We stand there, the three of us staring at each other, all of us searching for words. I don’t know where to start. Nigel as some sort of badass necromancer? My own mother?
All of it is too much. I turn to Malcolm, who is still clutching my hand.
“Do you have any tea?” I ask, and it’s a plaintive sort of question.
He gives my fingers a quick squeeze. “Let me brew some. Then maybe we can figure out what’s going on.”
This last is directed more at Nigel, who raises his eyebrows as if he’s nothing but innocent.
Within minutes, aromatic steam fills the conference room. Malcolm does the honors, from brewing to pouring to pressing a glass into my hands. Warmth sinks into my fingers, which feel cold and stiff. For a moment I simply hold the tea, inhale, and let the steam fill me.
“This is dif
