Steam drifted like a thin veil over the slot. The tea was still warm, boards still glowing soft against stone, and the Brake Choir hummed its steady note somewhere below, like old pipes remembering their job. Thalatha stood close to the console with her arms folded, the cup in one hand. She did not hunch. She never hunched. But her shoulders had come down a notch since breakfast. The heat in her cup had found a home right under her collarbones and stayed there.
Mikhailis sat half-turned on the edge of the chair, one ankle crossed over the other, pretending to look relaxed and failing in small ways he didn't mind. The heel of his boot clicked once against the chair rung and then went quiet. He watched Thalatha's reflection in the polished rim of his cup as if it were another gauge: jaw untensed, eyes awake, the little line between her brows gone for now.
