The well was older than the town. Definitely had to be older than all the curses in the world and maybe even older than memory itself.

Jo stood before it with a flashlight, a travel mug, and a faint suspicion that this was the worst idea she’d had since taste testing that haunted gingerbread tea.

Mira, ever the enabler, had packed backup herbs, a protective charm shaped like a muffin, and one skeptical frown. “You sure about this?” she asked.

“No,” Jo answered, “but Polly didn’t give me much of a choice, nor a lot to go on.”

They pried open the rusted grate that covered the old stone circle. Carrying the scent of jasmine, mint, and something far more ancient, a blast of steam hit their faces and a rope ladder appeared soaked in condensation and humming softly.

Mira blinked. “Well, that’s not terrifying at all.”

Jo sighed and began to climb.

The descent was long. The mist thickened. Her flashlight flickered. The deeper she went, the more the silence wrapped around her like a wet blanket that was heavy, muffling, and absolute.

At the bottom, a small chamber opened before her. She didn’t recognize, yet understood, the symbols that were carved in the stone around her. In the center was an ancient and cracked kettle that was steaming gently despite no fire, and around the kettle were three figures in robes of blackened linen, faces hidden, and hands folded.

Jo stepped forward. “I’m here.”

One figure raised its head. There was only steam where a face should have been.

“We remember you,” it hissed.

Jo’s breath caught.

“You are the brew’s bearer. The tongue silenced. The steeping voice.”

Another added, “You left the circle. You chose the bean.”

Jo stumbled back. “What? What was I?”

The steam thickened and the chamber trembled.

“One of us.”

Heart pounding, Jo turned and climbed as fast as she could with the truth clinging to her like vapor.

At the top, Mira caught her hand. “What did you find?”

Jo looked back into the fog. “I think I used to be tea.”