"This won't remind you," Raju tries, not quite able to leave that neutral, businesslike tone behind him even distantly aware that something obviously friendly would be better. He takes one last look around at the snow, then closes the door. "But it's been a while since I've had English tea."

He doesn't look around as he says it. Francis will have moved either to the right, past the little bookshelf of cookbooks and field guides and notebooks and terrible romance novels, past the two armchairs and to the fireplace there or he'll have gone straight from the door to the open kitchen at the far wall. Raju keeps his eyes on the coatrack instead, past it to one of the many oddly shaped uncleanable burn marks on the wooden floor. His hand hesitates on the strap of his bow, holding it in place on him, and then he pulls it off him quickly to hang it over the coat rack. The quiver follows. He starts, more slowly than he needs to, untying the strips of cloth holding the blanket over him. "How close are we today, Francis? Pine needles again?"