Page 12 of Kissing Potions and Elves
Iwake up enveloped in softness, my body sinking into the plush mattress like I’m floating on a cloud. Buttery morning light filters in through the windows, casting a soft orange glow throughout the room.
Sighing, I marvel at the luxurious comfort of the silken sheets. I’ve never slept so soundly in my life.
Pushing the hair from my eyes, I swing my feet to the floor, my toes sinking into a thick, woven rug. I cross the room and open the balcony doors, letting in a refreshing breeze.
My clothes flutter on the makeshift clothesline I stretched out last night, still damp despite hanging for several hours. With a small sigh, I turn back to the chest of drawers to search for more clothing. Inside, neatly folded garments emit that familiar smell of pine and parchment—Lyrion’s scent.
Lyrion said I could ring a bell and a servant would come, but I don’t want to create extra work for someone if I can help it.
Selecting another soft undershirt from the drawer, I pair it with pants clearly meant for someone much taller and leanerthan me. The belt helps, and I roll the pants at the bottom to shorten the length. Shoes are an entirely different problem, and as I contemplate my bare feet, the bedroom door swings open without warning.
“Good morning, my dear,” chirps a cheerful voice. “My name is Hilda.”
Startled, I whirl around. An elderly woman stands in the doorway, her slightly pointed ears the only hint she’s not human. Given her sturdy build and height—shorter than an Elf but definitely taller than a human—I suspect she’s probably a Dwarf. Her silver hair is twisted into a neat bun, with sharp-tipped ears peeking through the loose strands, and bright blue eyes sparkling behind round spectacles.
“Good morning,” I reply a bit awkwardly. “I’m Isobel.”
She scans me from head to toe. “Lord Lyrion said you’d be requiring something to wear this—” Hilda stops abruptly, noticing my clothes hanging on the line on the balcony. She gives me a warm smile. “Well now, we’ve a resourceful one here, haven’t we? No worries, my dear. We’ll find something better suited for you in no time.”
“Thank you, but my clothes should dry soon. I can wait until they’re ready.”
She waves away my embarrassment. “You’re a guest, and guests deserve comfort. First, we’ll get some breakfast in you while I look for some clothes. Dwarves aren’t that much taller than humans,” she says, confirming my earlier guess that she’s not a High Elf. “I’m sure I have something that will fit you. And we’ll need to see about some shoes as well.”
From a closet in the hallway, she retrieves a pair of soft slippers, sliding them onto my feet with motherly care. They fit perfectly, plush and warm. “Thank you. But you really don’t need to wait on me, Hilda. I don’t want to impose.”
“‘Tis no trouble, my dear.” She grins. “It’s been so long since we’ve had guests in this house. It’s lovely to have you here.” Her gaze shifts to the balcony. “Would you like to take your breakfast in the garden?”
“I—” I hesitate, shifting awkwardly. “I can help make breakfast, or at least set things up.”
“Nonsense,” Hilda insists. “You’re a guest of his Lordship, and I’ll have no guest lifting a finger in this house. Now, come along.”
Following her down the stairs, she leads me out of the back of the manor and into a quaint paradise. The garden is beautiful, filled with flowers of every imaginable color, their petals sparkling with dew. Butterflies dance lazily on the breeze, while a stone pathway leads to a delicate wrought-iron table beneath a blossoming cherry tree.
I feel as if I’m in a dream as Hilda sets out breakfast. She brings a stack of fluffy blueberry pancakes, a bowl of fresh cream, golden honey, and a fragrant pot of tea. The first bite is heavenly, sweet, and rich, making me close my eyes in sheer delight.
I’ve just taken another bite when footsteps sound on the path. I glance up to see Lyrion stopping abruptly, his elegant features frozen in momentary surprise.
“Good morning.” I wave my fork cheerfully.
Lyrion recovers quickly, hesitating just slightly before taking the seat opposite me. Hilda places a meticulously prepared plate of dry toast, a perfectly boiled egg, and steaming tea before him.
“Thank you, Hilda,” he murmurs.
He glances over at me, and I offer him a bright smile.
He arches a brow. “You seem… cheerful.”
“Is your headache gone?”
“Yes.” He clears his throat. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I practically beam at him. “My mother would use a warm towel for us when we had headaches, and it worked every time.”
“Wise woman, your mother,” he says. “You can send along my thanks.”
My expression falls. “She um… She passed a few years ago.” I swallow against the familiar lump that always seems to lodge in my throat when I think of her being gone. “But you’re right. She was very smart.”
“My heart grieves with thee,” he says, offering the traditional Elvish condolence.
