Ten mugs.
Then I stop and make an eleventh for myself, because apparently I am here too.
I do not know how everyone takes it.
This feels like a failure of observation.
I have noticed Pippa’s jaw, her arms, the shape of her mouth when she is trying not to smile, the exact low note in her voice when she says my name like a warning.
I have not noticed how she takes her tea.
I stare at the mugs.
Then Mish appears in the doorway.
She takes one look at the mugs, then at me, then at the kettle.
“Don’t do individual orders,” she says.
I pause with one hand halfway to the tea bags. “Sorry?”
“Urn of tea. It’s in the corner cupboard. Milk and sugar on the side. People can sort themselves out.”
“Right.”
“You looked like you were about to conduct a very emotional tea census.”
“It did feel important.”
“It is important. That’s why you don’t make it complicated.”
She says it without bite.
“Urn of tea,” I say.
“Look at you. Practically operational.”
“I’m putting that in my notes.”
“Don’t.”
She steps in, grabs the biscuits from beside the sink, then pauses with her hand on the packet.
For a second, she does not look like the woman who can reduce a room to sensible silence with one eyebrow.
She looks exhausted.
Then it is gone.
“You all right?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Her gaze flicks to me.
I brace for sarcasm.
Instead, she says, “No. But I will be.”
It is so plain it knocks something loose in me.
