Two for Tea: Welcome to Azathé (Cambric Creek #4)

by C.M. Nascosta

“Crazy doesn’t mean anything, okay? That word doesn’t have any meaning. We all need help sometimes. A few days of inpatient might do you some good. And all that means is you need a bit of help right now, got it? Is there someone you can call?”

But more than anything else, the most significant difference between good grief and bad was that bad grief was as endless as the ocean, with no respite or relief in sight. She was bobbing on the waves with no hope of rescue and nothing but the voice in her head and the gaping hole in her chest for company, and Harper was beginning to wonder if she ought to simply succumb to the undertow.

Maybe everyone is miserable all the time, and you’re just the only one who’s shit at hiding it.

Calling her a good girl was the fastest way to drench her panties, and doing so in combination with freeing her from the arduous task of thinking was her personal catnip.

elixir of health, and it reminds us to make time for simple joys. Nothing can rush a steeping leaf, and there is no problem that cannot be paused to enjoy a hot cup. Tea forces us to slow down and exist uninterrupted in a small moment. That’s what’s left at the bottom of your cup — the dregs of your problems. Reading the leaves will help you realize what you need to do to banish them from your life.”

Quieting our minds is one thing; better still to fill them with knowledge and compassion. Less room for despair. In any case, there’s no vexation on either side of the veil that cannot be eased with a hot cup of tea and a good book. I’ll let you get back to your studies.”

The true mark of a coven does rest in the junior ranks, but in its leadership.”

“But not a day passes when I do not think of her. She was an exceptional, singular witch, and more than that, she was the most giving person I’ve ever known. She overflowed with kindness, kindness and sacrifice. I will mourn her loss long after there is anyone else left alive who will remember her name. There are some things that transcend what we are, child. We all walk beneath the same moon, and grief is eternal. So yes, I miss her a great deal.”

“Grief is the wound love leaves on our heart,” he continued, again as if he could audibly hear her thoughts, and at that, she could not hold in the tears for another second.

“The strength of that ache is the tenacity of love, and it never fades.” His voice, so full of vehemence just a short while ago, was now somber, gentled, but no less full of conviction. “What does happen, is that your heart will heal around it. Yes? It’s not something that ever goes away, and like any bruise, to poke it will ache. But your heart will grow around it, protecting it, and it simply becomes a part of you. Don’t ever expect that ache to go away, little one. But stop considering it a negative thing. Grief is a gift. Do you understand?”

The truth of unknowable things is that they are forever unknowable. All we can do is study and take our strength where we can. That is the power of a witch.”

“It may well be. But I think it’s useful to be aware of each. You will always have your happy memories, my sweet one, but you cannot live in the past. Others may be disappointed in the path you forge for yourself, but you must remember that their disappointment belongs to them and them alone. It is not yours to manage. And perhaps you may even find a way to incorporate those passed-on traditions into your future, but it cannot be someone else who dictates it.”

you. It is good to be a dreamer, but one must remember that action is required to achieve those dreams.

Fuck me and call me a good girl. I’m a simple girl with simple needs.

Harper had never understood how anyone could be attracted to a collection of parts first and the person operating them second. It didn’t matter how attractive society told her someone was — until she got to know them, a tumbleweed had a better chance of falling out of her dress than her libido kicking into overdrive because of someone’s abs.

“I think,” they hummed after a moment, the mellifluous glide of it seeming to creep over her skin, “that most emotional responses are rooted in universal experience for most.”

“This is why I like tea. There is no other beverage in the world that can so thoroughly conjure emotion. Today we brewed a pot of nostalgia, but tomorrow perhaps something to energize, to ignite the senses and provide creative inspiration. The day after that, it might be the same brew you were served as a sick child, reminding you of maternal care. Again, you are too hard on yourself. I’ve scarcely known another human with your aptitude and love for learning.”

There was nothing quite as powerful as a name. As a lover of books and of languages, she especially knew that to be true — all words had meaning and importance, but names held a particular importance. A name gave the impermanent permanence, the overlooked some sense of remembrance. To have a name was to be seen, even for the briefest of moments, is proof of one’s incontestable existence. Knowing the name of another was a gift, a way to acknowledge them, to call them into account, regardless of how casually people treated introductions. She had read enough stories over the years, after all, of faeries and goblins and demons alike — they jealously guarded their names, for names held power.

“You are always enough.”

The courage of one’s convictions is more important than their ability to engage in pointless small talk.”

“Good books. Hot tea. Someone to call me a good girl as they hold me down and fuck me into next month. Maybe one of those little fruit tarts. Hot soup. A pumpkin on my doorstep. Very simple needs.”

Some people needed pets. She needed patent leather pumps and delicate lace dusters.

Grief is a gift.