Marisol's eyes softened. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly, and a small silver pin shaped like a star sat crookedly on the collar of her uniform. She was thirty-two, with the efficient hands of someone who had worked in restaurants since her teens. She had been at the Solstice Club for three years, long enough to know which guests wanted conversation, which wanted quiet, and which were pretending not to be frightened of flying.
"I should get back," she said.
"What is your name?"
"Marisol Vega."
"Thank you, Marisol."
Evelyn appeared before the attendant had taken three steps. She spotted the tea immediately, and something tightened around her mouth.
"Did I tell you to serve her?"
"She was cold, Ms. Pierce."
"She's not a guest. She's a problem. Back to the bar."
Constance kept her hand around the cup. "Please don't blame her. I was grateful for the kindness."
"That's very touching," Evelyn said. "But kindness does not make a membership valid."
"No," Constance agreed. "A membership record does. And you've declined to look at mine."
The man beside the espresso machine gave another laugh. Evelyn turned slightly toward him, receiving the sound like applause. Marisol retreated to the bar, where she stood for a moment staring at her own hands. She thought of her son Nico, seven years old, who liked to place his favorite blanket over the shoulders of anyone who looked sad. She wished she had half his courage.
Constance lifted the chamomile and breathed in its faint grassy scent. The taste carried her backward to long nights when Walter had come home after missed connections and weather delays. Tea had been their practical luxury, poured into mismatched cups while they talked through problems they could not yet afford to hire people to solve. She had saved a pair of those cups. Daniel thought they were junk. He had not been there when they were all the household could spare.
"Ma'am," Evelyn said, returning to the chair, "let me make this simple. You are leaving."
"I don't want a confrontation. I want someone to verify my card."
Evelyn reached toward the table. Whether she meant to take the cup or merely knock it aside was impossible to tell from the movement alone. The cup tipped, hot tea splashed over the coaster and across the front of Constance's old blue coat, and a dark stain spread beneath the repaired button. Constance drew back just enough to protect her hand.
"Oops," Evelyn said.
The word was followed by a light laugh. The man by the espresso machine laughed, too, though less confidently than before. For the first time, Constance looked truly tired.
"I'm sure a cleaning will help," Evelyn added. "It can only be an improvement."
Constance took a folded handkerchief from her bag and pressed it to the wet wool. The handkerchief carried a small embroidered W in one corner, made by Walter many years ago when he had attempted to learn a household skill and abandoned the project after declaring the result crooked. She had kept it anyway.