As the evening rain settles in,
Inside the Nocturna Club,
It was warm and dry.
Open fires roar,
And lamps illuminate both
Members and ornaments alike,
With a golden glow.
Marcel Carreau loves such evenings,
When he can look out
Across the club knowing,
That everything as it should,
And all are content.
It was at this moment
That his meditation
was interrupted,
By the soft voice
of the Still-Room Attendant,
Mabel Cobble.
“Excuse me Mr Carreau”
“Ah Mademoiselle Cobble
how may I be of help?”
“It’s the tea Mr Carreau,
We’re almost out of tea.”
“Oh dear, quite an oversight,
I shall send for
Monsieur Grey at once”
Within 20 minutes,
Mr Hargraves opened
The club door
To an elegant
Middle aged gentleman.
He whispered to Hargraves,
Before making his way to Carreau.
Daniel Hargraves passed on the whisper
Requesting the driver
of the glossy black carriage
Was relocate to the delivery entrance.
As the carriage rolled away
to the sound of clopping hooves,
An ornate silver sign upon its side read,
Mason Grey
Tea Sommelier and Merchant.
“Ah Monsieur Grey
Always a pleasure”
“Likewise, Mr Carreau”
The well-spoken gentleman replied.
“I believe you are
In a predicament”
“Oui, this is true, our stores are
in need of your expertise.
Monsieur Rook has
laid out a table for you,
this way.”
They made their way to a room,
Located behind the bar.
“Ah Mr Rook,
Exemplary work,
As always.”
Gideon inclined his head.
“You are most kind,
Mr Grey.”
Before them,
The great oak table
Had been transformed
Into a tea merchant’s dream.
Polished mahogany chests,
Porcelain canisters,
Small crystal jars,
Silver scoops,
Brass weighing scales,
And neat handwritten labels,
Each awaiting
The experienced hand
Of Mason Grey.
The tea merchant
Removed his tailored overcoat,
Revealing a turquoise waistcoat
Embroidered With an ornate
tea leaf pattern in silver thread.
He rolled back his cuffs,
And smiled.
“Now then,
Mr Carreau,
Let us discover
What Nocturna
Requires this month.”
Marcel folded
His hands behind his back.
“Our members have become
Wonderfully demanding.”
“As they should.”
Grey replied.
“A life without
Excellent tea
Is merely surviving.”
He lifted the lid
From the first chest.
Within,
Rested
Delicate silver leaves,
Almost white in appearance.
“The Moonlit Orchid.”
Marcel inhaled gently.
“It is extraordinary.”
“Harvested,”
Grey explained,
“Only during the final hour
Of moonlight,
Upon terraces hidden amongst
The Mountains of Sleep.
The flowers never bloom
In daylight,
And neither do the pickers.”
Marcel smiled.
“I suspect
Our philosophers will adore it.”
“They already do.”
Grey replied.
“It encourages
Long conversations,
Remarkably poor jokes,
And the occasional brilliant idea.”
He reached
For another caddy.
Dark emerald leaves,
Interwoven with tiny
Blue blossoms.
“The Cartographer’s Rest.”
“And where
Does this one
Originate?”
“A valley that appears
Upon no map.”
Marcel nodded.
“Naturally.”
“It carries notes of cedar,
Wild honey, and winter mint.”
“And its qualities?”
Grey smiled.
“It has an uncanny habit
Of helping travellers remember
Exactly where they misplaced
Their spectacles.”
Marcel laughed softly.
“I imagine
Mr Carter-Smythe
Will order
A second pot.”
“Almost certainly.”
Grey selected a third chest,
Its lid carved with stars.
“Ah…”
He sighed happily.
“My favourite.”
“The Astronomer’s Reverie.”
Grey lifted the carved lid
With unmistakable admiration.
Within rested
Midnight-black leaves,
Dusted
With tiny silver petals.
“Where is it grown?”
Marcel asked.
Grey smiled.
“Within the walled gardens
Of the Old Observatory
At Saint Celestine.”
“A garden?”
“Indeed.
For centuries,
Astronomers cultivated
These shrubs
Between their telescopes.”
“And its effect?”
Grey paused.
“They believed
The leaves absorbed
Just enough moonlight
To keep weary minds
Awake until dawn.”
Marcel smiled.
“A most valuable habit.”
As they continued,
Another figure entered quietly.
Mabel Cobble.
The Still-Room Attendant.
She carried
An empty copper kettle,
Moving
With such gentle precision
That one almost forgot
She had entered
At all.
Without speaking,
She lit
The waiting stove,
Measured
Fresh spring water,
Then arranged
A row of porcelain teapots,
Each one
Perfectly warmed.
Grey watched,
Quite forgetting his sentence.
Marcel noticed.
Naturally.
“There are few,”
Grey finally said,
“Who prepare
A teapot correctly.”
Mabel glanced up,
Offering the faintest smile.
“I simply follow the leaves.”
Grey looked delighted.
“You follow the leaves?”
“They tell you
When they are ready.”
Grey laughed warmly.
“My dear Miss Cobble,
You may well be
The first person
Who has ever answered
That question correctly.”
A faint blush
Appeared upon her cheeks.
“You flatter me, Mr Grey.”
“I assure you, I do not.”
He handed her
A small silver tin.
“Would you
Indulge me?”
She opened it carefully.
Inside rested
Tiny black leaves,
Threaded
With crimson petals
And fragments
Of dried pear blossom.
“What is it called?”
She asked.
Grey smiled.
“The Hearthkeeper.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Very few have.”
She measured
The leaves,
Poured
Precisely heated water,
Then waited.
Not watching
The clock,
But listening.
After several moments,
She poured three cups.
Grey lifted his,
Closed his eyes,
And tasted.
A smile
Spread slowly across his face.
“Perfect.”
He looked at Mabel.
“Not one second too long.”
Marcel accepted his own cup.
Warm apple.
Roasted chestnut.
A hint
Of cinnamon,
Followed
By something
He could only describe
As home.
“What does it do?”
He asked quietly.
Grey lowered
His cup.
“It reminds people
Of the place
They are happiest.”
For several moments,
No one spoke.
Even Gideon,
Standing quietly
Near the doorway,
Seemed lost
In some pleasant memory.
Finally,
Mabel smiled.
“It tastes like autumn.”
Grey nodded.
“And kindness.”
Their eyes met
For only a moment,
Yet somehow,
It seemed rather longer.
Marcel noticed that as well.
Grey cleared his throat.
“I wonder…”
He began carefully.
“If Nocturna ever required
A rather enthusiastic
Tea merchant
To demonstrate
The proper brewing
Of unusual teas…”
Mabel looked down,
Smiling.
“I believe we could arrange
Such an evening.”
“I should like that.”
“So should I.”
Grey replied,
Rather more quickly
Than he intended.
Marcel hid his smile
Behind his teacup.
As the rain continued
Its gentle rhythm
Against the windows,
The tea chests
Were replenished,
Fresh blends
Were carefully catalogued,
And another supplier
Departed
With a considerably lighter heart
Than when he had arrived.
Watching
The elegant carriage
Disappear
Into the wet evening,
Marcel quietly folded
His hands.
He smiled to himself.
“It would seem…”
He murmured,
“There has been
An awful lot of love
In the air at Nocturna
Recently.”
From somewhere behind him,
Edgar Brillows’
Gentle laughter answered,
“I suspect,
Mr Carreau,
It is simply
Another of our
House specialties.”
