Master stirs the tea leaves, trying to coax the future loose.
Head bowed, back aching, I hold the cup before him as I have done every morning for the past two hundred years. Truth be told, I’m a little tired of this ritual. Our future’s small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, so why ruin what few surprises remain to us?
Master snaps at me, demanding I still my trembling hands.
I snap back, demanding he keep his long beard out of the cup.
After two hundred years together, the roles of master and servant are as blurred as our sight. There are no orders left to give, no privileges worth having. We’re slaves to ancient rituals, shackled together by our long history. We’ve made a prison of our palace.
A word in your ear