Carcel's eyes widened, his mind a complete and utter blank. He had been caught. He had been caught smiling. A smile, he was certain, that made him look like a depraved lunatic.
He needed a lie. A fast one. A boring one.
He cleared his throat, the sound a rough, gravelly rasp. "The tea," he said, his voice stiff. He lifted his cup, his hand miraculously steady. "The tea smells... very good today."
He took a long, desperate sip. It was cold. It was bitter. It was, quite possibly, the worst tea he had ever tasted.
Rowan stared at him, his head tilted, his expression one of pure bafflement. "The tea," Rowan repeated, as if the word were foreign. "That is what made you smile? My friend, you are truly not yourself. You are talking like an old man." He paused and smiled. "Who made you this way? What's her name?"
Before Rowan could press the matter, before Carcel had to invent a second, even more pathetic lie, a voice, light and clear as a silver bell, drifted in from the hallway.
