"I didn't really want to do it myself until it was in my way," he says pithily, holding onto the certain wave of self-satisfaction. He doesn't want to risk letting go of the mood, because he can't imagine it'll come back easily.

Asking for tea is a good way to keep it rolling. Soothing and satisfying, and he'd been wanting a cup for himself anyway. With a nod, he pulls the set free, setting out the bronze pot and all its little accouterments. One of the cups did crack during the quake, but the cups were never as important as being able to go through every step the right way. His whisk is a little bent and one of the brazier's little legs has a slight wobble to it now, but it's a small issue, easily worked around. That happens. As he efficiently snaps every piece onto the table, he asks, "Spiced, smoked, or fermented?" For a moment, he sounds so much like his father (or maybe it's just that now he's dressed like him) that he alarms himself a bit, but he tries to ignore it.