The Filigree Kettle

WHIIIIIIIEEEEE.

The kettle hanging in the hearth sings to me. She’s old—dressed in patina from her years of experience. Her name is Lady Grey, since she always knows the cup better than its maker.

Sturdy with delicate filigree and a golden ring caught within her vines, my Grandmama said her creator was a Mage. He was skilled in many arts, but only created one kettle such as she. For she was created to entertain nobility. On a rare rainy day, as Grandmama spoke, pouring the boiling water into our cups—allowing the leaves to bloom—she cleared her throat and began the first recount of what would become one of my favorite tales, The Filigree Kettle and its Maker.

In a land painted with trees of ivory, there lived among the townsfolk, a Mage. Lanky, with a handsome grin. Around noon every day he would visit the most exquisite tea shop. Though he swore it was for the imported Darjeeling, he’d often stay long after his cup ran dry.

You see, a Duchess owned this particular tea shop and would visit more often than not to check in on the customers—brewing the guests’ cups herself much of the time.

Now I had to interject because if she is a Duchess, even if the owner of the shop, why would she be brewing the tea?

Grandmama hushed me and said, “A Duchess can have passions too.”

Then she resumed the story, at noon, with the punctual Mage and a Duchess in love with her tea.

Who could say when the unlikely friendship sparked, but noon after noon, the Mage would be invited to the brewing room to tell her of his newest arcane findings as she tended to the kettles and leaves. Then she would take her break, telling him of her own experiments with various tea flavors and of a dream that she was a simple tea shop owner rather than a Duchess. The Mage asked a time or two why she would want to live a life so ordinary when her pedigree was most coveted.

The Duchess would get a far off look and say, “Because greed is seldom worth it.”

The two grew quite close in those days. Upon further inspection, one might see a certain gleam within the couple’s eyes. A sparkle that would only appear when the other walked through the door.

Then Grandmama’s lips pulled a little tighter. Her eyes grew more solemn as she continued.

On a particularly foggy day, the Mage entered the tea shop with eager news. He had been working with ordinary household objects, imbuing them with magic to help his fellow townspeople and shopkeepers do their work more efficiently. It garnered the eye of the King, and upon request, he was to venture to the castle. Bouncing his knee, he sipped his Darjeeling and waited for the Duchess. In his breast pocket, he kept a secret. One made of gold.

But the Duchess hadn’t come that day. So, he returned the day after. Then the day after that. And the next. Until finally, on the day of his departure, coupled with his bill, he received an invitation from one of the tea shop workers. It was for the wedding of the Duchess and her husband-to-be. A Duke from the neighboring territory.

The moment I heard this, my jaw dropped. “How dare the Duchess do such a thing? And send an invitation to rub salt in his wound!?”

I received quite the look that said, surely-you-don’t-think-the-Duchess-was-behind-sending-him-the-invitation.

Grandmama would further explain that sometimes life turns in unexpected ways. Ways that are bittersweet. Much like tea, sometimes more bitter than sweet. Nonetheless, the Duchess had her own regrets. For when she spoke of greed, she spoke of her family. They were an unsatisfied lot, and she thought she could be content with hiding herself away at the tea shop any moment she got. But, like her family, she was unsatisfied and by the time she made up her mind to give up her pedigree, her mother had already sold her to the first Duke who made an offer.

The day before the Mage came to the shop with the secret in his pocket, the Duchess had her own secret. She had decided to run away, and she planned to tell him upon their meeting. But her mother had a sharp eye, and when she began to see a change in her daughter, it was oh too easy to discover the plan. Without the Duchess's knowledge, she was sold. The fateful day that was meant to ring her freedom ended with her confined under lock and key until the Duke came to claim his purchase. All hope for the Duchess was lost in those days locked in her room.

The Duchess's heart grew cold and isolated within the Duke's manor, but when she received a tea kettle a few weeks after her wedding, she was reminded of her resolve. A gift of a kettle whose water would always be brewed to perfection. A perfection that would remain in memory of a tea shop owner and her own form of alchemy. The golden ring, bent and embedded in the teapot's side, hanging from the filigree, read, “Yours Always”.

So, under the cloak of night, the Duchess, with only a kettle in hand, fled to begin a new life, under a new name, as a renowned tea shop owner. The End.

“But what happened to the Mage? Did they find each other? Did they get married?” Hope had filled my heart so much that I jumped to my feet as I looked up at Grandmama.

“No. Sadly, the Duchess and the Mage never saw each other again.”

Even now, the memory of Grandmama’s brittle voice leaves a hollowness in my chest. She would always let it linger for a sip of tea, until the warmth returned to her figure and she would finish.

“This is why it is important to hold fast to those who mean the most to you. Because you never know of the unexpected. Cherish, treasure, and hold fast, child.” Her words ran down my back in a soothing motion.

“If Lady Grey was a gift to the Duchess, then how did you end up with her, Grandmama?” I asked as I sat back in my seat.

Grandmama never gave me a proper reply. She simply glanced at the kettle with a longing stare before pushing my cooled cup of jasmine and green tea towards me. As a child, I didn’t think much of it.

But, on this rare rainy day as I wait by the window, I may have caught a glimmer of what my little mind had missed. With one hand on my belly—feeling the kicks of someone I have yet to meet—holding my brew of bergamot and lavender, letting the dark pigment seep into the pristine, I imagine a far-off kingdom filled with lanky mages, beautiful tea shops, and their owners. Places I am sure Lady Grey has seen. Places that may be a little closer than I once believed.

And as always, my cup is done far too soon. As I rise from my chair, the front door of our little cottage creaks open to a lanky man with hair that might be a bit too long. His cheeks red from the wind, he brushes off the droplets to the coiled rug below.

“Darling? I’m sorry, but as I thought, the persimmons you’re craving are out of season. Is it alright that I got you apricots instead?”

A smile peeks across my face as I draw close to him.

“Yes, apricots will do just fine.” My feet pull onto their tips, and my arms wrap around his neck. Even though this growing belly has begun to wedge itself between us, I've never felt closer to him than with Grandmama’s story fresh in my mind as the rain outside. After receiving the sweetest kiss I say, “Thank you, dear, for holding steadfast to me.”

And though he pulls away with a slightly puzzled look, he says, “Thank you for holding onto me.”

“Would you like some tea?” I ask.

“Yes, please.”

We make our way to the kitchen. He pulls out his glass jar of Darjeeling, setting it next to my jar on the table. And as I refill Lady Grey, his head tilts to one side.

“Have we always had this kettle?”

“No, it belonged to Grandmama. She gave it to me just before her passing.”

“Funny, it looks oddly similar to a concept drawing that’s always hung in my grandfather's study.”