In a forgotten corner of an old manor, where cobwebs lace the walls like delicate lacework, lives a most peculiar hostess. Draped in violet finery and crowned with blossoms, she brews tea said to calm storms and spark laughter in equal measure. Her eyes, dreamy and wise, hold secrets of moonlit gatherings and whispered tales shared over porcelain cups.
She insists, with the quiet confidence of one who knows, that her tea is the very best. Perhaps it is the petals she stirs in, or the stories she weaves as the steam curls upward. Guests never quite remember the flavor, only the feeling—that gentle enchantment, as if they had sipped a piece of magic itself.
In a forgotten corner of an old manor, where cobwebs lace the walls like delicate lacework, lives a most peculiar hostess. Draped in violet finery and crowned with blossoms, she brews tea said to calm storms and spark laughter in equal measure. Her eyes, dreamy and wise, hold secrets of moonlit gatherings and whispered tales shared over porcelain cups.
She insists, with the quiet confidence of one who knows, that her tea is the very best. Perhaps it is the petals she stirs in, or the stories she weaves as the steam curls upward. Guests never quite remember the flavor, only the feeling—that gentle enchantment, as if they had sipped a piece of magic itself.
