It occurs to Moiré that they have no idea how you milk an almond. Or what sort of equipment might be required.

"I don't need it, and it sounds like it's better if I don't put either of us through that," they say, straight-faced. They drop a few sugar cubes into the coffee. Setting it aside, they extend a hand gloved in white like a classic cartoon to shake Capochin's fuzzy one.

"Moiré Myrekrig. Formerly of the Autumn Court."