Academy Archivist Stone thanked his host and left for his snug domain in the Academy stacks. The kitchen was suddenly very quiet. Alan washed and put away the plates and mugs. Really, tea should be served in the sitting room, but the kitchen was warmer and cozier, and after all the whole point was to keep the same conditions as the first time Burns had been served Matthias' tea.
Alan opened the teapot. The soggy leaves still had a tiny hint of fragrance. A pity to waste it. He emptied the kettle and added fresh water. Setting it to boil, he took down one of the two teacups Supplies had stocked in the cabinet. A question: if Collins made a habit of bringing four patients to this kitchen, should he ask for more teacups? But the teacups held less than the mugs, so no. The teapot held six cups. The guests had had one and one-half refills. Ten servings, two and one-half cups, sixteen and four, twenty ounces as a possible effective dose. The kettle whistled. Alan poured the teapot half-full—certainly the leaves could infuse no more on their third brewing – and left the pot to steep while he searched for something to offer Eric for dinner. There was very little. He would wait for Eric's return and suggest the Cafeteria. Or they could go out to one of the small restaurants near Headquarters.
That settled, Alan sat down to consider the subject he had been avoiding. Collins had ordered him—and it was indeed an order; Collins would put it in writing if Alan did not comply, with the full weight of Medical behind it—to stop visiting the hospice. Well, the place was up and running. Time to concentrate on other duties; he was certainly oversupplied with projects.
To avoid resentment. Yes, he could see that, now that the other Divisions had accepted their responsibilities; he'd started helping well before they knew about the place, then continued while they were arguing about what should be done, and by whom, and how it all would be funded. It shamed them to find Reapers in shirtsleeves already working to help the sick who had been neglected while Divisions wrangled. Those Reapers were doing their best, but they were not up to professional standards. Maintenance would disapprove of what they considered shoddy work. Supplies would be similarly upset about replacing and disposing of scavenged bedding and furniture. Having the residents and orderlies ask them 'Why didn't you get up off yer bleedin' arses and do it yourselves, then?' wouldn't help. And how much of this decree was because Medical hadn't stood up either?
Also to avoid rumor. The patients too sick to work had little to do but talk. He hadn't been called to the battlefields. Would they accuse him of receiving preferential treatment? Alan had been cursed with the Thorns once and still lived. What remedy would they think he might he be hiding? Would they accuse him of denying it to others? Would they think he could be forced to tell?
Alan shivered and poured himself a cup of weak tea. He held the cup up. There it was, that fragrance. Not floral. Not fruity. Clean and fresh. He sipped and cherished the warmth. It smelled and tasted of something forgotten, something rare and precious, something taken away and long denied.
Hope. It tasted of hope.
Well, now. An undemanding task for poor Ten Hagen would be the filling of those candy bowls. They could change to a regular schedule of replenishment, rather than on an as-needed basis, and anybody who needed to thump some third-rate demons could volunteer to pick up the deliveries from the shop. Archivist Stone was quite right. Alan was demanding too much of his aides, assuming that anyone could do what he could do. Too much to assume that they shared the fears and obsessions that drove him. After all, they didn't have Eric to give them strength.
Make a list of all his obligations. Split them up among his aids and escorts. Schedule so that nobody had to work more than three trips a day. No. That would be infringing on Duncan's responsibilities. Discuss the plan with Duncan, then let him make the schedule.
Sorenson had given notice. A loss, but a necessary one. Everyone in the office was happy to see Molly well protected when she went off to war. Tell Mallory to think about a couple of hires. Look about for a Junior or two who might be willing to try something new. He couldn't recruit among the Seniors. Too few, too badly needed on the battlefield.
If a cure was found, the hospice residents might well be a source of new employees. But he was forbidden the hospice. Ten Hagen was not, and he was a likeable fellow, and would become acquainted with the residents… and his partner was Senior Steven Terry, training in Personnel. He would be one of the first recruiters to descend upon the hospice if a cure was discovered. If Terry knew that his partner's section needed new hires, and had learned from Ten Hagen exactly what sort of talents were needed… If Terry was already known to the Hospice as the man helping his partner bring in candy…
Alan poured another cup of tea. He would sit down with poor Dutch and talk about all the twisty hidden paths leading from Werther's candy bowl in Junior Housing to the reclamation of Reapers expelled by their Branches for being ill. Watch him think about it. See what happened.
Eric came back with a plate in one hand. Alan called a greeting from the bedroom where he was polishing shoes and followed him into the kitchen. "How did it go, love? Does the tea help the severely ill?"
Eric tested the teapot and poured out the last cold dregs. "A little. The man was a student of ours, eight years ago, maybe. One of the coalfield Joneses. Ted says that pain relief is about as much as we can hope for. The tea let him eat and fall asleep. No partner willing to stay by him as far as I can tell; there are no signs of a regular visitor. 'Tis a vicious curse even without the isolation. Ted will observe him tonight. I don't know if it's kinder to hope he passes in his sleep."
"If so, I pray he is granted rest." But that was unlikely for a Reaper of only a few years' service, and they both knew it. "You're losing a button on your cuff. If you give me your shirt tonight I'll tack it down."
Eric accepted this offer as a gesture of love and consolation. "That's kind of ye, me lad. Is there anything to eat in the kitchen?"
"Not enough for the two of us, or really even for just yourself. Collins is cross with me, so I dare not skip a meal. Will the Cafeteria do?"
"It will. We won't want to cook or clean up tonight. Let me settle a bit. The tea does help, doesn't it? Aye, Collins warned ye off. The Divisions are feeling a little guilty about not stepping up sooner. Stay away. They'll get over it. In time it will become just one of those embarrassing episodes that nobody mentions in polite conversation." He looked into his teacup. "D'you think the angels will refuse us this?"
"Do you think it might become addictive? What if it is only available for a short time and the Realm goes into withdrawal? No, that's silly. Azrael wouldn't have it."
"Who do we even ask? Will Sandriel be allowed to set up as a tea trader? What can we offer in exchange? The angels do not use our currency. What coin will they demand? Because there will be a price, however hidden and delayed."
"The blades we haft for them is the only service we provide; they could easily do it themselves if they could spare the time and workers. But, Eric, I don't think they can. It would mean training and equipping an assembly line. I doubt they can spare the staff. Maybe the tea itself isn't special, except that it's spent some time in an angel's pantry? Maybe if Supplies provided a load of plain standard-issue low-grade tea, they could—could just bless the whole batch? If the blessing is grudgingly given, will it still work?"
"And if it does not work, will they care? Ach, me Light, we are borrowing trouble. Let us go eat. Then let us go sit for a bit in the Scythe and Skull, surrounded by friends who know no better than to be happy."
Alan moved in close. They shared a silent hug. Then Alan said "There might be spice cake tonight," took Eric's hand and ported him away.