Earl.
Noble. Substance and station. Elegance, respect, history. Well-spoken assurance, quietly calming authority.
Grey.
Not the liquid, for this begins life as clear lakes of possibility, poured and captured, meandering through the delicate tint of aged library pages on an early spring morning, then meeting dark honey melting into cavern-dug gold, sinking through time into the depths of mature pigmentation.
Tea.
Teacups are rarely grey. The perfect ones fit your hand, a comforting weight of their presence accommodating chilled fingers with a caress of homecoming.
The pot is lifted. Like a swan on a lake, the magic is unseen, but the necessary reactions of motion take place.
Ceremony. Scent. Warmth.
Light, drifting notes of fragrance. Honeysuckle, sweet peas, a hint of earthy rose. Revitalised leaf offering pause, time arrested and space standing motionless.
Breathe.
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