There are a lot of small pieces to the set. Bodhi plucks a glowing corner from the wood in the stove to drop into the tiny tabletop brazier, leaves it for a moment for the heat to make the air and iron shiver, while he considers his choices. His father could always tell what kind of tea a person needed, though he had far more than three to choose from, and as an adult Bodhi can intellectually grasp that the mysterious ability had more to do with knowing the locals and impressing the pilgrims than any intrinsic gift, most likely. He chooses the plainest tea after a moment's hesitation, fine and pure and lightly fermented, and breaks a corner off the block with tongs to toast. Woodsmoke isn't quite right for this blend, though he realizes belatedly it would have gone nicely with the caravan-style and been lost in the spice. Damn. He compensates by holding it over the heat only briefly and dropping it into the cup to grind the leaves to powder. A few crumbles of gray rock sugar on top, then the water, a quick, efficient swirl with a little whisk, and he pushes the cloudy, steaming cup toward Kira with a smooth, careless moment.

For all his internal wondering, Bodhi's expression as he moved through the ritual (as ritual it obviously was) was utterly serene, his hands graceful and competent with every fiddly little device. For all his natural clumsiness in big ways (rare is the day he doesn't knock himself off or over something), he tends to be good at any project calling for fine motor skills, but this is something else.

There's even less strain in preparing his own cup of the smoked, heady caravan tea, and he talks almost easily as he repeats the process for himself. "I... I try to be. I was barely six when, well, the war hit the temple first and hardest. No one prioritizes children's lessons when the monks have all been scattered or murdered." The scent that rises from Bodhi's cup is more smokehouse than teahouse, heavy and oddly savory. "Sort of... on my own."