She watches him for a long moment, just behind a decorative screen that half hides her in shadow. Kikuya notices the white and the position of prayer and recognizes it immediately as gestures of mourning. Her fingers ache as she observes, decades of training and practice screaming through her nerves and muscles to prepare the tea, to make the preparations for once he closes the ritual but she can't. She is not geisha, she isn't even properly clad.
After several minutes of watching and increasing pain in her heart Kikuya very delicately clears her throat.
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