“Time for some of your mom’s famous tea,” I muttered, mostly to myself.
The packets were lined up on the counter in a neat little row, each one labeled in Nyla’s careful handwriting: For Lucinda – Chamomile Comfort Blend.
It was more effort than she usually spent on me, and that alone made me a little suspicious.
Still, chamomile tea sounded nice on a cool morning. I filled the kettle at the sink and set it on the stove. While I waited for it to boil, I picked up one of the packets and tore it open.
The scent rose up at once—chamomile, yes, but something else too. Something slightly medicinal, sharp under the floral softness. It wasn’t unpleasant, just…odd.
I frowned, sniffed again, and told myself I was being silly. Nyla had probably added some wellness herbs she’d seen online. She was always chasing the latest trend.
The kettle began to whistle. I poured the hot water into my favorite ceramic mug, watching as the liquid deepened to a rich, amber color—darker than chamomile usually looked.
I reached for the honey jar.
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