Wriothesley watches as Neuvillette lifts the teacup to his lips, delicate as ever—even in a prison fortress.

The snow taps lightly against the window behind them, a soft percussion to the silence that stretches between them. Not an awkward silence, though. Never that. It’s the kind that’s easy to sit in. The kind you don’t want to break unless it’s to say something true.

He leans back in his chair, arms folded lazily behind his head, and lets out a slow breath.

“Y’know,” he says, “I think you come here for the tea more than for me.”