Maltida
“Mr. Williams, Mr. Carmichael, and Mr. Northwest,” I counted quietly as I carefully poured tea into delicate china cups. My hands trembled slightly, but I blamed it on the heat from the kettle.
Three cups. Each with its own little ritual. I reached for the sugar cubes- three extra for Mr. Carmichael. He was such a sweet tooth. Always has been. I tucked the sugar in carefully, stirring just enough without clinking the spoon too loud.
The tray was heavier than usual. Or maybe I was just tired. I held my breath and walked toward the sitting room where voices buzzed low and sharp like insects around blood.
They barely looked up as I entered, but I felt their eyes on me when I bent to place the cups down.
Mr. Carmichael took his cup before I even finished setting the tray down.
