeans that were several sizes too big.

The only reason they stayed up was because of a thick belt around her waist. She looked like a child playing dress up in her mother’s clothes, and not a twenty-eight year old Elemental Wytch and potioneer.

“You’re sad.”

My fingers tightened on the mug as I folded myself onto the sofa in the corner of Maia’s lab.

“I told you to stay out of my head.”

She curled up on the empty space next to me, looking like a contented cat in a warm blanket.

“I don’t need to read your mind to know that, Aisla.” Her knee pressed against my thigh. “What happened? Did they run? Did they give you any trouble?”

I shook my head, staring into the darkly fragrant tea. My quivering reflection on the surface was an accurate depiction of how I felt inside.

Murky.

Off center.

“Then what’s the problem?” Maia asked, curiosity furrowing her brows.

I shrugged “Maybe it would’ve been better if she had run.”

“I don’t get it.”

The tea scalded my tongue as I took a sip, but I welcomed the searing pain.

“Neither do I.”

Maia’s fingers combed through the curls at my forehead, her nails gently scraping my scalp.

“The job’s taking a toll on you. I knew it would.”

I pushed her fingers away.

“It’s not.”

Maia sat back against the overstuffed armrest. “Aisla… It’s okay to say you need a break. We can speak to the High Coven and tell them—”

“Tell them what?” I demanded, not event trying to fight the irrational burst of irritation. “That I can’t do a simple job I was born to do? Something my mother did, and her mother before, and endless generations of women before us?”

That I’m a fucking failure at the job I was destined for?

Maia’s lips flattened into a thin line.

“You know the predicament that we’re in,” I said, tapping my foot on the carpet in a quick, nervy rhythm. “Our numbers have dwindled across the continent, and Layng is the smallest of all covens. There’s only three of us here, for fuck’s sake.”

“And?” Maia prodded. “That doesn’t mean we’re not entitled to a break. The High Coven can send a replacement—someone from down south, maybe.”

I bit out between clenched teeth: “I don’t want anyone else doing my job. And besides, there’s enough unrest down there to keep them occupied without us adding to the stress.”

Maia opened her mouth to start her lecture, but I beat her to it .

“You don’t see me walking into your lab and telling you how to do your job,” I reminded her.

“Well.” She leaned against the back of the sofa. “My job doesn’t involve killing people.”

“They’re not people. They’re undead.”

Her dark eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “You know what I mean. Ending someone’s existence is a burden not many of us can bear without breaking, ancestral calling or not.”

Calling was a bit of a stretch. It was a job I tolerated, but also something that had become intertwined my identity.

A funny little smile twisted Maia’s lips.

“You’re like that dog, you know,” she said, shaking her head. “The one that stands in the doorway desperate to inspect what’s going on outside but also refusing to leave the comfort of a warm home. In the meantime, you’re letting all the heat out and inconveniencing people in the house.”

“How am I a dog in this scenario?”

“Because you’re stubborn !” She shook her head, placing a hand on my thigh so I would stop tapping the floor with my foot. “You’re too pig-headed to see just how much you need a break.”

I glanced at the tea again, taking in the way my fingers curled around the rim a little too tightly.

Maia’s voice faded, so did the crackle of the hearth. And all too quickly, I felt the weight of the canister in my hands, the scrape of the nozzle against the pad of my thumb.

I heard Annabel’s last unnecessary breath, saw the crimson tracks of her tears, the bright blue eyes that brimmed with so much grief and pain and fucking misery…

Maia waved a hand in front of my face and I jerked away, sloshing tea over the crotch of my trousers.

“ Shit! ”

Streamers of hot tea burned down my arm and dripped off my elbow as I hurried to put the mug on the floor.

“Wait, stop!”

All at once, waves of heat rose from Maia’s fingers, flowing over the patch of scalding water that soaked my jeans. Her magick swept across my skin, leaving a tangible tingle in its wake.

The too-hot water turned cold instantly.

I looked down at myself in dismay.

“Great, now I’m just sitting here in a pair of cold, wet jeans. It’s fifty years too soon to be okay with wetting my trousers.”

“Um, excuse me? Have you heard of gratitude, Aisla?”

“I have,” I retorted. “And I’m grateful when it suits me.”

“You do realize I have the power to scald you again?”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Thank you for your service.”

“Here,” she said, handing me a thick multi-colored throw. “Wrap this around you.”