Chapter 24: Tea, Chosen

The morning after the ceremony, the lodge smelled of toast and burned butter.

I came down the stairs in Dalton's shirt, with my hair in a knot, and stopped on the last step.

Imogen sat at the kitchen table with Polly on a stool in front of her, working a brush through a long tangle of blond hair.

"Ow," Polly said.

"Hold still."

"You're pulling."

"I'm braiding," Imogen said. "It's a skill."

Milo sat on the floor with a pot on his head, explaining to nobody that he was a knight.

The mark on my neck was still tender.

My mother's photograph stood on the windowsill, where I'd set it after Gilbert left it on the stone.

I had not decided yet what I felt about that.

I could feel Dalton out on the porch, a warm, patient presence at the edge of my mind.

I went to the counter and found a mug waiting.

There was a small pot beside it, steaming, and a little plate of dried leaves.

I looked at the leaves.

Then I looked out the window and saw Dalton on the porch with his coffee, watching me through the glass.

I opened the screen door.

"You made tea," I said.

"I made you tea."

"After everything, you made me tea."

"Come and look," he said. "All of it. I'll stand here while you check."

He held the plate out.

On it lay chamomile, a curl of orange peel, and a sprig of mint from the garden.

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