Page 116 of How to Fan the Flames

I sit back down.

I pick up my tea.

And when Dan sticks his head through the door and asks, “Toast, babyface?”

I look away from the office door.

“Yes, please,” I say.

“Brown or white?”

“Whatever’s easiest.”

“Dangerous answer.”

“I’m learning to live on the edge.”

I pick up my mug, because that makes it look as though I am moving for tea-related reasons, which is probably the least suspicious reason available in this building, and head towards the corridor.

Mish looks up.

Of course she does.

Her gaze is tired, but still sharp enough to pin me to the wall.

I pause.

“Tea,” I say, lifting my mug slightly.

“That’s not the kitchen.”

“No.”

She studies me for a second.

I do not know what she sees. A journalist with wet hair and a borrowed place in the room. A man who should probably sit down and wait for toast. A person who has just watched someone die and does not know what to do with the fact that the woman who held everyone else steady is now alone behind an office door.

Mish’s eyes flick towards the corridor, then back to me.

“She won’t like fuss,” she says.

“I know.”

“She definitely won’t like pity.”

“I know that too.”

“She might tell you to piss off.”

“That would be very on brand.”

Something almost like a smile moves across her face.

Then it fades.

“She does this,” Mish says quietly. “Looks after everyone else first.”

“I noticed.”