Fifty-nine was not the age to get your first tattoo, but Cora was out of options. She had to open her third eye. Once she could see her enemy, she could fight them. And then she’d send them screaming back to Hell where they belonged.Demons deserved nothing less.Cora’s hands gripped the underside of her kitchen chair, rings pressed together as Judy worked the tattoo gun over her sternum, tracing an ancient, stylized eye. She could handle the pain —birthing three kids proved that— but it still hurt. And the magic-infused ink stank like boiled cabbage. Her nose wrinkled.
They sat in the middle of Cora’s kitchen, she in her bra and unbuttoned blue dress, Judy in her organic hand-woven fair-trade cotton pants and tie-dyed blouse. They were of similar age and had known each other for years, but Cora always felt short and frumpy around Judy. Judy oozed grace and calm. And she looked so young, as if time hadn’t—
Stop. Focus. Chant the spell every thirty seconds until Judy’s done.
Cora clenched her teeth and eyed the wall clock. She couldn’t afford to miss her timing. The buzz of the tattoo gun filled the room. A million needles jabbed into Cora’s skin.
Deep breaths.
The clock ticked over, and Cora started chanting in Latin.
Her candlelit kitchen, normally a bright, warm space, felt dark and oppressive. Sure, sunlight pushed past the curtains and birds chattered outside —barked at by the neighbor’s dumb dog— but Cora felt none of spring’s joy. Winter had released its grip on Colorado Springs, but darkness had settled into her soul. It hadn’t been a good year.
Any individual crisis could have been bad luck —stolen identity, fender benders, getting fired from the IRS thirteen damned months before retirement— but all those events bundled together with a hundred others? That painted a grimmer picture. One with demons. After everything she’d experienced in the past few years, she knew the signs.
Anger pushed bile up Cora’s throat. It ended tonight.
“Almost done,” Judy whispered, her deep Irish burr a comfort. “Then we’ll make a nice pot of Darjeeling.”
“I’d rather have coffee,” Cora said with an unintentional singsong tone at the end of her chant. “Strong enough to jumpstart my soul.” She considered for a second. “Make that Irish Coffee, heavy on the Irish.” Today was going to be intense, regardless of outcome. She watched the clock, silently counting until her next chant.
“The best conversations happen over tea,” Judy said, brows furrowed in concentration. “Did you know I proposed to Fred over a cup?” Of course she’d proposed; another way to buck the establishment. Judy was a confirmed hippie of the old school. Cora, however, was more traditional: a divorced mother of three with a failed career, ruined credit, and a demon problem. Judy continued, “There’s something comforting about shared tea that coffee cannot match.”
“Okay.” Cora forced a smile. “We’ll share some dirty leaf water when you’re done.” Judy chuckled.
It was an empty promise. A ruse coordinated in whispers beforehand so Cora could surprise her resident demon. The fiend was probably watching them right now, plotting its next tedious torment.
Cora’s teeth ground, and this time not from pain. She would get her life back. She had to.
She resumed chanting.
“Done,” Judy said and straightened in her chair.
The pain on Cora’s sternum abruptly focused, like a knife jabbed into her very soul. Her chant cut off with a gasp. She glanced down. The stylized eye on her chest glowed cabbage purple before fading to black. She looked up.
They weren’t alone. Two horned demons filled the kitchen entry, both wearing Hell’s standard rumpled gray suits. They had red eyes, no shoes, and sharp-looking claws. One was under two feet tall, slender, and wingless. The other was big enough that his wings filled the doorway. He was clearly berating his subordinate, roaring and waving a clipboard. His harsh voice cut into Cora’s awareness mid-tirade.
“…had a year to break this witch, Marie!”
“I’m not a witch!” Cora snarled, rising. She buttoned her dress, glare burning into the demons. “Just a woman using the available tools to do a nasty job.” Like a knife, magic wasn’t innately evil. It was all about how you used it.
The demon spun, his surprise that she’d heard him quickly replaced by disdain. Judy, as planned, unplugged her tattoo gun, whispered, “Good luck,” and bolted out the back door. She’d done her part. Sunlight flashed before the door slammed, rattling the cupboards.
The demon ignored her, eyeing Cora. “So, you opened your third eye. That won’t stop Hell. What did you think your petty magic would do?”
Cora’s hand slipped into her pocket. All dresses should have pockets. They’re perfect for hiding blessed artifacts from Lucifer’s minions. “If I can see you,” she said, “I can hit you.” Saint Patrick’s cross filled her hand.
Cora lunged forward, her iron-filled punch flying at the demon’s face.
He jinked aside. His clipboard swung around like the infernal shield it was, and Cora’s fist struck it with the full weight of her rage. It was like punching a brick wall.
Bone crunched. The cross cut into her palm. Cora screamed and dropped the artifact. Off balance, she fell against the doorframe and clutched her hand.
The big demon loomed over her. Breath like sulfur made Cora gag. “Lucifer warned me about your right cross,” he said. “In fact, that’s why we’re here. Nobody strikes the Lord of Darkness and just walks away.”
Cora pushed a smile through her pain. “Totally worth it. He stole my daughter. But it’s been a year now; he’s made his point. Leave now, and I won’t send you to the Lake of Fire.” Saint Patrick’s cross was only her opening gambit, a way to vent some anger.
The demon barked a laugh. “You can’t banish us. You have no blessed blade. I’ve checked.”
No, but she had found an ancient purification spell that did the same thing, banishing any demons within the home. It’s amazing what you can find on the internet. Cora stumbled back toward her ring of candles, throbbing hand clutched to her chest.
Marie spoke behind her, and Cora was surprised to hear a distinctly French accent from the imp. “I will break her, Paimon. On my honor!”
“Your honor?” he sneered. “Worth less than you are.”
Cora collapsed into her chair and gasped when she bumped her hand. Definitely broken. She ignored it and started a new chant. Ancient Celtic this time.
The candles flared. Runes secretly chalked onto the walls glowed to life. Both demons twitched as if she’d slapped them with holy water.
“You fool!” Paimon roared at Marie. “How many spells did she prepare under your nose?” The imp flinched and scuttled away before Paimon could strike her.
Cora chanted, voice rising with the candle glow. Purifying white light filled the room. She reached the final line, nearly screaming, and—
Paimon kicked over the nearest candle. The room went dark with a thunderclap. The complex spell broke with a magical whiplash that nearly knocked Cora from her chair.
Her breath roared in the abrupt silence. Her eyes adjusted. She was glad she’d chosen midday for this instead of midnight. The sunlight behind the curtains was just enough to see by.
Paimon’s voice purred from the shadows. His eyes glowed red. “You’re right. You’re not a proper witch. Otherwise, you never would have tried such an easily foiled spell.”
“You’ll never break me,” Cora said, bravado covering her hammering heart.
“We cannot harm you directly, no,” his gaze flicked to Cora’s rings, one of which was a holy shield she’d acquired practically by accident, “but you will beg Lucifer to end your suffering. He has demanded it. For tonight’s little display, your torments will increase tenfold…with ten more demons.” Paimon sounded pleased with himself.
Cora fought for a comeback. Only tears came. She’d failed. Her kitchen’s oppressive darkness was suddenly too much. She rose and scrambled for the door.
The emergency room wasn’t busy, and Cora soon found herself sitting on a too-high exam table being prodded by a nurse. Marie the imp had stuck to her like a leech— if leeches remained a solid five feet from their victims. Not that Cora could do anything. She’d abandoned her cross in the kitchen when she fled and had no other weapons.
The nurse, a middle-aged Hispanic woman named Candice, sat on a rolling stool and examined Cora’s hand. “What happened?”
Cora winced and lied. “Boxing accident. My, uh, target moved.” Even she knew it sounded lame. Judy was better at elaborate excuses, but they’d made her stay in the waiting room.
“Husband target, or boyfriend?” Candice’s tone held genuine concern.
“Hellspawn,” Cora said with a glare at Marie. The demon was fiddling with the laptop in the corner.
Candice grunted but didn’t comment. She turned Cora’s hand over, revealing the cuts and the cross-shaped bruise on the palm. Her eyebrow arched.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cora mumbled. Where would she even begin?
“You’ll need X-rays,” Candice said. She turned to start typing. “Emergency orders usually process within five—”
The laptop sparked and went black. Marie slid her claws from its guts, a satisfied look on her impish face.
Candice sighed and rose to leave. “Make that ten minutes.” She put a hand on Cora’s shoulder. “Maybe when I return, we can chat about ‘boxing’?”
“I don’t want to talk about it!” Cora snapped, impotent anger abruptly boiling over. She instantly felt guilty and huddled in on herself.
The nurse answered with an understanding smile. “Fighting back is good. Just remember, you’re not alone. It’s amazing how much clarity a good, honest conversation can provide.” She opened the door, said, “Think about it,” and was gone.
Cora didn’t have time to think about it. A roil of high-pitched voices rose in the hall. Paimon’s roar silenced them. “Break her will in three days,” he demanded, “or your torments will pale in comparison.”
An impish hoard, ten in all, stormed through the wall and into the exam room. The lights seemed to dim. They went straight for Cora, surrounding her like a circling school of gray-suited, two-foot-tall sharks. Their clawed feet scraped insidiously on the floor, raising the hair on Cora’s neck. One, a male with intricate Māori face tattoos and needlelike teeth, leapt onto the examination table beside her. He couldn’t touch her —thank God she’d worn that holy-shield ring on her unbroken left hand!— but he whispered into her ear.
“You’re weak. You can’t fight Hell, so why even try?”
Why even try?
The words echoed inside her mind. The imp’s deep Pacific Islander’s accent was followed by Cora’s own voice in her head. They were planting intrusive thoughts.
“Get away from me!” Cora leapt off the bed and spun, punching at the imp without thinking. Her injured right hand passed through him, and she fell off balance. She caught herself on the bed and then gasped. Pain spiraled up her arm. Broken bones crunched and purple stars flashed. Her vision warbled. When it stabilized, Cora was sitting on the floor, clutching her wrist and crying.
The circling imps chanted and cackled, each voice insinuating not just thoughts into her mind, but feelings of depression and inadequacy with every word.
You failed.
You are worthless.
Nobody is coming to save you.
A wave of despair rolled over her, riding the pain throbbing up her wrist.
Cora clenched her jaw. Get hold of yourself, woman! She’d dealt with intrusive thoughts of inadequacy her entire life. She’d be damned if she gave into them now, especially when she knew the thoughts weren’t hers.
Time to fight fire with fire, insult with insult.
“Is that the best you’ve got?” she growled at Marie and the Terrible Ten, giving the horde a name. Name your fears and rob them of their power. To the whispering imp on the table above her, Cora sneered with as much condescension as she could muster, “Please, I’ve heard worse from my ex-husband.” To Marie she said with an eye roll, “And what’s up with the French accent? It’s a stupid pretense! A petite little voice like yours won’t strike fear into anyone.” She had nothing against the French, but words were the only weapon she had left.
Marie lunged forward, coming eye-to-eye with Cora. Her chest expanded, pride nearly bursting her suit’s buttons. “It is no pretense. I am French! Un enfant de la Révolution Française!”
That caught Cora by surprise. “You were…born a demon?”
“We all were,” the Māori imp whispered from above, “spawned by the collective trauma of war, Lucifer’s eternal servants.” He resumed his insidious chant.
You are weak. You are worthless. You are nothing.
Cora’s mind tripped over itself as she tried to ignore his words. “So, you never had a choice—”
There was a quick knock, and the door opened. “Ready for your X-rays,” Candice said, then looked down at Cora, unaware of the impish horde darkening the exam room. “Heavens, what happened?” She knelt beside Cora.
“I fell,” Cora said half-truthfully.
Candice helped her up and the demons chanted into her mind.
Why try? Why fight? Give up.
Cora shuddered but let Candice guide her out the door. Marie and the Terrible Ten followed like a dark cloud of scraping claws and whispered words.
Hours later, Cora slumped through her front door, followed by Judy. If anything could have gone wrong at the hospital, it had, courtesy of Marie and the Terrible Ten. They’d eventually bored of implanting intrusive thoughts —which still cycled through Cora’s mind— so while she was getting X-rays, they’d focused instead on making every machine that they could find fail.
It had been a disaster.
But now she was home, the cast on her right arm extending from forearm to fingertips. She was exhausted and in pain. All she wanted was to collapse onto the couch, drink some wine, read a mindless romance, and forget today ever happened.
The demons had other ideas. They poured into the house, not even attempting subtlety. A vase tottered off the mantle. Her television snapped to life with static and purple flames that undulated around a terrifying, half-seen visage. The lights flickered. A low moan filled the air like her house had become the set of a dozen bad horror flicks all at once.
It would have been frightening if Cora hadn’t seen the demons scampering about like misbehaving monkeys.
Judy froze in the doorway, her eyes wide. “It may be time to call the priest,” she said, voice thick with fear.
Cora shook her head as the little fiends ransacked her house. “The only priest who would talk to me —a known dabbler in the dark arts— was Father MacDonald, and he passed last year while I was infiltrating Hell.”
“Too bad. A spritz of holy water would be helpful about now.” Judy, with obvious effort of will, stepped inside and closed the door. She flinched when a line of family photos whizzed past and crashed into the far wall.
Cora couldn’t agree more. Holy water had been her most powerful weapon in Hell, but with Father MacDonald’s passing she hadn’t managed to replenish her stock. Now it was too late. Her home, her sanctuary, was being torn apart around her.
Judy squeaked when the couch started wobbling across the floor.
Enough was enough. Fury sent Cora stomping into the kitchen. She snatched Saint Patrick’s Cross from the floor, the only weapon she had left. She stormed towards Marie who was working one end of the couch. The cross spun at the end of its chain. It was awkward, using her left hand, but Cora was beyond caring.
“Get. Out. Of. My. House!” she screamed.
The cross caught Marie on the chest. She flew back as if hit by a baseball bat. Cora followed, filled with righteous anger. Marie curled into a ball. Cora loomed over the cowering demon, arm pulled back—
Marie whimpered, “Please, I’m only doing as commanded!”
Cora stopped. Her chest heaved. “Then stop! I don’t care what your commands are, you can walk away. Evil is a choice!”
“Non,” the imp said quietly, “not for us.”
Cora blinked at that. “You have no choice?” This was the second time the imps had said that. It made no sense. Every creature, whether of flesh or spirit, had choice.
As Cora had a choice right now. She could beat Marie and the Terrible Ten with her blessed artifact, expel them from her house through the strength of her arm, but what would that gain her? A brief respite at best. Paimon would just send more demons at Lucifer’s behest and she’d have to fight them all over again.
She needed to break the cycle.
What had the nurse said? Clarity through conversation? Cora drew a ragged breath and lowered the cross. Her shoulders slumped as her anger drained away, replaced by exhaustion. “Marie, I offer you a choice,” she said. “We can keep fighting, or we can talk. I’m tired, and I’d much rather talk. Do you like coffee?”
The demon eyed her through clawed fingers. Her red eyes flicked from the cross to Cora’s face. “Tastes like dirt. Tea?”
Cora straightened. “Judy, put on that Darjeeling! We’ll need thirteen cups.”
They sipped tea in the wreckage of Cora’s living room. The demons, who’d turned corporeal to indulge in their tea, sat on whatever surfaces they could. Cora was surprised at how well Judy was taking this, her fear hidden behind the rituals of tea service. Once she’d served everyone, she retreated to lean against the kitchen door frame, remaining as far as possible from the demons while still ostensibly remaining part of the conversation.
Cora sipped her dirty leaf water. “It’s all about choice,” she said to the imps. “You’re young spirits, right? Born during wars in recent centuries?”
“Born isn’t quite right,” Marie said from behind her mug, “but close enough.” Cora didn’t have a proper tea set, so the demons clutched an assortment of mugs, tumblers, and glasses.
“And you’ve been Lucifer’s slaves since birth,” Cora said.
A demon perched on the mantle, female with a bald head and a distinct Nigerian accent, said, “We are nothing but imps. Hell is where we belong.” Her claws were tight around her steaming whiskey tumbler.
“But what if it wasn’t? What if you chose your own path? Would you still serve Lucifer? Choose to suffer under overseers like Paimon who insist that you’re worthless?” Cora sat back, cradling her mug. “And that’s a load of crock, by the way. You aren’t worthless. Never let someone else determine your value.”
“It’s a pointless question,” said the demon with Māori tattoos. “We are Lucifer’s. We have no choice.”
“Everyone has a choice,” Cora snapped. “Free will is the whole point of this damned spiritual war you’re fighting! Lucifer and his fallen angels chose to rebel. They chose to create Hell in all of its malevolent misery. You also have a choice. Do you like choosing evil every day? Do like making others suffer just because you were told to?”
The demons all looked uncomfortable. “I hate it,” the Nigerian whispered. The others nodded in agreement, and Cora saw the truth in their red eyes. They were the literal embodiments of generational trauma and nobody enjoys that pain.
“Then why not just walk away? Yes, change is hard, but you still. Have. A. Choice.” She tapped her nail against her mug, emphasizing each word.
Nobody answered for a long time. Cora let the silence hang like guilt around their necks.
Marie finally spoke, her gaze fixed on her Darjeeling. “Demons and angels are, by nature, servants to our masters. We cannot change that. Serving one of the greater spirits is as essential to us as breathing is to you. We can disobey for a time,” she raised her tea as evidence of her disobedience, “but we cannot simply leave Hell’s service.”
The greater spirits? Cora searched her memory from her studies of the occult. Spirits were hierarchical in nature, ranging from archangels to imps. Some texts even ranked human souls higher than angels.
Cora sat bolt upright when an idea struck her. “What if you had a new master? Could a human soul take your allegiance?”
The demons all froze as if shocked by the very idea. The Māori spoke slowly, “Your souls are immortal, so…it’s possible. But no demon has ever left Lucifer’s service. Ever.”
Judy made a strangled, choking sound from back by the kitchen, like she’d just caught up with the conversation. “Cora, no! You can’t!”
“Why not?” Cora twisted in her chair to answer. Her mind raced, calculating pros and cons. “Lucifer’s minions can’t torment me if they’re working for me.” She still ached for a demon-free life, but that option was long gone. She returned to Marie and the Terrible Ten. “Swear your allegiance to me, and I will grant you freedom to become whatever you want to be. You’ve done the evil thing for centuries now. Why not try something new?”
The demons glanced at each other. Cora recognized those sidelong glances. Her kids had done the same, each seeing if the other liked the idea without committing themselves. The demons said no words but had full conversations through facial expressions.
All eyes finally turned to Marie. She sighed. “Your idea has merit, but is a great sacrifice. You must sacrifice too.”
Cora pulled back, eyes wary. “Like what, a goat?” Finding one wasn’t the problem, she knew a guy, but sacrificing it? Ew.
Marie shook her head. “Your holy shield. We cannot be bound to you while you wear it.”
Cora’s breath caught. Give up her holy shield? It was the only thing that kept Paimon and his ilk from harming her directly— and he was still a problem even if she got Marie and the Terrible Ten on her side. It was the only reason she’d gotten close enough to Lucifer to express her opinion of him by way of her fist wrapped around Saint Patrick’s cross. And they wanted her to give it up?
Her world hung on a precipice.
She raised her beringed left hand. The holy shield was a simple silver band with an inset opal. She’d gotten it from some vendor at a renaissance faire she’d attended with her kids decades ago. Nobody had known its true power until she wore it on her mission to rescue her daughter from Hell. After that, she hadn’t taken it off since, even to shower.
Cora’s hand dropped into her lap. Her gaze slowly swept around the decimated room. She examined the demons who had, just hours ago, been terrorizing her on Lucifer’s behalf. Her jaw tightened. They were not the enemy. They were victims, just like her. Worse, they’d been forced into evil from the day they were born, and from their miserable expressions, they wanted out.
Just like Cora wanted to escape her torments.
In the end, it was no choice at all. Cora removed her ring.
Two days later, Cora was sitting alone on her couch when Paimon arrived. Her heart lurched as the demon rose through her coffee table as though riding an elevator. She stood, forcing her face to show calm that she didn’t feel. She’d been dreading this moment.
Once the imps had sworn fealty to her immortal soul, she granted their freedom as promised. They’d scattered to the four winds. That hurt; she’d hoped that at least one of them might stay to help her fight Paimon. But freeing them had been the right thing to do, and at least she’d gained a brief reprieve from her torments.
That reprieve was over.
Paimon’s arms were crossed as he rose. His scowl flicked around the room, searching, before coming to rest on Cora. He growled, “Where are they?”
“Who?” she asked innocently.
“Don’t play coy, witch. You didn’t banish the imps with a blessed blade, I would have known. Yet you seem at ease and un-tormented. So, where are they?”
She shrugged. “Enjoying their freedom, I suspect. Tea or coffee?”
Paimon blinked several times, thrown by the abrupt change in topic. “What?”
“Do you prefer tea or coffee?”
“I prefer to see you grovel!” the demon roared, flaring his wings. “You will suffer as Lucifer commanded, even if I have to do it myself.”
Cora’s lips pursed. She couldn’t fight, but she refused to grovel. Her gaze flicked to her holy shield. The opal-inset ring still sat on the coffee table. Paimon’s gaze followed hers before flicking back to her face. His eyes lit with malice. His lips curled upward.
She was defenseless, and he knew it. She’s spent the past two days scouring the internet for defensive spells. There were spells aplenty, but nothing that would protect her and let her retain her new bond with her guardian demons. Sure, the imps had abandoned her, but she wasn’t going to cut them loose at the first sign of danger. That would drop them back into Hell’s service.
And so, she faced Paimon with nothing but a stiff spine and an offer of tea. The demon roared in triumph.
This was going to hurt.
A blur shot past Cora’s shoulder and slammed into Paimon’s chest. His roar truncated into a grunt, and he stumbled. It was the Māori imp. A second imp slammed into him from the left, and a third from the right. Their momentum pushed him back toward Cora’s recliner. Two more dropped through the ceiling and onto his wings. They pulled him down like hyenas. Paimon fell back into the chair with a thump.
“Betrayal! You dare attack me?” he screamed, shoving himself upright. The Nigerian imp appeared from inside the recliner. She tackled the back of Paimon’s knees, buckling them as four more imps rose out of the recliner like surfacing sirens. They latched onto his back and wings and pulled him down.
The Terrible Ten swarmed over the screaming Paimon. Alone, none of them could have defeated him. Together, they pinned him to Cora’s recliner like a bug on display.
Marie appeared at Cora’s side, and Cora’s heart gave a little flutter. They came back. They didn’t abandon her after all.
The imp looked reborn. She still looked like a demon with red eyes and claws —a lifetime of evil wasn’t overcome in just two days— but her entire demeanor had changed. She stood straighter. The smile she flashed up at Cora was full of gratitude and promise.
Promise of what, Cora had no idea, but freedom looked good on Marie.
The imp’s smile dropped, and she leapt onto the coffee table to look Paimon in the eye. The demon overseer stilled. If looks could kill, Marie would have burst into flames on the spot.
“What is the meaning of this?” he said, voice deep and dark and filled with promised torments.
“Madame asked you a question,” Marie said. Her voice was calm and self-assured.
“You rebellious little—”
“Oui!” Marie snapped and spread her arms. “Vive la révolution! Consider this our resignation from Hell’s service. We serve a new mast” —she glanced back and Cora and corrected herself— “mistress. And our mistress asked you a question.”
“Lucifer will hear of this.”
“Good,” Cora said, taking full rein of herself and stepping around the coffee table. “That’s rather the point.” She realized in that moment that she could ask the imps to do anything for her…and they would. It was a heady feeling, that kind of power.
And it made her sick. Violence wasn’t the answer.
But if not, what was?
“Let him go,” Cora said.
“What?” Marie turned horrified eyes on Cora. “He’ll destroy you!”
“Perhaps.” Cora waved her broken hand for the Terrible Ten to back away. She had to wave it again before they tentatively released Paimon. He straightened himself in the recliner, growled at the imps, but he didn’t attack. He just turned a questioning look toward Cora.
She assumed her most charming smile. “Life is about choices, Paimon, and I’ve chosen to stop fighting Hell’s minions alone, as you may have noticed. Now you have a choice. We can keep fighting, and you’ll make my life miserable, but I think I’ve proven that you’ll never break me. And this time, it will be your personal failing, not some subordinate’s.”
The flash of fear in Paimon’s eyes was brief, but Cora knew she’d hit her mark. She sat deliberately on her couch, crossing one leg over the other.
“Or,” she said, “we can sit and chat over a nice cup of something hot enough to burn even your soul.” Not that tea qualified as ‘nice’ in her book, but Cora had bigger concerns at the moment than her drink of choice. “I offer no deals with the Devil, I’m not selling my soul, but I’m also never going to grovel and beg Lucifer’s forgiveness.”
“Then we are at an impasse.”
“A great place to start talking, wouldn’t you say? And the best conversations happen over a cup of tea. So, the choice is yours. Which do you think will better serve your master at this point: violence or conversation?”
Paimon glowered, lips pursed, but then he relaxed. Cora relaxed too.
“I thought so. Let me put on a kettle. I have a lovely Darjeeling that you simply have to try.”
