Vignette Collection

Midnight Tea Party

We have our annual tea party on Midsummer's, underneath the midnight sun.

It is not quite as fine as we'd like it; the sky is layered with grey wisps of clouds, blotting out the otherwise brilliant ultramarine, and the wind is making a fine work of spraying sand into our faces as we trek our way up the hill, baskets hefted on our shoulders.

Sally brought the wine. Champagne, she says, of the finest grapes, nicked from her grandparents' treasured stores. John made the sandwiches. Generous layers of cheese and ham, lettuce and onions. No tomatoes- he hates them. Anne baked the pasties. Overly sweet, bursting with cream from the family farm.

I am in charge of the tea. I choose the most fragrant from my stash, a rich Earl Grey with a heady aroma below the softer citrus notes of bergamot.

And of course, the cups. They are a deep blue with scrolling gold edgework to commemorate the occasion.

On our way up, we are greeted by three ravens. One hops alongside Sally's feet, beady eyes fixed on the gleaming bottle in her hands. Another soars above, silent wing beats matching our lagging footsteps. The third could be heard cawing from the hilltop, as though urging us to hurry up.

"I'm not sharing my food," John pants, fingers clenching around the handle of his basket as he eyes each of the ravens warily.

Anne snorts. "I'll spare some of my pastries. Because I'm not a greedy snot like you are."

John sticks his tongue out. "You got that right. I like my food where it belongs- in my stomach."

At this, the raven next to Sally squawks. In indignation, I think, though it sounds uncannily like the derisive laughter of a human.

Sally says, "I don't think it's the food they want."

"I don't care what they want," John declares, "because I want nothing to do with them."

This time, all three birds chitter in mirth. Their cries are amplified by the chilly air, swept all around by the wind in an echo reflecting into the distance.

John shivers, looking uncomfortable.

"I think they just want company." I say. "It must get lonely here, by themselves. It isn't as though many people pass through."

At this everyone falls silent. Our gazes meet, crow to human, human to crow.

Sally is the first to break the silence.

"Well," she says brightly, "what are we waiting for?"

And together, we have our Midsummer's tea party, under the midnight sun, three crows keeping company with four humans.