The Teapot That Evicted Winter

How it begins

Winter ordered another scone.

Edith stared at the teapot.

"You've already had four."

A small snowstorm whirled inside the spout.

"And you have enjoyed seventeen consecutive days without a heating bill," said winter.

It was difficult to argue with that. The tea shop's radiators had been cold since January. Edith had been calculating whether she could afford to remain open when she found the chipped blue pot in a box of her aunt's things.

The instructions had been unusually clear.

INVITE WHAT YOU CANNOT BEAR INSIDE.

She had thought it meant tea.

Now crocuses were growing through the pavement, customers were sitting outside in shirtsleeves, and her oldest regular had stopped complaining about his knees.

Winter, meanwhile, had become particular about jam.

"Raspberry," it said. "Seedless."

The bell above the door rang.

Basil Fen entered carrying a branch.

Edith had known him for twenty years. He normally brought apples, occasionally pears, and once a goat that had eaten his shopping list. The branch looked less promising.

"It won't sleep," he said.

"Who won't?"

"My orchard."

He laid the branch on the counter. Its buds were swelling, shrinking, swelling again. One opened a thin green eye.

Edith took a step back.

"That's new."

"The trees don't know where they are in the year. Neither do the bees. Neither do I, frankly."

From the teapot came the delicate sound of someone clearing their throat.

Basil looked at it.

"Please tell me that's a kettle."

"Technically, no."

Edith lifted the lid.

Inside, beyond the dark rim, a white valley stretched beneath a pale sky. A tiny cottage stood beside a frozen river. Smoke rose from its chimney.

On the cottage step, a figure in a blue dressing gown waved a scone.

Basil closed his eyes.

"How long?"

"Seventeen days."

"Edith."

"I was going to let it out."

The figure disappeared indoors.

A little sign appeared on the cottage door.

DO NOT DISTURB UNTIL SUMMER.