Page 10 of Alien Charming

“Your garden is beautiful,” she said, pausing to admire the lush collection of herbs and flowers.

“It serves its purpose.” Agatha’s eyes twinkled again. “Though I suspect yours might be even more interesting these days.”

Heat immediately rushed to her cheeks. Did Agatha somehow know about her conversations with Seren? She busied herself adjusting the packages in her basket.

“I should get these inside for you.”

“And then you should stay for tea.” It wasn’t a question. “Your aunt’s temper won’t improve whether you’re an hour late or two.”

She hesitated in front of the door, knowing Aunt Margaret would be livid, knowing she should refuse and hurry home.

Instead, she stepped inside.

Sunlight flooded the room from the big south-facing window behind the loom. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling beams, perfuming the air with their scent, and shelves filled with jars of mysterious contents lined one of the walls.

“Bring those packages in here and put them on the table, dear,” Agatha said, preceding her into the small, cozy kitchen. “The kettle’s already hot.”

She obeyed, then perched nervously on the edge of a chair as she watched the old woman prepare tea with the ease of long practice. She’d never been inside Agatha’s home before, but something about the space felt familiar, like a half-remembered dream.

“Drink up,” Agatha urged, placing a steaming mug before her. “It’s chamomile with a touch of something special.”

The tea was delicious, and she sipped it slowly as she gathered her courage. “Mrs. Ashworth?—”

“Agatha, please. You’re an adult now, dear.”

The statement caught her off guard—she was so used to everyone in the village treating her as a not-so-bright child. From the sympathetic look on the old woman’s face as she settled across from her, she suspected Agatha understood the impact as well.

“Agatha,” she repeated shakily, “I was wondering… what do you know about the Vultor?”

The question hung in the air between them, and her heart pounded so loudly she was certain Agatha must have heard it.

“Curious about our neighbors, are we?” Agatha’s expression revealed nothing as she sipped her tea.

“I’ve heard stories,” she said carefully, “but I don’t think they’re true. They can’t be the monsters people say they are.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you say that?”

“You told everyone how pleased you were when your granddaughter mated Finnar.” She stared down into her mug, sure that she was blushing again. “You wouldn’t have done that if you thought he was dangerous. And if they were as vicious as the stories say, why would they want a trade alliance? Why not just attack us?”

“A fair point.” Agatha nodded slowly. “The Vultor are proud, territorial, and fiercely protective of their own. But monsters? No. They’re people with their own customs and history—a history that’s tangled with ours in ways few remember—or perhaps more accurately, choose to remember.”

“What kind of history?”

“The kind your aunt would rather everyone forget,” Agatha said quietly. “The kind that challenges who the real monsters might be.”

Her fingers tightened around her mug as she watched Agatha’s weathered face. The old woman’s eyes seemed to look beyond the cottage walls, into some distant memory.

“Your aunt would have you believe the Vultor are mindless beasts. The truth is far more complicated, but I haven’t forgotten the past.”

“Is that why you didn’t mind when Scarlett and Finnar were mated? Because you remember that past?”

“Remember? Oh yes, I remember.” Agatha gave a soft laugh. “Child, I was in love with one.”

The tea nearly slipped from her grasp as she stared at the old woman, searching for signs of jest but finding none.

“No one in the village would have accepted it, but I didn’t care,” Agatha continued, a wistful smile playing at her lips.

“But how did you?—”

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