In a small village, nestled amongst the mountains, past the rolling hills, and just beyond the edge of imagination, a kettle whistles. 

 

But this is no ordinary kettle. Everything in Samara’s oddities shop is just as strange as she is. 

 

Bells that ring without being touched. 

Books capable of reading themselves aloud. 

Quills that write epic stories without the need of ink or author. 

And a kettle that steeps tea of its own design every morning at exactly seven o’clock. 

 

Jars of ingredients line the cupboard shelf - ginger, peppermint, lemongrass, chamomile, and more. But despite what Samara may wish to drink, the kettle decides what she shall have. Every brew is unique, its ingredients divining the events to come in the day ahead.  

 

When she descends the stairs from her apartment to the shop below, just as she does every day at this time, this morning’s brew, already steeping in a chipped teacup, awaits her on the shop counter.  As does Bowen, Samara’s closest friend. The gray squirrel’s nose twitches in the steam that wafts from the cup, eager for her companion to give her a taste. Samara pours a splash of the warm liquid onto the saucer for her friend. 

 

“What shall find us today?” she asks, inhaling deeply. Black tea with cinnamon and cloves. A foretelling of good fortune or maybe even luck. “Something lovely, I think.”

 

The bespelled shop begins its opening routine as the friends sip. A broom sweeps the remnants of dust from the floor. Window shades ascend and the candle in the lantern outside sprouts a green flame. Shopkeepers mingle in front of the businesses that line the village’s main street, each manually doing what Samara’s shop does on its own. 

 

It’s only after she downs the last dregs of her tea that the tips of Samara’s pointed ears tingle. Elves have notoriously good hearing and even better instincts. “Our first customer of the day arrives,” she eagerly tells the squirrel. 

 

The bell outside jingles as Liam’s tall form ducks through the doorway. The elf usually stops by after lunch, his long-winded stories helping to pass the late afternoon hours when the steady stream of customers dwindle. Today promises good fortune, something Samara must keep a watchful eye out for. 

 

  “Good morning,” Liam smiles, bending to scratch Bowen behind the ear before meeting her eyes. “I have something for you, Samara.”

 

“I’m afraid we have no time for chatter today, Liam. Something exciting is coming our way.”

 

“Yes, you see…”

 

Before Liam can continue, Mr. Beckham unexpectedly enters the shop. The elderly dwarf, a consistent naysayer of magic use for simple tasks, has never graced her doorstep before this morning. He looks frazzled, as if he rolled out of bed and ran straight here. “I need your help quite urgently, Samara. I have a very specific object that I must procure right now.”

 

Bowen scurries along the shelves as Samara hunts for the requested object: a plate that, once placed on your table, will transform into a roast turkey. Mr. Beckham is in urgent need of such an oddity because he forgot to purchase the bird that his wife requested two days ago - and Mrs. Beckham expects it to be ready in three hours. Not nearly enough time to roast a large turkey to perfection without a little magic. 

 

By the time the chime on the register dings to signal the sale, Liam is gone. “Pay it no mind, Bowen,” Samara reassures the squirrel with a brush of her fluffy tale. “I’m sure he only wished to regale us with a tale that would have distracted us from discovering the fortune that seeks us today. It will find us, you’ll see.”

 

The rest of the morning brings a gradual flow of customers into the shop. Elves, dwarves, and the occasional faerie all looking for enchanted everyday objects with various degrees of urgency. 

 

Cups that never spill no matter how you overfill it for Rosalie, a mother of two very independent little ones. Pots that wash themselves after cooking for Steven in advance of his first dinner party in his new home. A hairbrush that easily detangles even the knottiest of locks for Kate, a young girl who spends more time amongst briars than books. 

 

The register chimes and smiles abound, but even though some might say they’ve been lucky to have every item needed today, Samara knows that they have yet to encounter the good fortune foretold. Bowen keeps a weathered eye on the cuckoo clock, the squirrel squeaking impatiently with every chime. 

 

At noon, the shop closes for lunch. The enchanted kettle fills again, a fresh pot of the same brew. Only once they’ve discovered the true meaning of the day will its ingredients change. When Samara splashes the warm liquid onto Bowen’s saucer, she fully takes in the depth of her companion’s anxiety. “Don’t fret, friend. We will uncover the kettle’s truth soon enough.”

 

Her words do little to settle Bowen, the squirrel continuing her squeaking well into the afternoon. Every customer brings with them a new chance to experience the foretelling. But with every ring of the bell that signals their departure, the joyful outlook within Samara dims slightly. 

 

It should bring her joy to fulfill the needs of her fellow villagers. Not every shop holds such treasures as seeds that grow potatoes capable of peeling themselves, milk jugs that never empty, or a seasoning powder that takes on whatever flavor the chef wishes the dish to have. 

 

Each whistling chime of the cuckoo clock causes Bowen to pace frantically upon her perch. The enchanted kettle, still unsatisfied, continues to refill itself with the same spicy blend at the top of every passing hour. Not once in the ten years since Samara acquired it has the kettle incorrectly predicted the events of a day. And not once has the pair ever closed the shop without divining the meaning of the brew.  

 

The lower the sun sinks behind the horizon, the lower both Bowen’s and Samara’s hopes dip. Perhaps today is the day the kettle is wrong. Or perhaps the good fortune foretold is simply the continued love and support of their fellow villagers. 

 

Confident in her realization, Samara embraces the squirrel with a smile on her face just before the cuckoo clock signals the end of another day. Behind them, the kettle whistles again. The brew steeping within the same as this morning, black tea with cinnamon and cloves. 

 

As the shop curtains draw close and the candle in the outside lantern extinguishes, tears fill the elf’s eyes.  Disappointment is thick in her voice as Samara tries to comfort her friend. “I know it’s hard to not feel as though we failed, little one. But the sun will rise tomorrow and with it comes a new day and a new chance to find the luck we seek.”

 

Resigned, Samara climbs the stairs to her apartment as Bowen snuggles against her chest. The tips of her ears tingle just before a bell in the shop below rings. Liam strolls through the previously locked door, the smile on his face falling when he takes in Samara and her friend.

 

“What saddens you two? I’ve never seen Bowen look so glum.”

 

“It seems, for the first time, my kettle was wrong. Nothing exceptionally prosperous happened to us and the day is over.” The squirrel hops to Liam’s shoulder and nestles against his mop of blonde hair.

 

“Oh, I have just the thing for you! I tried to give it to you this morning, but then Mr. Beckham interrupted and I had to rush off to the market to pick up something for Mother. You see, she is hosting a group of friends for something or another. You know how she likes to celebrate the harvest, right? Well, she …”

 

“Liam,” Samara interrupts as Bowen impatiently squeaks in his ear. “We shall love to hear your story, but for Bowen’s sake, might we have the gift first?”

 

“I freely give it to you with one request. This oddity cannot be sold.”

 

Liam pulls a green velvet pouch from his pocket. The drawstrings unfurl to reveal a bright yellow stone. “Bespelled citrine,” he explains. “It’s said to bring abundance and prosperity to any who possess it.”

 

“You do not wish to keep it for yourself? Surely anyone would be glad to have magical luck on their side.”

 

Liam runs his hands through his hair nervously, shifting from foot to foot as he speaks. “I had hoped that we might be able to possess it together.” 

 

“Together?” Samara asks.

 

“I know I usually have a lot to say, but I find myself short on words, or at least the right words. I enjoy my time with you, Samara, and I was hoping I might have more of it.”

 

The elf reaches out to take Liam’s quivering hands into her’s. Something inside her chest warms at the thought of having someone other than Bowen to share her time with. It’s been so long since she had a true family. And family is something lovely, indeed. 

 

“I would consider myself quite fortunate indeed to have you as a partner, Liam.”

 

Across the room in the tiny kitchenette, the kettle whistles. A new blend of tea steeps within. The woody, floral scent of something special. Red rooibos, rose, and vanilla. A foretelling of something to come, something that may already be in bloom.

 

Love.