Wildflower Coffee

The shop was built at the very edge of the forest, so close that willow branches brushed the thatched roof and wildflowers grew against the stone walls.

The sole coffeemaker of the shop wasn’t quite a child, but she wasn’t quite an adult, either. She was eighteen, that in-between stage where she’d just finished her schooling and was now searching for what everyone called their ‘life’s purpose’.

She still wasn’t sure precisely what that term meant, but the sun-drenched coffee shop and its odd customers always waited for her each morning, so who was she to leave it forgotten?

The door opened with a light creak just as the coffeemaker finished her first brew. A breeze rustled the coffee filters. She tried not to make a meaning out of that.

“A fair morning, I hope?”

An elegantly-dressed man stood on the opposite side of the counter, watching her with sparking eyes. He was dressed in a deep green coat with a brilliant silver cravat. Behind him, customers with floor-length skirts, moss-velvet tail coats, or lace petticoats filled the entrance.

Not odd at all. In fact, the coffeemaker would be concerned if someone came wearing slacks and a turtleneck.

“It always is.” She gave a genuine smile. “Cherry blossom tea with a dab of honey?”

“That’s the one.”

Each customer had their own unique tone when they spoke. Sometimes it was a musical lilt, or maybe a skip in the voice. This man had a watery timbre, light and flowing like a creek.

The coffeemaker rarely remembered names. Not for lack of trying—she was sure she got them— but she could never hold onto them long. It was a mortifying vice. So, she recognized customers by their voice.

She poured the flowery tea into a mug and drizzled honey atop it before handing it over to the man. “It’s still hot, be careful.”

“I’ll be cautious, my dear,” he said with a light laugh, then took a seat at a table.

He didn’t offer coins or bills. None of the customers did. Instead, they made her roof leak-proof or mended her skirts so they would never rip again. They’d make the coffee brew faster or, as one did, make it so the sun never shone directly in her eyes while she worked.

Enchantments. That what the coffeemaker called it. She never said the word in front of the customers, though, lest they charm her hair into flowers or fill the shop with bees.

Thus far, though, no one had tried anything out of place. They may be magical folk, but they were fair. She didn’t pry into their doings, so they kept the flowers out of her hair and the bees out of her shop.

The coffeemaker continued pouring teas and coffees for each customer as they arrived. They never changed their orders. Easy to remember and easier to make.

“A birchwood coffee with dandelion tufts, if you don’t mind.”

The coffeemaker paused. That was new, as was the voice. It was oddly-winding, choking, not unlike a vine coiling around a tree trunk. Unsettling.

She turned to the owner of the voice, careful to keep her breathing calm. He was a bit older than her, if she guessed right. A leaf-patterned cloak fell from his shoulders, and a cuff weighed on his tan wrist, catching light and sending it into the coffeemaker’s eyes. His gaze glinted when she blinked at him.

Tufts of dandelion spilled over the counter as she made the coffee, fingers trembling. What? She never felt this unsettled around customers. Was she losing her touch?

“I suppose payment is due?” The leaf-cloaked customer held out a handful of coins as she slid the cup to him.

Another pause. No one ever asked to pay. They just did, and certainly not with coins. Certainly not these coins, with their rusted edges.

“I don’t accept this sort of payment.” Her voice came out stilted.

“Please, I insist. It’s a gift. A tip, if you will.”

Something about the coins made her take a step back. What in the world? They were just coins, weren’t they?

Still, she didn’t reach for them. “I can’t.”

“You can. You should. I’m—”

“Get out of here with those wretched objects!”

The creek-voiced man stepped between them, his hand going to a scabbard on his waist. Had that been there before?

“These?” The new customer asked, his voice biting. He held up the coins so she could see them. “I’m just offering payment.”

She pulled in a sharp breath, ill-feeling spreading through her veins once more. Ice crackled in her chest.

The creek-voiced man shielded her once more, and the ice melted.

“If you were from here, you’d know that she is a protected one. She is granted hospitality for as long as she resides in our land.” His tone turned floodwater terrible. “You are new, and so do not know our laws. Dark magic is forbidden here. You are to leave and not return until you have rid yourself of the coins.”

The new customer frowned. “She’s a mortal. She’s hardly—”

“That’s enough!” A woman, the one who always ordered an ivy vine brew, plain, stood then. “Leave now, or you will not be allowed any more hospitality.”

More stood, and then every eye in the room was on the leaf-cloaked man with his odd coins.

He took a last look at the cup on the counter, shoved it to the floor with a huff, and left without another word.

Heavy silence filled the room.

The coffeemaker stared at the shards of broken glass and spilled drink at her feet.

“I’ll take care of that, my dear,” the creek-voiced man waved a hand, and the mess vanished from the floor.

“Dark magic…” she murmured, not really paying attention to the customers or the shop any more. She knew they used magic. She knew it was something. It certainly wasn’t normal.

She hadn’t ever thought it could be darker than flowers for hair or bees in the shop.

And the coins…

Were they made of dark magic? Would she have died a horrible death if she’d taken them?

Gooseflesh prickled her arms at the thought.

“Lilliana, a blanket, if you please. And a hot cup of tea!”

The creek-voiced man helped the coffeemaker to a chair and knelt so he was eye-level with her.

His face was kind, she noticed distantly. No, not kind, exactly—soft. Relaxed. Not quite so closed off as she was used to seeing.

He pressed a mug into her clammy fingers. “I suppose we have some discussing to do. First, though, drink some tea. I’ll cover the payment, my dear.”

As warmth spread back through her blood, the coffeemaker took a sip of cherry blossom tea and listened as the creek-voiced man began to tell her everything of the magical folk.

And, as it turned out, flowers in her hair and bees in the shop were the least of her worries.