Lattes and Spirits: Mystic Brews, #1

1

The alarm clock blared. I popped open one eye.

4:30. I slapped the snooze. Then slapped it again because I had only drifted off about two hours ago. I hated jet lag.

Ebrel, cariad! Aunt Rose’s voice kept me from pulling the pillow around my head and drifting back to sleep. Cariad, the Welsh form of love, used like an American auntie would use dearie. Her accent and use of my British name pinged my brain enough to make me move. Guilt is a wonderful motivator. I couldn’t let her down.

I’m up! I shouted and reached for the bedside light. Where was the switch? Probably one of those old-lady-on-the-cord ones. I’d never find it in the dark. Four hours ago, I had used the wall switch for the overhead.

I didn’t think I could make it to the wall switch without great risk of breaking one or more of my toes by slamming them into one of the multitude of antique furniture and whatnots that Aunt Rose had crammed into this room.

Instead, I let my magic tingle through my fingers. I found the bulb inside the shade. The little magical ball of light I made could stay in there, hidden from sight. The lamp shade glowed. As long as Aunt Rose didn’t turn it off, she wouldn’t know I’d used magic. That was something I needed to keep secret.

Now that I could see, I grumbled and reached for my toiletries bag.

I left a towel out for you, cariad, Rose called again. Come on down when you can. I be dying to learn this new foo-foo drink machine.

Ugh! First morning in the café. I was the only one who knew how to run the espresso machine, but with jet lag and only two hours of sleep. Back in the States, I’d be heading to bed about now.

Put on your big-girl-barista pants, April, I muttered and stumbled my way to the bath. Rose’s flat above the café had the toilet in another room next to the bath. That was the loo, she explained. The bath was where one bathed or washed up. Quaint. Living in Wales would take some getting used to.

The warmth of the shower felt so good I didn’t want to leave it. Another week, and I might be over my jet lag. Until then, all I could do was work through it. I was committed. Misty Valley was my new home.

A moment later, dry and with the towel wrapped around me, I opened the door. Jake stood in the hallway. I sucked in a breath and tried to hold in my squeal of shock. No need to alarm Aunt Rose. It wasn’t every girl who was haunted by the ghost of her dead boyfriend.

Don’t drop chicken feathers in my aunt’s hallway, I whispered and slid into my room. I shut the door quickly and spun around. Jake floated there, still covered in chicken feathers. Even his leather jacket, the one he wore when his bike swerved off the road, was coated in ghostly feathers.

Happy Birthday, April, he said.

Well, you’re not about to see me in my birthday suit. I need to get dressed.

I’ve seen it before, he said. What’s the big deal?

One, we’re not dating anymore, I said. Two, you’re dead, and it’s creepy.

What’s the problem? Jake was so dense sometimes. I just came to⁠—

A spark of magic leapt from my finger to the zipper on his jacket, and he winked out of sight.

You too, I said and touched the ghostly chicken that materialized with him.

That would only give me a minute before he returned. Pesky ghost. And most girls thought living boyfriends could be annoying.

I had my yoga pants on and wiggled my arms and head through my long cable-knit sweater when I smelled wet feathers again.

What did you do that for?

You wouldn’t understand, I said when I popped my head through the sweater.

I just wanted to hang out with you on your birthday, he said. This time two chickens popped in with him. One was pecking at dust under the bedside table. The other was perched on the curved wood of the headboard.

I know, it’s your death day too, and you don’t want to be alone.

The chickens aren’t much company, he said and sat next to me on the bed.

I wish you were useful while you’re here. Pardon, I said and reached through his misty green form for my boots. Look, I can’t be shooing you away every few minutes. Today is very important. Don’t screw it up for me.

How would I do that?

First, don’t ask me questions. I stood and poked a finger at his face. Jake flinched, probably afraid I’d spark him again. The talking-to-myself excuse only works once a day.

The chicken on the headboard flapped and jumped onto Jake’s shoulder.

And take that feather, I said, pointing to my pillow.

Sorry, he said. When his fingers touched the feather, it went ghostly again.

Did you ever figure out why only a few ghost feathers turn solid again?

He stuck it to the others on his leather jacket. None of the other ghosts know. They guess that it’s because I want to be with you. Some of that energy makes something small, like a feather, become real again. At least I can zap ’em back to the ghost realm when they do pop over.

Keep an eye out for feathers, I said. Aunt Rose will have a hissy fit if she thinks I brought a chicken in here.

As allergic as you are to cats, I doubt she’d blame you for chickens.

Yesterday was the first time I met her since I was five. She normally only called me on my birthday.

Ebrel, cariad! Rose’s voice called from the café. Are you coming down?

Don’t get me in trouble! I whispered in a hiss and poked Jake again.

Downstairs, Aunt Rose and our employee, Nia, waited behind the counter.

The drink you made yesterday was magical, Nia said in her high voice. Will you make me another?

Not yet. I waved them out of my way and grabbed my teal apron. Aunt Rose used the teal along with a pink in her decor and signage for Mystic Brews, the new name of her café. New, because I was here to be her partner and chief barista.

Nia, be a dear and go check on the pastries I put in the oven, Aunt Rose said. Nia bobbed her head of dark wavy hair. She was way too full of bouncing energy for this early in the morning.

My aunt was everything I expected of an Aunt Rose. A tad on the plump side. Ageing beauty lined her face, crinkled with laugh and smile lines. Her blue eyes matched mine, and a few strands of auburn streaked her grey hair. She would have cut a fine figure, as my father said, in her younger days. Now, she had that grandmotherly air about her, despite not having any children of her own.

Behind her apron, she wore a long-sleeved cardigan over a white blouse. The sweater had roses knitted on the collar and cuffs. She passed me a plate. Have a scone, cariad. Once we get going, we won’t be stopping. The whole village wants to meet you. I’ve got cream in the back if you want to spice it up.

This is fine, I said, then turned and did a quick inventory. I nibbled on the scone while prepping. Pitchers, spoons in the ice bath, thermometers, porta-filters, the handled metal bowls where I packed the espresso grounds before the machine worked its high-pressured magic on them—all of it was there. And the pastry was divine. I remembered Mom saying her aunt’s baking was the best ever. Anywhere. Full stop. She was correct. This was the best I ever tasted.

Aunt Rose answered a knock on the door.

Red! Meet my niece Ebrel.

Pleased ta meet the famed Ebrel, lassie, the man said. He held out a thick hand covered in curly red hair. He had a firm grip and calloused fingers.

Red is Misty Valley’s handyman, cariad, Aunt Rose said. He’s come to look at the ovens for me. We’ve got a hot spot I need to even out.

Probably just be a faulty temperature probe, he said.

I washed my hands once he was back in the kitchen. Fortunately, there was a full, though small, pump jar of soap by the sink. I’d never been nailed with a health citation in my years as a barista, and I would not get one here. I glanced at the second grinder by the espresso machine. Then I checked the stock cupboard next to the sink. Regular beans, but no decaf espresso. I forgot to grab the decaf beans. We do have them, right?

I think so. They should be in the cellar, Aunt Rose said. I can send Nia.

No worries, I can go check.

Down the stairs, the lights started to glow as I opened the door to the cellar. There was no light switch, and I didn’t see magnetic sensors on the door frame. I’d have to check with Red and see how the place was wired. That was a good motion sensor if it caught me at the top of the stairs.

Even though the building was old, the damp, dusky odor I expected was absent. Instead, the aroma of coffee, flour, and all manner of food stuff wafted to me.

The coffee beans sat right where I had seen them yesterday. One row of bags extended out a few inches. I pushed them back, and the bags shook and hissed. I leapt back, magic surging into my hands.

A brownish streak darted sideways from the shelf. A cat.

Huh. Aunt Rose said she didn’t have any cats. Why was that one here? How did it get in?

I tried to hold my breath and not get any of the dander in my nose as I grabbed a bag of decaf beans, already roasted, and dashed up the stairs.

There was a cat! I set the beans on the counter next to Aunt Rose.

A tabby, brownish?

I nodded, taking a few deep breaths.

I’m sorry, cariad. She pulled a tissue from inside her left sleeve. I waved it off. So far, I was doing fine. Why did grandmotherly types always have tissues and whatnots up their sleeves?

Thank you… Diolch, I said, remembering the Welsh word for thank you. No need. I escaped without harm. No symptoms of being around a cat at all.

Oh, that’s good for you, cariad. She turned towards the kitchen. Nia, Punkin got in again. Would you shoo him out? Ebrel is deathly allergic.

We all be allergic to that furball, Red’s voice drifted out. You’ll have a crowd in a jiffy ready to try Miss Ebrel’s fancy new coffee. I’ll see if I kin chase him off for a wee bit.

I glanced at the clock. Aunt Rose said we opened at six. Fifteen minutes from now. I pushed the buttons on the grinders, filled the filter baskets for the coffee makers. Dark in one, medium roast in the next, and decaf in the third. The aroma of coffee gave my soul a lift.

Just like back in the States, isn’t it? Jake asked. He was leaning on the counter, looking at my espresso setup. I raised a finger to my lips to shush him.

Aunt Rose stood by the door, her hand on the key to unlock it, and looked back over her shoulder. Outside, several figures waited, silhouetted against the dim streetlight.

Ready to start our new partnership, cariad?

Let them in. It’s time to brew!

2

Six hours later, coffee grounds overflowed from the countertop dump bin and the bin under the counter.

I don’t believe I’ve ever made that many drinks in one shift, not even on Black Friday.

One more? Please? Nia said. Her shoulders were slumped, her apron stained with flour, cream, coffee, and who knew what else. Aunt Rose stood next to her, looking as prim and proper as when we began the day.

How did your apron stay so clean? My own sported splotches and splatters, though not as bad as Nia’s.

Practice, cariad, she said, humming as she wiped down the counter again. By now my American-trained brain was translating her use of the Welsh term ‘cariad’ into the American ‘dearie.’ I was just too familiar with American terms to not translate the few Welsh words I knew.

The few customers who remained chatted amongst themselves. Aunt Rose had tried to introduce me to everyone as the day progressed, but my hands stayed busy, tamping fresh grounds, steaming milk, squirting syrup, and all the little things that made me a barista. Not that I could remember all their names. There had been so many people, and they all wanted to shake my hand. I had shaken a couple hundred hands.

What drink did you want, Nia?

Oh! Can I have another caramel marching tornado?

That made me laugh. You mean caramel macchiato? Coming right up.

I made several, one for each of us, and passed them around. Nia cooed as she held the cup between both of her small hands. Her smile grew wide and tall as she inhaled the aroma.

Yum! she breathed after the first sip. Will you teach me how to make these, Ebrel? Please?

I laughed, getting used to the British version of my name. The accents of everyone here, even of the Scotsman Red, were so comforting. Words rolled from one syllable to the next, unlike how Americans over-accented syllables to make their point even more apparent.

A yawn escaped me.

Sorry, still working on my jet lag, I said. I’ll clean the espresso machine and grab a nap before tea time.

Don’t be worrying about tea service, cariad, Aunt Rose said. Nia’s sister will help with that. We’ll not be doing your fancy drinks but in the morning. At least not until you get adjusted to our time.

Oh, thank you! I leaned in to hug her. She smelled of gingerbread, cinnamon, and roses. Let me get the station set for tomorrow. I may sleep all day and night.

Let’s see. I opened the cupboard behind my drink station. We used more beans than I expected. I’ll have to make another run downstairs.

What do you need? Aunt Rose asked.

If tomorrow is like today, then three more regular espresso bags, and two decaf. Plus the dark and medium coffee.

I got my machine cleaned while Nia and Aunt Rose cleaned the tables and made the place presentable for the afternoon tea service.

Expect more crowds like our rush this morning, Rose said. The town has been waiting for you and your fancy drink machine. Now they know, and they’ll be back every morning. Add in any tourists who stumble upon us, and we will be busy.

I smiled at that. One of the few uses for my special magic was the little surge I put into each drink I made. A little zap to put some extra energy into the espresso and milk. Like Aunt Rose’s cookies… or biscuits as they were called here in Britain, I made drinks with that special taste which came from a special touch. Only mine came from the magic I couldn’t tell anyone about.

Let me go grab— I paused mid-sentence to yawn. —that coffee, then I’m off to bed.

Check the cupboard at your station, cariad, Aunt Rose said.

Puzzled, I opened the door. It was chock full of coffee. Exactly the quantity I had requested. I must be exhausted if they had filled the cupboard behind me without my noticing.

Jake and a chicken waited in my room.

I’m too tired to say much, I said, plopping down on the edge of the bed. Your twenty-four hours is about finished, isn’t it? Sorry. Yesterday was too full of Aunt Rose to get a good chat in with you.

Jake nodded. You’ll see me again in a year.

Every year, I said and held my hand