Chapter 1

One

"To taste lightning in the air means to expect danger, change, and sorcerers." — Sayings of the Blessed Crow.

Mara Corvo’s teashop was one such anomaly that found itself in Melbourne. It didn’t resemble regular teashops with pretty pastel walls, cakes like jewels, and other feminine charms.

This teashop was more like an apothecary or alchemist lab. The shop walls were crammed with books and tiny jars of tea leaves. A wooden counter and bar stretched in a square U in front of the shelves, so wherever a customer sat, Mara could reach them and her carefully labeled supplies.

A large bay of windows at the front of the store let light in. A few armchairs with carved arms sat in front of them for those needing comfort and were partially hidden by the small succulents and plants on the windowsill.

The rest of the store was lit by mismatched lamps and candles and was perpetually filled with warm light. One door led to the back of the store and the apartment upstairs, but no one outside the Corvo family could have told you what they looked like.

The teashop was never in the same place twice, but it was always there when you needed it. Only the brokenhearted could find it because while generations of Corvo women had dealt in desires of all kinds, Mara dealt in grief.

The removal of heartache was a painful and delicate process, but it was the only miracle Mara could perform. She was so good at it that she had never served the same customer twice.

Her red and gold painted door would appear in an alleyway or graffitied side street, and she would send out a message to the universe, inviting anyone requiring help to come in.

The teashop would appear aesthetically different to everyone, much like Mara did herself.

The brokenhearted would arrive like wasps, sharp-edged and ready to attack, or like rain-soaked moths, gray and forlorn.

All were confused in the beginning, wondering why they suddenly found themselves in the strange teashop.

Mara would always greet them warmly, her hands selecting the perfect cup and saucer as she would ask, "Do you want to talk about it?"

They always did.

As their confessions poured out of them, Mara would move about the shelves, taking down ingredients to pinch, drip, or stir into her teapot. Each infusion was unique, even if the griefs were similar.

Mara knew every flavor of grief there was, and she had cataloged them in her mind like a fine collector.

As the tea brewed, the customer’s pain was lanced like an abscess in their soul. Mara would pour the tea, and they would drink, sometimes a cup, sometimes the whole pot, depending on the depth and age of their pain. By the time they finished, their grief would be gone.

They’d leave what they had on the bar—coins, letters, wedding rings, or a photo of their dead child—and would step out of the red door and onto the street.

Mara always watched the moment they had taken three steps, and then the memory of the store and the mysterious tea maker would disappear, leaving only the sensation that they could feel themselves finally healing and holding a tentative hope for the future.

In Mara’s opinion, the loss of the memory of her was a blessing because, like all the saints in the Corvo bloodline, Mara was cursed.

* * *

The day began, as it often did, with nightmares. Mara’s head was pounding, and smoky dread curled and twisted around the base of her spine, warning her that danger was coming.

"I’m bored," Athanasius declared with a long stretch of his back.

"Maybe you can make yourself useful and catch some bugs," Mara suggested without looking up from her book. As a response, he moved the angle of his stretch to point his cat butt at her. "Is that really necessary? Don’t you have better things to do like go and lick yourself?"

"Your wit is acerbic this morning. What’s the matter? Have a sex dream that left you unfulfilled?"

"Beast," she hissed.

Mara had dreams all right, but they weren’t of the sexy variety. They were of the last time she saw her mother, Sophia, alive, spitting out rules and prejudices like venom right up until she died from the curse eating through her.

Mara hadn’t dreamed of that night for seven years; it felt like an omen. She hated an omen before breakfast. She drained her Earl Grey and flipped her cup, letting Fate move the pulpy mass of her remaining tea leaves.

With a deep sigh, she flipped the cup back over. Before she could look, a black and gray cat stuck its head in the way.

"That can’t be right?" he said. Mara pushed him out of the way with her free hand, shoving him along the smooth polish of the bar. Her body stilled as she took in the contents of the cup.

"That’s not possible."

Athanasius slinked back over, tail straight and alert. "My leaf scrying was never that great, and even I can see the shit storm brewing in that cup."

"It’s probably a customer that’s involved, not me," Mara said weakly.

"Uh-huh, and you call me a liar."

"You are a liar." Mara rubbed her temples against the migraine that was already threatening her.

"Perhaps, but I can taste the lightning in the air." Athanasius licked his paw nonchalantly. "Close the shop for the day."

Mara scowled at him. "You know I can’t, not if someone is in this much pain."

"And you’re going to borrow it? You come in after everything goes to shit, not before. You can’t do anything."

Athanasius jumped off the bar, sauntered over to the plush antique velvet armchair next to the windows, and curled into a ball.

"Trust me, cioară, there are only two reasons why anyone would tip that lump of leaves or taste lightning in the air, and you don’t want to be caught up with either of them."

Mara ignored him as she often did and went to flip over the open sign on the shop door. The shelves rattled as the call went out across the city, whispering to the ones that couldn’t handle the pain any longer.

"You’re a good girl, Mara, but time will tell if that was either very brave or very stupid. Pray to Saint Anea that your good intentions don’t backfire," Athanasius yawned.

Mara wanted to tell him to shut up again. Instead, she went behind the bar, through a small wooden door, and into the shrine to light a candle at the saint’s bare feet.

"If I can help, I will. That’s what we are meant to do, right?" Mara demanded. The saint didn’t reply. Mara didn’t expect her to. If it wasn’t for the danger sitting on her spine, she wouldn’t have prayed to Saint Anea at all.

Despite the lack of prayers, Mara’s life had always been plagued with miracles, like all the women in her family. They were the descendants of Saint Anea, the Crow Saint, and the miracles seemed to want to stick around long after the Romans had killed her. That was one story anyway.

When Mara was a child, and she’d ask about the saint, her mother, Sophia, grandmother, and two aunts, all told her something different. Anea was from Egypt before the Hebrew slaves had been set free; no, she was Greek and foretold the fall of Athens; no, she was Eastern European and had made the God of winter fall in love with her.

Mara had boiled all the stories down to this: the saint was her ancestor of unknown origin and religion, who performed miracles and passed her gifts down to the daughters she birthed. Powerful men grew afraid of Anea’s influence and hunted her family, so now the Corvo family was forced to wander, performing miracles and getting out of town before anyone could reach for their torches or pitchforks.

Mara’s progenitors had gotten more creative over the years when it came to altering the memories of the people they encountered until one took it too far, and now no one could remember them at all.

The women had carried the statue of Saint Anea with them wherever they traveled. They didn’t know the type of wood that had been used to render her likeness because it had turned black from the grease of hundreds of hands touching it and the constant smoke of candles and incense.

The statue had been the only constant in Mara’s long life. Clothes, houses, books, horses, possessions, cousins, and names changed, but wherever she went, Saint Anea followed.

Mara knew the carved eyes had watched her ancestors and their lives, but that didn’t mean Anea had watched over them. The carved crows that sat on her shoulders were equally attentive as they observed the Corvos collecting curses as quickly as they dispensed miracles.

Mara felt like it was a bad idea, but she still lit a stick of incense and stepped back into the shop.

The morning passed uneventfully with a grieving widow and a man with a foot complex. Mara was beginning to think the lack of sleep had made her worry over the tea leaves unnecessarily.

She had put on another pot of water on the small gas cooker behind the bar when the door rattled, and a drunk man stumbled through, bringing the taste of lightning in with the wind.

Not a man…a sorcerer.

And the nightmare about her mother shouting rules as she died suddenly made sense.

Sophia Melina Corvo had many, many rules, but only two really mattered—never fall in love and stay the fuck away from sorcerers.

The sorcerer didn’t seem to notice her at first as he stood in the doorway, long overcoat and scarf tangled by the weather. He ran a hand through his dark, dripping hair, shaking water drops onto her wooden floors.

"Glass of scotch, darling," he said with a slurred British accent. He sat unsteadily on a tall stool and rested his elbows on the polished counter.

"We are a teashop, not a bar," Mara replied, too shocked by his presence to respond politely.

The sorcerer looked around, squinting at the shelves, his hands reaching for a teaspoon that he flicked between his fingers.

Mara looked at Athanasius, whose back was arching and fur spiking as he studied the newcomer. The sorcerer didn’t notice, just waited patiently.

Mara had made a vow to help those grieving, even if that person was a good-for-nothing sorcerer. With some reluctance, she opened a cupboard, pulled out a bottle of scotch, and filled a teacup with it before setting it down in front of him. He studied the tiny handle before wrapping his long fingers around the rim.

"Scotch in a teacup? So Melbourne." He shook his head and drained the cup.

"As I said, this is a teashop, sir," Mara said firmly.

"Then why are you serving scotch?"

"Because you asked me for a cup."

"I did?" His gray-green eyes focused on her and widened slightly. "I think I’m in the wrong place."

"On that, we can agree." Mara folded her arms, wondering how she could get him to leave with minimal fuss.

"Maybe you’re right, and I should have a cup of tea instead." The sorcerer passed her back the empty cup. "Something that will help a hangover. It’s going to be a beauty. Is…is your hair naturally that color?"

Mara almost dropped the cup. "I beg your pardon?"

"You got Nordic blood or something? I’ve never seen hair so fair on someone with such black eyes." He gave her a friendly smile, and she turned away, quickly picking up an empty pot.

Everyone who came into the store saw Mara differently. Some wanted to talk to a grandmother figure, so that was what they saw; others wanted their dead wife, and that was the form she took. No one outside the Corvo family had even seen Mara’s true face.

No one, except for a drunk sorcerer.

"According to my mother, my father was a shaman living with the Sami, but I can’t confirm that. She moved around a lot," Mara said and then wondered why she had answered him at all. She didn’t look at what she was putting into the pot, hoping that after a cup, he’d leave of his own accord, and she would never see him again.

"Hey, kitty." The sorcerer coaxed Athanasius, who now sat at the end of the bar, watching him with cold yellow eyes. "Want a pat?"

"Want me to bite your fingers off?" Athanasius replied.

"Oh, come now, there’s no need for hostility. Every kitty likes a pat," the sorcerer said, unperturbed that the cat had just spoken to him in a thick Romanian accent.

Mara poured water over the leaves in the pot and stilled at the aroma that rose up to meet her. It smelled of cedar smoke, bergamot, darkness, and forbidden things. She poured it into his scotch-tainted teacup and set it in front of him.

"What’s in it?" he asked.

"Does it matter?"

The sorcerer scratched at his stubbled jawline. "Suppose not. I’d drink anything to stop a hangover." He took a sip, and the smile on his face slipped.

Mara had never made tea for a customer who hadn’t first told her their grief. She’d never made tea for a sorcerer. Both felt like she was breaking a terrible taboo.

The sorcerer was watching her carefully, clarity coming back into his eyes. Whatever she’d put in the tea seemed to be sobering him up in a hurry.

"Jesus Christ, you’re her, aren’t you?" He surveyed his surroundings again, then the cat and the woman. "I mean, I heard whispers of you, but I thought it was a rumor because I haven’t met you once in the last eighty years."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Mara said coldly.

The sorcerer snapped his fingers, trying to find the words. "Crows. No. Wrong. Corvo. You’re saints or some such."

Mara was saved from replying as the sorcerer looked into his empty cup. He swore softly as his eyes rolled backward, and he passed out over the counter.

"Did you kill him?" Athanasius padded over to the sorcerer and poked him experimentally with a paw. "No, still breathing. Pity. What are we going to do with him?"

Mara’s common sense was finally catching up with her racing heart.

"We send him home and take comfort in the fact he won’t remember a thing."

The taxi driver didn’t comment as he helped Mara carry the unconscious sorcerer out of the shop and place him in the car’s back seat.

"Where am I taking him?" the driver asked. She pressed a hundred dollars into his hand.

"Albert Street, across from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. He should be awake by then," Mara replied and shut the door.

There was only one sorcerer she knew of in Melbourne who crackled with that much magic, and she had been warned to stay away from his neighborhood since she arrived in Australia in 1933.

Mara watched the taxi until it disappeared out of the lane, then she locked the shop door, and for the first time in her life, she thanked the saint for her curse that meant he wouldn’t remember her at all.