Wednesday, November 29, 2023

3

The Missing Ingredient

 Two days later, Lyn found herself no closer than before to solving the issue of reviving a forgotten memory. The deadline for Amelia’s return loomed just a day and a half away.

 Her store, however, looked cleaner than it had for the past decade. So at least there was that. Nothing like being stuck on a tea blend to prompt some last minute cleaning.

 Shelves stood bare of their usual motley assortment of tins, tea cups no longer adorned the glass display cases, and she’d taken down the bunches of lemon balm and sage hanging from the ceiling.

 The only thing left to tackle was the cabinet the silver cash register stood atop. Joints complaining, Lyn knelt in front of it and pulled out old invoices and recipe logs. Flicking through the papers, she placed them either in a pile to keep or to be used for kindling.

 Weariness settled over her shoulders and wove through her bones.

 Some of these pages were decades old. A blend that helped you imagine a beautiful landscape, ten sachets for a daydream about a childhood home, a tea that brought back a memory of a spring afternoon.

 Weight settled in Lyn’s stomach. It all seemed so shallow now. No wonder business at Easton’s Enchanted Teas had puttered out once real problems struck. Had any of her work to open the shop meant anything, really?

 Lyn squared her shoulders and dumped the papers into the burn pile. She pulled out another stack, these ones dating even further back—from when she’d been an eager fifteen-year-old first starting as an apprentice under her grandfather.

 A line of faded letters marching across the top of one of the pages caught her attention. 15 sachets for bringing back a forgotten, treasured memory.

 Lyn’s brow creased, and she eased the invoice out from the others. Based on the date, it must have been one of the first orders she helped her grandfather with. Memories crested back like flotsam and jetsam brought in on the tide. The customer had been a man buying it for his elderly father. Raymond Farnsworth, the invoice read.

 Farnsworth.

 Lyn froze. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Not when Amelia’s order eerily matched Raymond’s. No wonder the girl had looked vaguely familiar.

 Lyn flipped the page over, sweaty fingers wrinkling the paper as she furiously scanned rows of text. There, at the bottom, lay her reward—a list of the tea’s ingredients.

 Camellia arcanum.

 Citrus bergamia.

 Scutellaria.

 Bacopa monnieri.

 Lyn’s eyes widened, and a chuckle slipped out. Of course. Bacopa monnieri—water hyssop. If she combined it with rosemary, it should heal the mind and stimulate forgotten memories.

 Lyn stood, papers scattering everywhere, and hurried to her storeroom. She fumbled for her notebook, fingers flying to add water hyssop and rosemary to the recipe, calculate the proper dosages, and check her work.

 Warmth spread through her stomach as she stared at the sprawl of scribbled notes. It should work. Grandfather would have been proud. And now his work on the original recipe would touch another generation of Farnsworths.

 Lyn hummed to herself as she pulled out various jars and started measuring the dried leaves.