Cameron To Candy

Candy had been working harder on the tea ceremony than anything else on her Ministry list. Every afternoon, she’d fill the parlor table with books, dried leaves, and teacups in mismatched saucers. Her interest wasn’t social; she couldn’t care less about when to pour, which way to face the handles of the mugs, or what shade of ribbon to wear to which kind of ceremony. No, it was the chemicals of it that drove her. The Gravitea debacle had seen to that.

One cup. One cursed cup. That’s all it took to turn Marcus from his usual calm, structured self into what Paddlewick wives referred to, with whispered dread, as an Ultra. Possessive, commanding; the kind of husband who could make a woman say “thank you for correcting me” with a look. The tea had caused him to spank her, to correct her, to humiliate and dominate her. And that was only in a few hours. She shuddered at the thought of what could have happened if it hadn’t worn off, or if he had not had business out of the house that day.

She’d considered using her self defense training. She was pretty sure she could flip him to the ground and bury her knee in his groin. But she hadn’t because, well, then what?

So, Candy swore never again. No gravitea blends. No related strains. No ingredients that so much as smelled like them. So she threw herself into study, every leaf, every method of drying, steeping, or straining, every harmless herb that could stand in their place if mixed in just right.

Mrs. Prim had been oddly supportive, even showing up outside her normal inspection schedule to help with etiquette drills.

“Wrist down, dear. Grace, relax the grip,” she’d murmur, adjusting Candy’s fingers around a teapot handle.

Of course, Mrs. Prim mistakenly thought Candy was studying for the wife exam or going for some new pins. It was unusual for Candy to care, so Mrs. Prim had wanted to encourage that. To Candy, the physical act of the ritual meant nothing. She did have to learn it, so she was, but more importantly, she wanted to know which rituals, which locations or gatherings, and which households utilized gavitea and related blends. And Mrs. Prim was an expert in that.

“Now,” Mrs. Prim said as she repositioned Candy’s elbow, “Gravitea itself is quite expensive. The unfortunate thing is that the fully potent Ministry-grade blend rarely appears outside high-tier events. The ingredients are simple enough, but the refinement process, the oils, the steeping rites… they are very time-consuming, very costly.”

Candy exhaled slowly. “But it sounds like it’s more common than I would’ve thought.”

Mrs. Prim shook her head. “The true version is not. The Ministry reserves full-strength Gravitea for very specific occasions. For example—”

She ticked points on elegantly rigid fingers.

“—The Midyear Reconciliation Banquet, the Locksreach Vow Renewals, the Rodday Correction Symposium, and of course, the Thundermarch Military Memorial Day. At these, the highest tiers, the honored guests, the Ministry officials, those receiving medals, and sometimes the noble families, are gifted the real thing.”

“And everyone else?” Candy asked.

“Oh, heavens no, dear. They are given a dilution. Perhaps twenty-five percent of the true blend at most. The rest is filled with simpler raw leaves. That becomes SteadiLeaf or SereniTea. Similar aroma, far milder effect. I’m sure you’ve had SerniTea before.”

Candy nodded. “Yeah, I have. So, most people aren’t getting the Ultra version?”

“Certainly not.” Mrs. Prim smiled warmly. “That is why you have not encountered it before. Well—” she added, adjusting Candy’s grip, “not knowingly. Your husband has almost certainly tasted the weaker cousins during Guard rotations or Rodday panels. But without the full enchantment, the reaction is gentle. Entirely unremarkable.”

Candy felt her spine unknot a little. So Marcus had drunk the safe versions. Good. Good. Still, she decided she would not risk even a sniff of any of them ever again.

“Then there are a few prominent families that favor it," Mrs Prim continued. "If you are ever fortunate enough to receive invitations from Lady ShoWhip’s winter salons, the Quickpost Suppers, or the Stitchmere Gulpen Day recitals, expect Gravitea, or close variants. They favor blends that promote calm conversation and precise etiquette. Quite prestigious, really. Although, between you and me, the ShoWhip's just serve it as a status symbol. Not like the Stichmere's who use it with proper respect. But, you didn't hear that from me, and don't turn them down unless you want your social status to fall into the muck."

Alyssa helped too, more on the practical end. “The difference between calming and submissive teas is sometimes subtle,” she’d say, handing Candy labeled jars. “So label everything twice. And never trust anything grown near Plumaloom. Their soil is enriched by all the bird droppings. Everything that grows there is twice as potent as elsewhere.” Then she’d drill Candy on gravitea processing, the ingredients, the curing. Camellia disciplinis, powdered ironleaf buds, steep-root bark, bitter-orange rind oil, amber-fern pollen, and a vine-sugar glaze. The main ingredient was, of course, the camellia, but Candy vowed to avoid every ingredient.

Between the two of them, Candy almost started to feel like she might actually pass the Ministry’s ceremonial test exam, and more importantly, navigate the future free from gravitea. Marcus had noticed her sudden dedication and, like Mrs. Prim, completely misunderstood it. He assumed she’d just found something she really liked.

What he didn’t realize, what he couldn’t realize, was that he’d been under the tea’s influence that night; he had no understanding of what he’d done. As far as he was concerned, every stern, commanding thing he’d done was normal or otherwise explainable. The tea wouldn’t let him think otherwise.

That defect in his memory had been part of what made the whole ordeal so frightening, and part of what made Candy start studying tea like her life depended on it. So when she came into the bedroom that afternoon and saw two travel bags lying open on the bed, she froze. “What are these?” she asked.

Marcus looked up from buckling his coat straps. “Those,” he said, “are for us.”

Candy glared. “Us?”

He smiled faintly. “We’re taking a trip.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of trip?”

“The good kind. The spontaneous, you-desperately-need-sunlight kind.” He gestured at the bags. “I packed what you’ll need.”

Candy frowned, rifling through one of them. “You packed my clothes?”

“I wanted to surprise you,” he said. “We’re heading south. To Petalik.”

“Petalik? That’s right on the Cleavendale border.”

“Exactly. It’s their Peach Festival weekend. Last day’s tomorrow. I figured we could get out for once.”

Candy hesitated. She hadn’t been beyond the Paddlewick Prime since her transformation, except to Paddlwick Minor. “Peach Festival,” she repeated. “That’s the one where they crown a Peach Queen and everyone ends up sticky for a week?”

“That’s the one.”

She stared at him for a beat, waiting for the catch. “And this isn’t some Ministry scheme to test my posture on wagons?”

“No,” Marcus said, amused. “This is… a trip. No inspections, no reports. Just peaches and fresh air.”

For a moment, the absurdity of it made her laugh. “I don’t believe it.”

“You don’t have to. Just get your cloak. We’ll take Hearthwind and make it by sundown.”

Candy’s smile was reluctant but real. “Fine. But if this turns into some secret etiquette field test, I’m feeding you to the peach orchard.”

“Deal,” Marcus said, slinging his satchel over his shoulder.

As she pulled her cloak tight and followed him out to the carriage, she tried not to wonder why he looked so shifty about this particular destination, or what kind of “fresh air” Paddlewick considered safe for wives.

The road to Petalik wound through low hills that smelled faintly of salt and cider. By the time Hearthwind’s hooves clicked onto the cobblestones, Candy could already smell peaches, sweet, syrupy, everywhere. The whole town looked as though someone had spilled summer across it: ribbons in shades of blush and gold, fruit garlands hanging from lamp poles, peach-shaped lanterns bobbing in the afternoon breeze.

“Oh,” Candy breathed, leaning over the side of the carriage. “It smells… sticky.”

Marcus smiled. “That’s the scent of commerce.” Jokes aside, Marcus was partially correct. The peach festival was one of the few events that drew in tourists of other nations, mostly Cleavendale. Paddlewick was no one's favorite destination, and though it wasn't in high numbers, the fact that anyone came and spent coin from other kingdoms here was notable.

Petalik’s Peach Festival had reached its final day. Every street hummed with life. Vendors called out offers from behind wooden stalls, their hands dusted with sugar and flour. The air shimmered with the heat of grills and the soft glow of enchantments that were keeping the frozen treats from melting.

Candy’s first stop was a cobbler stand, where the vendor, a woman with arms like bread dough and a laugh like a kettle, pressed a parchment plate into her hands. “Try it, dear! The crust’s from my great-grandmother’s recipe. Same one she served when the Queen herself passed through town.”

Candy took a bite and made a sound that wasn’t entirely suitable for polite company. “Okay, that’s unfairly good.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Marcus murmured, but he was smiling as he handed over coins. He’d already been drawn to the next booth, where a man was selling small carved charms shaped like peaches. “For luck,” the merchant promised. “Hang one by your window and your house will smell of fruit all season.”

Further down the lane, a group of children were engaged in a pit-spitting contest. One managed a heroic twelve feet before nearly choking on triumph. An old man with a straw hat and a whistle recorded the result on a chalkboard, proclaiming, “New record for under-ten division!”

“Do you ever notice,” Candy said, licking pie filling off her thumb, “that small towns always celebrate things that sound ridiculous on paper but feel perfect when you’re here?”

“Constantly,” Marcus said. “That’s why they’re dangerous. They almost make you believe the world’s simple.”

They passed a cart selling snow-peaches, enchanted frozen slices served on sticks, and a row of stalls roasting peach halves with honey-leaf glaze and goat cheese. The smell of caramelized sugar hung heavy.

At the far end of the square, a small stage was being decorated for the Peach Queen Coronation. Five young women, all in pastel gowns, practiced curtseys under the sharp eye of a town matron. Each wore a ribbon embroidered with her family’s name: Moorfield, Tansy, Belwright, Squickly, and Flogginton.

Candy slowed, watching them. “Five families,” she murmured.

“The founding families,” Marcus said. “It’s been that way since Petalik’s start. And if one can’t field a daughter, they draw for a volunteer from any Petalik natives.”

Candy glared at him. “How on the Cone do you know that?”

He lifted a small peach-colored pamphlet like it was self-explanatory. “It’s in here.”

“What the— when did you even get that? We’ve been together the whole time!”

“They were handing them out at the gate. You must’ve missed it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I swear you just conjure these things. If you told me it appeared in your hand magically, I’d believe you.”

Marcus only shrugged. “Preparation is a virtue.”

They walked on, and a few paces later, the lantern light caught a tarnished bronze plaque set into an old brick wall. The same words, PREPARATION IS A VIRTUE, gleamed faintly through moss and rain-wear.

Candy stared at it, deadpan. “You got that from the pamphlet, didn’t you?”

Marcus chuckled. “Brochure.”

A gaggle of children ran past shouting, “Peach Queen! Peach Queen!” followed by a boy carrying a peach-shaped balloon twice his size. It bounced off Marcus’s shoulder, leaving a faint scent of nectar in its wake.

They spent the rest of the afternoon wandering between stalls, Marcus buying roasted almonds from a Cleavendale vendor, Candy sampling peach cordial so sweet it made her teeth ache. When the bells of the town clock chimed six, the light softened into amber, and the festival shifted toward its closing rituals.

Along the canal, the townsfolk gathered for the Lantern Walk. Dozens of paper lanterns shaped like peaches were lit and set afloat, drifting down the water in a slow, glowing river. Children chased the reflections along the bank while the brass band struck up a gentle tune called Sweet as Twice-Born Fruit.

Candy leaned against the railing, watching the lanterns. “They do this twice a year?”

“Summer and winter,” Marcus answered. “It’s one of the interesting things about the tree’s here. They produce in the cold season as well. Two harvests, two chances for a wish.”

She smiled sidelong. “You sound like a brochure.”

He shrugged, but his eyes softened in the lantern light. “Maybe I’m enjoying myself.”

They reached the town square just as the afternoon light turned honey-gold. Between rows of peach stalls and ribboned booths stood the heart of Petalik’s pride, a wide circular fountain ringed in marble and soft moss. The water within it was smooth as glass, less a pond than a mirror laid flat to the sky.

Every few moments, the surface shimmered and shifted, the reflection rippling into brief, luminous pictures of the day’s joys: a child winning the pie-eating contest, a couple dancing under peach garlands, an old woman laughing until her cone collapsed. Then the images faded, replaced by calm silver water once more.

Marcus slowed, hands in his pockets. “That pump under there? Tansin Halperdine’s design. All gears and valves and tubes. It’s mind-boggling, but it’s not magic at all. No one knows how he did it! The images, though, those are local enchantments. Supposed to capture the happiest moments of the day.”

Candy tilted her head, watching the water ripple with another laughter-echo. A group of children tossed peach pits into the fountain, making wishes. For all Paddlewick’s stiffness, this corner of the world still remembered what warmth looked like.

The afternoon melted into the kind of lazy brightness that made everything taste sweeter. Peach banners fluttered over the square, children chased each other with sticky hands, and vendors shouted about cobblers, custards, and ice creams that could cure heartbreak.

Marcus had found them a bench near the fountain, the pamphlet folded neatly on his knee like a man who planned to study it later. “Spit-the-pit contest,” he said, gesturing toward a small stage where a ring of men were taking turns hawking peach seeds into the dirt.

Candy raised a brow. “You’re not actually—”

“Of course I am.” He rose, dusting his sleeves, and joined the line. When his turn came, he wound up with military precision, spat, and watched the pit arc a grand eight feet before rolling to a stop.

The crowd clapped politely.

“Impressive,” Candy called, grinning. “Next time, try both lungs.”

“Eight feet’s respectable,” Marcus muttered, though he was smiling too.

They wandered afterward, sampling everything they passed—peach turnovers, peach jerky, even a suspiciously fizzy peach brew that left them both hiccupping. By the time they reached the fountain square again, dusk had turned the air honey-gold.

The great reflective pool shimmered under Halperdine’s humming pump, its surface rippling with captured memories: a child catching her first tossed peach, an elderly couple dancing clumsily in the grass, a man winning a ribbon and kissing his own hands in triumph. When Candy leaned over, the water brightened, and there she was, laughing mid-bite, peach juice running down her chin.

“Oh, gods,” she groaned, watching herself. “That’s going to follow me forever.”

Marcus flicked a copper into the fountain. “Then may as well make it worth remembering.”

The image rippled, then froze on the two of them, Candy looking in disbelief at Marcus brandishing the pamphlet in the carriage. She gawked for a moment before shaking her head with a smirk on her face.

As the lanterns came alive along Vanilla Lane, they made their way to the inn. it stood on the edge of town, all stone and timber, with ivy crawling up its walls and a wooden sign painted with two peaches and the words 'The Double Pit.'

They entered their room still teasing each other about seed-spitting form and sticky fingers. Their room turned out to have a single bed much smaller than advertised.

Candy crossed her arms. “I am not sleeping in that with you. You take the floor..”

Marcus sighed. “When we were soldiers, we used to manage foot-to-toe.”

“Yeah, back when we both were harry and smelly,” she said. “Now you get the privilege of sleeping next to my softened, hairless body, and me? I get a wall of scratchy hair and stanky—”

“Okay, okay,” he cut in, surrendering with a laugh. “You win!”

“So,” she said, glancing at him, “was this just a getaway, or is there a secret Ministry agenda I should brace for?”

Marcus smiled faintly. “No agendas. Though I did make us a reservation tomorrow at the Petalik Tea Garden.”

She froze halfway through pulling a hairpin. “You what?”

“It’s part of the experience,” he said innocently. “You pick your own leaves, blend them, taste them. They’ll even dry them magically for you to take home.”

“Oh,” she said, carefully neutral. “Tea. My favorite.”

He chuckled. “You’ll like it. I promise. I know how much you’ve been into tea lately. I thought you’d like it,” he said, a bit of hope in his eyes, the kind you have when you give someone a present they didn’t ask for but you think they’ll really like.

Candy stared at the window for a long moment, watching the faint glow of the last lanterns fade into darkness. Gludge, she thought. He’s trying. That actually was really thoughtful.

“Uh, yeah, thanks! That um, that sounds nice!” she forced herself to say cheerfully. And, maybe it actually would be. She just couldn’t help thinking the other shoe hadn’t dropped yet.

They settled the lamp, and he lingered at the edge of the bed, a mischievous tilt in his voice. “By the way, tomorrow’s not just sightseeing. We’re having a contest.”

Candy groaned. There it is! “I knew it! What now?”

“You’ve been studying teas,” Marcus said. “So tomorrow at the gardens, you make your best blend, I’ll make mine. We’ll taste them both and see whose it better. The server can settle a tie.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “And if I win?”

“I’ll raise your allowance to 2 silver, permanently.”

“And if you win?”

“You lose it, just the next one.”

Her jaw dropped. “Marcus! It's demeaning enough I even have to have an allowance, now you're turning my humiliation into a game?"

He stretched, a sheepish look on his face. “Well, motivation builds mastery. And I just thought, you know, let's make a wager like we used to to pass the time when we were on duty rotations together. Like, remember when we bet our pudding on which instructor would say the word 'paddle' the most that day? Plus, it’s a damn good deal! A permanent raise versus a one-time loss?”

She glared but couldn’t help the twitch of a smile. A wager was out of the good old days for them.

“Fine. But if I win, I’m ordering dessert with my tea.”

“Deal.”