“Tobias?” Ada looked down at her cup. “I’m pregnant.”

The bone china cup, rim gilded with gold leaf, tiny delicate panels decorated with bluebell flowers, smashed upon the carpet. A fine white powder rose from the wreckage as pieces flew up away from the wooden floor, rocketing through the air like a hail of shrapnel. Tea rose up and spread itself, staking out a liquid empire upon the floorboards where it lay glossy and wet, steam rising from its mass. It glared up from its new found territory, prepared to dig in and defend it in a war of attrition. The china finally came to rest, pattering upon the floor like a dozen drops of white rain. Instead of splashing against the polished surface, they bounced and rolled, skittering across the varnish, like scouts ranging ahead of the tea empire. The fine mist of china dust drifted down to be swallowed up by the empire founded by spilt tea, itself ready for the inevitable approach of the maid, armed with a cloth.

No prisoners would be taken, no quarter given. The battle lines were drawn. The tea, with it’s bone china sentries, watched and waited.