Samuel was still at the table, his long fingers wrapped around his teacup, the steam rising in a thin, pale ribbon from the surface.
He had been in the middle of his first proper sip, the kind a man takes when he has been awake since yesterday and tea is the closest available substitute for a functioning nervous system, when Max's chair scraped back.
He looked up.
Max was already moving toward the door. Samuel set the cup down and opened his mouth.
"Max…" He glanced back at the tea. It was a good cup. Fresh, hot, exactly the right strength. He had watched the kitchen attendant make it personally because he had learned over the years that if you wanted it done correctly, you had to observe the process.
"At least let me finish my…"
Max didn't turn around. He didn't slow down.
