If I'm paying attention, I can pick out most people by the sound of their footsteps. But this Flora walks so softly I strain to hear her. I wonder what she's heard about me; she keeps glancing back over her shoulder, like she's afraid.

In the kitchen, she perches on the edge of a chair, tucking her slippered feet underneath it. "If—if you're a friend of Papa and Luke… you must be awfully good at making tea."

I fold my arms. "Is that a challenge?"

She nods.

"Clever. All right then."

I set my rucksack down by the kitchen door. This tiny room is where the three of us spent the most time, when we weren't in the professor's office. The cabinets have picked up some stains and the odd scorch mark, but little else seems to have changed.

Right. I can do this.

I open what was once the tea cabinet. It still is: a row of tins greets me. I pull a few down, slide open a drawer for a spoon. My hands remember, even if they feel disconnected from my body. Fill the kettle, measure the tea into the china pot, turn up the gas a bit… In a few minutes the kettle whistles. I pour the water into the teapot.

The scent of the tea—the hint of sharp citrus and sweet cinnamon—fills my nose.

"It's my turn to make the tea, Professor!"

"You can't even reach the cabinet, sprout!"

"I am not a sprout! I'm going to be a proper English gentleman!"

"Now, now, there's no need for an altercation. Let me help you with those, my boy."

"It's all right, Professor, I can get them—unnf!—myself—"

No—goddamn it, I'm busy! But it's all wrong—standing in the professor's kitchen making tea for a girl who looks entirely too frightened to hold her own in an investigation. I want the professor here, making up puzzles over spaghetti—I want Luke begging me to make the tea sweeter—I want—

Damn it!

My hand jerks. Boiling water splashes from the kettle—across the counter, onto the floor, and over the back of my right wrist.

"Bloody hell!" I slam the kettle down and rush to the sink.

Flora gasps. "Are you okay?"

"What's it look like?!" Already a blister's forming.

Flora squeaks and scampers out of the room.

We may need to work on your people skills, Emmy.

I wipe my watering eyes with my free hand. Just a burn. Just pain. That, I can deal with. I leave my hand under the kitchen tap till my bones start to ache from cold, then grab a dish towel. What a mess.


I've nearly got the spilled water mopped up when the girl returns, clutching a battered metal box. She halts in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other. I wring out the sodden towel. Neither of us moves.

In her shoes, I don't suppose I'd want to come near me, either.

"I think the tea's all right," I say at last. "If you want any."

"It smells good," she says in a near-whisper. "Um—I found the—" She holds up the first aid kit. I step forward to take it from her, and she flinches.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you," I say quietly. "I never was so good at being a lady."

"Is—" She swallows. "Is that why Papa doesn't talk about you?"

Now it's my turn to recoil. What do I even say to that? I bite my lip to keep from blurting out something cutting, bite it so hard I taste blood.

"S-sorry! I—I didn't mean—"

"I don't know why the professor does anything." Which is a lie; one more for the list. "Besides, I haven't seen him in almost five years."

Gingerly, Flora sets the first aid kit down on the table. "But—you saw Luke?"

I pull out a chair. "A couple of days ago. Not before." She's probing for something. The question is, what. "Why, did he talk about me?"

She cracks a smile. "Yes. A few months ago." A soft creak; she's opened the cabinet where the teacups are. "He said you'd dropped off the face of the earth."

I snort. "Trust Luke to spin it like that!" My fingers close around a mostly-empty tube of antibiotic ointment. The kit's surprisingly well stocked… it used to be I was the only one who thought to refill it. But then, it was usually me patching up Luke's misadventures, too.

China clinks. "What color were you?"

"Hmm?"

"Your tea things," Flora says softly. "What color?" She holds up a cup and saucer, white, with pale pink rims. "These are mine."

"There's no way they're still there," I say.

She looks at me.

"…Yellow."

Flora reaches far into the cupboard and produces a yellow-rimmed teacup. "Papa never throws anything away."

My mouth drops open.

"But I don't see the saucer," Flora says. She pulls a plain white one from a different shelf and steps over to the teapot. "So if you weren't missing, where were you?"

I shrug. There were a number of interchangeable cesspools of humanity, and I don't care to talk about any of them.

At last Flora says, "Do you take milk? Sugar?"

"Not today." I riffle through a stack of plasters, finally locating one of a suitable size. Flora sets my teacup down on the table. I crumple the bandage wrapper into my left hand.

The tea steams. Flora cradles her cup in both hands, but doesn't take a sip.

"Could I see that picture again?" she asks.

I draw it from my pocket, nudge it across the table. Her eyes shine like dark wells as she picks it up.

"You got to go with them. You didn't get left behind." She blinks, and a tear splashes on the wood tabletop. "You got to know what was going on, didn't you?"

I pluck the photo from her hands. "Maybe once. Right now I know less than you do."

Her eyes flash.

"I'm serious," I say. "You have no idea how lucky you are."

"My adopted father is missing!" Flora yells, jumping out of her chair. "What kind of luck is that?!"

"What's luck is—!" I'm on my feet before I notice I've moved. Only—if I say what I almost said, she's bound to throw me out on my ear, just like Grosky. I take a deep breath. "It's not important. But that's all I know: that he's missing. And that's because Luke roped me into this. I need more information, Flora."

She sits down again; picks up her teacup, silent.

"I don't much care if you trust me," I say, "but we both want the professor found and brought home safe, right?"

Flora doesn't answer. I drop into my chair. The girl lifts her teacup to her lips. She sips cautiously. I see her eyes widen.

I am pretty good at making the professor's favorite tea.

"All right," she says. "There's… something I should probably show you." She sets the cup down and, mouselike, slips out of the kitchen. I'm not sure if she wants me to follow or to wait, but I can't seem to sit still. I step into the front room at the same moment she emerges from what once was Luke's room and now must be hers.

"I found this in the office," she says, "the morning he…"

In her hands is a torn, dented, but painfully familiar black silk hat.