//CLARA//
A small tin of dried tansy leaves sat on the bedside table, tied with a bit of twine, and a note in his sharp handwriting: "Steep for five minutes. Do not skip."
I smiled despite myself. That thoughtful, beautiful bastard.
And I was the idiotic, lovestruck fool who had let him baptize me in the copper tub until water sloshed over the sides and soaked into the floor.
I glanced at the damp spot near the rug, purely to keep from moaning out loud from the memory.
"Jesus, Clara. Get a fucking grip."
Finally feeling like myself again, I brewed the bitter tea and drank it in three swallows, grimacing at the taste, and rinsed the cup before Hattie could see. Then I tucked the canister away for next use.
By mid-morning, Hattie trailed me like a lost puppy, her eyes darting to my right foot every time I winced. It was a classic 19th-century helicopter-parent vibe, and it was getting on my last nerve.
