Oh honey, Alice is fluffed, flared, and fully caffeinated for this story. You're about to get a story brewed with extra sass, a splash of eerie intrigue, and a twist of cheeky mischief that only our Mad Mad Queen can serve. Let’s dive into the next original legend from the ink-splotched pages of her mind…
☕️ Alice’s Mad Tea Party Presents:
Alice Spills the Tea: The Bone Orchard Bargain
Darlings, you ever hear the story about the Bone Orchard? No? Oh, buckle your corsets and lace up your boots - because this tale doesn’t come with a warning label, just a whispered invitation and a strong suggestion you don’t wander off the path. You’ve been warned.
It all started in a charming little hamlet on the far edge of Nowhere (which, for those unfamiliar with Otherworld geography, is very close to Somewhere You Shouldn’t Be). The locals were quiet folks, the sort who wouldn’t say boo to a banshee, mostly because they’d learned long ago not to attract attention. Especially not from her.
They called her Lady Witherwillow.
Of course they did. All ancient, mysterious women living in creepy forests have names like that. It’s practically a union rule.
Now Lady Witherwillow wasn’t technically a witch. She’d tell you that herself - right before offering you tea steeped in nightmare petals and making a casual remark about your future looking awfully flammable. No one really knew where she came from, but the orchard she kept? Oh, that was infamous.
No leaves. No fruit. Just bone-white trees that whispered in the wind and rattled when no breeze blew. They say she grew them herself - from promises never kept, secrets never told, and bones never buried properly. Which, honestly, is an excellent soil mix if you’re into necromantic horticulture.
One evening, just after the blood moon dipped low and the shadows got a bit too friendly, a young man named Tamsen came knocking. Foolish, desperate, and heartbreak-handsome. You know the type.
He’d lost his beloved. Classic setup, tragic violin music playing softly in the background, you get the idea. But rather than cry into his soup like a sensible person, he decided to go asking for miracles from a woman whose apron was literally embroidered with the phrase “What doesn’t kill you, better run.”
Tamsen begged. Bargained. Promised things no mortal should promise. And Lady Witherwillow? Oh, she smiled like all the world was made of broken hearts and her teacup was brimming.
She said yes.
But she didn’t bring his beloved back, oh no. That would be predictable, and Lady Witherwillow loathes being predictable. Instead, she gave him a lantern. Small, silver, glowing softly with a flickering green flame.
“She’s in there,” she whispered, “in pieces. Carry her with care, darling. Don’t spill.”
Now, did she mean literally? Metaphorically? Emotionally? Who knows. Tamsen, poor lamb, never thought to ask. He just took the lantern and ran.
And that, my sweet reckless mortals, is when the bone trees started blooming.
Not fruit - eyes. Hundreds of them. Watching. Blinking. Following him. Judging his haircut.
The orchard changed that night. Roads shifted. Time twisted. And the villagers? They woke to find every single house circled with bone blossoms. Petals shaped like teeth. Smelled like grief.
And Tamsen?
He walks the orchard still. Lantern in hand. Whispering to it. Sometimes laughing. Sometimes weeping. And every so often, someone new wanders in- just to take a peek. Just to see if the legend’s real.
Spoiler: it is.
Moral of the story? Never bargain with a woman who names her trees after your ancestors. And if someone offers you a soul in a lantern? Politely decline and run the other way. Or don’t. Honestly, I’m not your mother.
But if you do go, at least wear fabulous boots. It’s muddy out there - and madness deserves a dramatic entrance.
Yours wickedly,
Alice
Queen of Ink & Lore
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