Dexter Blanche
Sister meets Dexter’s eyes. Brown hair, icy (?) blues, just like hers. She doesn’t know Dexter, doesn’t know any sort of significance behind the act. But still, she appreciates his willingness to feel more comfortable around her.
Dexter Blanche “Chamomile Chai. Proper heat management is important for a good tea, though I trust you have well practiced hands. You shouldn’t be so unconfident in yourself.”
His words bring a small, gentle smile to her face. A vision of serenity and warmth, in stark contrast to the frigid ice that would shoot through most of the others’ veins whenever Atsuko had smiled.
But perhaps not Dexter. It had never bothered him quite as much, had it? Atsuko felt like they had been able to understand each other. A thought that brought Atsuko solace… and a thought that might concern Sister if she knew.
“…I suppose you’re right. I won’t sell myself short, then. I… should know about heat management,” she jokes, although she assumes Dexter won’t understand (he does).
Gloved hands meticulously sorting through the tea boxes on the shelf, Sister finds one that fits his description; quite well, in fact. Chamomile Chai, right on the box.
She sets it on the counter, and starts boiling water in the kettle. She always keeps it there and ready, so she can brew a fresh batch of tea in a hurry. It’s not like any of the children came in here. It’s not a burning hazard.
Dexter Blanche “…A lady, blonde, with eyes quite like yours. A lady who grew up surrounded by the bitter shackle of the cold, left by those she’d trusted. A lady who could truly understand the bitterness of the cold, and the comfort that destruction can bring, when nobody else would understand that kind of vice.”
Sister frowns at the description. She had heard… a bit about this. But knowing just how similar that woman had been…
She fills the infuser with about a teaspoon (eyeballing it, of course) and places it in her mug, waiting for the water to boil.
Dexter Blanche “…No, you wouldn’t know of anyone such as that, would you, Sister?”
Dexter’s eyes are cold, like they somehow see right through her.
“…..No. I do not,” She answers. “Although I do admit… some similarities in our descriptions. Like that woman… I grew up hating the cold, yes. More than most. And I… turned to destructive habits to stave it off.” She lets out a quiet, airy chuckle. “….I was never a blonde, though. No matter how rebellious I got.”
The kettle whistles, and with a gloved hand, Sister grabs the handle of the kettle and pours it into the teacup. She leaves the tea for a moment as it steeps to sit closer to Dexter, taking a seat at a nearby table.
“…I understand any suspicion, confusion. I don’t… quite get it myself. But… I’m not withholding anything I might know about her. Nobody by that description has passed through here… I apologize.”
