The Great Teacup Incident
Yens had just finished setting the table for tea: two cups, one slightly chipped but deeply beloved; a small plate of oat biscuits; and a saucer with lemon slices.
Then he turned to fetch the teapot - and stopped.
The teapot was wobbling.
Not in a gentle, steam-is-rising sort of way, but in a suspicious, something-is-definitely-inside-it way.
“Spinny?” Yens called softly.
No answer. But the teapot gave a little hop.
Yens peered into the spout. “That’s not for sitting in.”
From inside came a faint squeak, somewhere between I regret nothing and this is my house now.
With a sigh that was mostly fondness, Yens lifted the lid.
Spinny blinked up at him, perfectly round eyes and six tiny legs curled under him.
“There are chairs,” Yens said gently. “With cushions. You like chairs.”
Spinny squeaked.
“You are not a beverage.”
A lower, reluctant squeak.
“Would you like your own cup?”
This time, no squeak - just a very slow crawl out of the teapot and into the empty cup Yens had set out. Spinny spun in a little circle, then settled in with a sigh, looking rather pleased with himself.
Yens glanced at the teapot, sighed, and steeped the tea in a jar instead. The teapot was, for now, very much in use.
Then he poured the tea for himself and added a slice of lemon. “I suppose everyone has their own way of having tea” he murmured, “as long as it makes them happy.”
Spinny lifted one leg in solemn agreement and glanced toward a biscuit.
Yens smiled. It wasn’t the tea he’d planned.
But it was the tea they had.
And that, in its own ridiculous way, was quite perfect.
