[He watches her carefully, picking his words even more so. Not because he does not think she can bear this grief, but only because he does not wish to make it worse. He is about to reach to wipe her face, when she changes the subject. He lets the moment go, a gentle smile on his face. His tail still drags a little as he gathers the cups near the kettle, but at least he no longer trips over it.

He has, once, tripped into a kettle. It was unfortunate. (Actually, it seems worth doing if it might distract her --

Except the mess it would leave. He decides against it.)]

As do I. [Distractions of the less dangerous variety seem much wiser.] Have I told you that my first encounter with a kettle was in this world? We don't have them at my home. Or stoves. Or tea, for that matter. Mostly it's ale. A lot of ale. Ooh, and wine. I wish I could show you Toussaint wine! It was my favorite.

[At least he's taken some lessons, especially the training he received when he worked at the Tea Room. (He longs to go back, actually.) He pours the tea for the two of them, the steam carrying that same smoky scent through the room, then offers her the glass.] We had to boil water most of the time. It could always spread plague. Or bits of corpse. Always bound to find a good old corpse near --

[He realizes this is a very terrible subject, all at once.] My apologies. I get lost in the memories sometimes.