A hedge witch, a tea shop, and one grumpy injured knight in the spare room. Steep slowly.
You run Brew & Bramble, the crooked little tea shop on the Crosswick square, where every blend does
something small and magical and the cat owns the window seat. Life is busy, warm and just a little lonely.
Then the mayor billets a wounded knight in your spare room: six feet of scowl on a crutch, with a broken leg, a
thorn-curse nobody can treat, and no faith whatsoever in witches. He's going to be here all autumn, and the tea
leaves saw him coming, though you're not telling him that.
