You swallow hard, hesitating in the kitchen doorway, holding the serving tray you’ve prepared. Then, before you can change your mind, you walk quickly to the table and gather your courage, letting it lead you right in front of the man of the hour—hours.

Mr. Grace lifts his head from his hands to face you. Hmm?

You smile uneasily, again. You’re trying, right? You hope you’re not shaking; that’s not the sound of the teapot lid rattling against itself, right? From the serving tray, you place the squat teapot, cup, and plates in the middle of the table, golden eyes following them to their resting places.

Mr. Grace tilts his head toward the teapot, questioningly. Tea?

“Y-you struck me as a tea guy.”

Mr. Grace’s expression doesn’t change much at the admission. You turn to face him again. There’s a slight softening of the constant stiffness now, a ghost of amusement. What do you mean?

Mr. Grace stares at you for a moment. You begin to think your jocular delivery might have fallen flat, but then your jailer hisses a clipped laugh behind a tight-lipped smile and relaxes back into his seat.

You’re right, miss. I do like tea.* He gestures to the turned chair at the table across from you.* Why don’t you join me? It looks like you have some free time.