"No need to call me sir, darling," Anzu says, taking the coffee. He sips at it carefully — it's still hot. Not hot enough to burn, but hot enough to feel it warm his thoracic cavity as it travels down. "And if thou can'st find smoked gunpowder tea, both I and mine husband would be most obliged to thee. And we'd brew some for thee, should'st thou want to try it."

He smiles — it's tired and a little drawn, but still warm and charming. Practiced, yes, but sincere nonetheless — he practiced smiling to smile in good faith (but for a time, the mere notion of smiling in good faith seemed like a distant dream).

He glances at the books and sighs.

"Nu, ah. I've found a lot of things I'd have called good two weeks ago," he says. "Right now? Most of what I've found is only dimly relevant, if at all."