This is a short-story I started writing quite a while ago, but never finished.
Perhaps you can guess how it would have ended.

Earl Gray

“Because it is a cup of tea,” she would say with a smile. They would then either shake their heads and mutter something none-too-flattering, or give her a pitying look, before both parties wandered away.

If only the rest of the world could enjoy a cup of tea like her, then perhaps they would all be a little happier. A short sigh, and Edith lifted her battered old kettle onto the heating iron, and stoked the fire.

Now to wait, while the water boiled and the fire popped and her small rocking-chair creaked gently in time with the afternoon breeze. As she gazed into the little fire and listened to the kettle bubble, Edith remembered.

Before a stone fire-ring, younger Edith knelt, vainly trying to blow her small heap of sparks into a flame. Deep amber hair continually slipped from behind her ears, reflecting the faint glow onto her pale and lightly-freckled face.

“Come, little ones,” she whispered to the sparks, “Wake now.”

A sudden hush fell on the forest, which Edith did not notice, until she heard it replaced by another sound. Like thunder over a lake, the snapping of branches, brake and twigs cracked viciously through the night. Startled, Edith looked up. There, in the twilight shadow of the trees, a tall form was approaching. Slowly Edith’s hand curled around one of the large sticks in the fire-ring. She lifted it before her.

“Who is there?” she called, “Name yourself, or I’ll put a spear through you!”

“No, no wait, please!” a man’s voice replied, and the figure stopped on the clearing’s edge, hands held up. He shook his head slowly, “I mean no harm.”

“What do you mean, then?” Edith asked, still suspicious. Besides herself, no one had entered this clearing in a very long time.

“Nothing,” the man said, stepping out from under the tree-shadows, “I’m just looking for a place to set up camp,” he nodded at her, “Thought I heard voices.”

“A voice,” Edith corrected, lowering her ‘spear’. If that’s all he really wanted.

A quiet moment passed, in which the night creatures resumed their symphony.

“May I?” the man finally asked, gesturing to the fire-ring.

“Do, please,” Edith replied, scooting away to make room, “The Sparks are not with me tonight.”

The young man smiled, and kneeling beside the ring, struck a shower of red and orange stars from the flint in his hand.

A few minutes later, he had lit a merry blaze.

“Thank you,” Edith said, moving closer and holding her chilly fingers to the glow.

“My pleasure,” the young man replied with a nod, “Actually,” he began. Edith looked up.

“I think the Sparks are with you,” he said, meeting her gaze, “They just prefer your eyes.”

Edith blinked and blushed. She laughed softly, averting her gaze down and away from his.

Leaning forward with a breathy laugh, old Edith raised the singing kettle from its iron. Bright orange firelight played like so many sprites across the silvery locks of her hair as she turned to pour the water. Falling in a stream and rising with a cloud, the steaming-hot liquid bubbled and boiled into her little earthen cup. At last, when it was filled, Edith replaced her kettle on the iron’s cool side.

A soft smile curved her old, wrinkled lips as Edith gazed, once more, into the fire. She would wait now for her tea to steep. Meanwhile, Edith remembered.

“So why are you in the woods?” the man asked after a little while.

Lifting a basket from behind her, younger Edith displayed the contents to his view, “Herbs,” she said, “Especially these,” she reached into the basket and pulled out a thin bundle of limp green stalks with small blue flowers dropping from their heads.

“Cornflowers,” the young man murmured, “And what will you do with these?”

“Mix them with other herbs,” Edith replied, replacing the basket at her side, “I have some black tea in here, and calendula, and a little vanilla bean from my cousin Ignis. My mother used to mix teas for the noble-ladies, and she taught me how-”

“Used to?” the young man asked, his soft brown eyes searching her face.

Looking away for a moment, Edith nodded, “Yes,” she said softly. With excessive care she rewrapped the cornflowers, black tea, calendula and vanilla, before tucking each into its very own personal corner of the basket.

The young man nodded slowly. At last, “My mum liked tea too,” he said softly. Edith looked up with surprise. He smiled sadly, “She used to say ‘No cup is complete without a little love mixed in.’”

“Mine did too,” Edith whispered as her green eyes now searched his face, “She also said a little dirt under the fingernails helps too.” Realizing what she had just said, Edith laughed, and the young man laughed with her.

“I’m afraid my mum wasn’t much one for dirt,” he said with a wry smile. Edith smiled back and began retrieving her herbs from the basket. Suddenly, the young man cocked his head to the side, straightened and seized his pack from the ground beside him.

“Have you ever,” he said, flipping the top open, “Tried . . . oh, where is it?” he mumbled, digging through the contents with a fiercely determined scowl. A moment later-

“Aha!” he exclaimed, holding up a small bundle, closely-wrapped in oil-cloth, “Try this,” he said with a smile.

Taking it from his outstretched hand, Edith opened the bundle, and lifted it to her face, breathed deeply. She had never smelled something so sweet and sharp and rich and cool in her life.

“Bergamot,” the young man replied to the raptured question in her eyes, “My mother used to have it imported from the southlands every summer.”

“No wonder,” Edith murmured, handing the bergamot back to him, “They say so many wondrous things come from the southlands.”

The young man shrugged, “True,” he said, receiving the bundle from her hand, “But the northland has its wonders too.”

He looked at her for what felt like a very long time.

Again Edith blushed.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she whispered, winding a lock of hair through her fingers.

“Do you really?” the young man asked gently, “Even if I think it’s true?”

Pursing her lips, Edith nodded, “I do,” she said.

Leaning back, the young man gave a soft sigh, “Then I will stop, for your sake,” he added.

Edith let out the breath she’d been holding, “Thank you,” she said with a smile.

Like a fog laden with promises of health, peace and happiness, the gentle aroma of Edith’s tea began to spread about the room. The steeping was nearly done. Slowly, Edith turned her old rocker and reached for the vessel. Once she had it in her hand, she raised the cup and closing her eyes, took a deep breath.

“Ahhh,” she whispered, and remembered.

It had not taken long for the two young people to agree on an herbal mix and begin brewing their tea over the fire. The young man supplied the kettle from his pack, Edith supplied the sieves and most of the herbs, and after a bout of resistance from Edith, the young man at last convinced her to try the bergamot.

“You’ll like it,” he said, pinching a portion into each of their vessels’ sieves.

“You know that’s not what I’m worried about,” Edith replied, still wishing she could make him change his mind. He had so little of the glorious stuff! How great would her guilt be if he wasted it on her?

The young man shook his head with a smile, “And as I told you,” he said, handing her one of the cups, “I could never enjoy it so well alone as with you.”

. . .

[here the manuscript ends]