The third parlor was a largely unused room, but it was furnished with the same impeccable taste as the rest of the manor. In the center of the room sat a small oak table, with tea settings for two. One of the chairs was small, almost the right size for a child. Above, a large crystal chandelier radiated golden light that drove back the pale, cold light from the full moon that dripped in through the window.
In ancient Rome, wine was served in amethyst containers so that it could be mixed with water. Of course, this flask was perfectly clear, amber liquid sloshing sullenly at the bottom. No tint of violet here, and yet, for its purpose, perhaps there should have been.
One or two drops should suffice, enough to fulfill a childish purpose without destroying the childish reason. To bind with ruining.
This was wrong, and he knew it. He wanted to do this, and he knew that even better. Morality was reduced to the distance between want and wrong.
The pot of tea steamed slowly. Fine bone china, hand-painted blue and white. How many generations had it been in the family? Six. Or was it seven? His hands were shaking. No, six was right. His hands shook harder.
He set the flask down by the china pot. It was unfair, a helping hand returned with a slap. Or a punch. That was enough to bring on a rueful smile, though it was quickly wiped away.
Immature. Screaming in the checkout line for sweets immature. Want was as insistent as self-disgust, strengthening over the years. And even if the object of that want was immutable, those years had changed much in him.
He picked up the teapot, ignoring the flask. It was already too late, an implausible dream dead in a fisherman's net. The window appeared to push itself open, and a final meeting was commenced with smiles that were more than smiles while steady hands served tea that was only tea.
