Tea

Clio never let anyone else make her tea.  

It wasn’t about trust. It was about precision. The water had to be hot, not boiling. The leaves measured by weight, and only her teapot would do. It was a chipped ceramic relic from a forgotten dynasty, but it was perfect. It had to be warmed first. None of her sisters ever warmed their teapots first. Amateurs. 

She moved with the quietness of someone who needed order to function. The rest of the townhouse could unravel, and it often did, but in her study, things stayed exactly where she put them. Every book was aligned to the edge of the shelf, quills sharpened and standing like soldiers in their jar, maps pressed flat and pinned without a wrinkle. Even the chairs were angled just so, as if their precise placement could keep the world from slipping into chaos. 

She set the tray down with care. Two cups. One sugar bowl. The larger creamer full of half and half. No lemon. Lily didn’t like lemon. 

The door creaked, and Clio's spine straightened, her hand still steady on the teapot. Only the slight twitch of her fingers against the porcelain betrayed that she’d been waiting.

“You’re late,” she said mildly, pouring the first cup with perfect balance.

“I...wasn’t aware this was scheduled.” Lily’s voice was soft, amused.

“You said ‘later.’ It’s later.” Clio handed her a cup without meeting her eyes. “Sit. Don't you dare spill on my rug. It's Persian. Irreplaceable."  

Lily dropped into the opposite chair with a sigh, tucking her legs beneath her. Her curls were still slightly damp from too long a bath, probably. Or maybe a moment alone out in the rain. Clio didn’t ask. She knew her sister. She knew Lily had been thinking too much, winding herself into knots. Clio felt the familiar pinch of worry in her chest, but kept her expression still. She had learned long ago that asking directly only made Lily retreat further, so she let the observation live quietly in her own head, another entry in the endless record she kept of her sisters’ unspoken moods.  

The study was dim, lit only by the late morning light slanting through tall windows and the gold-laced glow of the enchanted sconces. Books lined the walls. Some whispered. Some sulked. One behind Lily’s shoulder was humming faintly to itself. Clio loved them all. 

They drank in silence for a few minutes. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Not really. Lily stirred her tea absently. Clio observed her with keen eyes.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Clio said eventually, not quite a question.

Lily lifted one shoulder. “I’m tired.”

Clio snorted. “You’ve been tired since the last Great War. I’m still waiting for you to do something about it.”

“True. But this is different.”

Clio didn’t press. She let the silence stretch. It wasn't her job to fix Lily's problems; she needed to do that on her own. But the urge to intervene scraped at her insides. It always did. Every instinct she had told her to catalogue Lily’s moods, anticipate her stumbles, and throw words like armor around her before anyone else could wound her. Holding back felt like balancing on a knife’s edge. Necessary, but painful.   

Lily’s fingers traced the rim of her cup. “Do you ever wish we could stop for a while? Just… be?”

Clio blew gently on her tea. “No.”

Lily looked up with abject surprise in her eyes. 

Clio met her gaze with calm resolve. “I don’t wish. I prepare. Wishing doesn’t help. It's like locking your door but leaving the key under the front mat.” 

Lily nodded. “But our spare key is under the front mat.”

There was a pause, and a quick roll of her eyes. Then Clio sighed. A rare thing. 

“Sometimes,” she said, softer now, “when it’s quiet like this… I imagine what it would’ve been like to grow old. To forget things. To let time pass without keeping track of it.” 

Lily blinked. “That sounds a lot like wishing.”

Clio arched a brow. “Don’t get smug. It's unattractive." 

Lily smiled into her cup. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately. You're like a candle dripping wax.  Messy and inevitable, but I can't help but lighting it again and again ”

More silence. But this one was warmer. Familiar.

The tea cooled slowly between them.

“Are you afraid?” Lily asked suddenly. 

Clio didn’t answer right away. She stood, moved to a shelf, pulled a book down just to have something in her hands. She flipped through it absently. It was all blank pages, an old spellbook she’d meant to rewrite.

“I’m not afraid of what’s coming,” Clio said finally, snapping the book closed. “I’m afraid of what it might take from us.”

Lily looked down. “Me too.”

“You should be.” Clio’s voice sharp and bracing. “You’ve never been good at holding back. The world has teeth, Lily, and you can't help but to keep offering it your throat.”

“This time…I just want to give in, even if it ends everything.”

Clio’s hands stilled on the book.

She didn’t look at Lily. Didn’t say the name they were both thinking of. She returned the book to the shelf gently, as though it might break.

“I know,” she said.

Lily stood and crossed to her. Their heights were almost the same, but Clio always made herself feel taller. Still, she let Lily lean her head briefly against her shoulder.

It only lasted a moment. But Clio didn’t move away.

“I’ll be fine,” Lily murmured.

Clio didn’t lie, couldn't. “No, you won’t. But I’ll be here. When you break, I'll help piece you back together, we all will."  

Lily smiled softly and left the study. Clio's eyes followed the door until it clicked shut, and only then did she let her shoulders sag. The room felt larger without Lily in it, quieter too, but not in a comforting way. Clio pressed her fingertips against the cool spine of a book, anchoring herself. The thought of losing her sister hollowed her out. And so she did what she always did: straightened her back, set her jaw, and carried the weight.