Noah knew she’d been looking for work since her waitressing job at a local café had ended in September. They’d sat together over a number of cups of tea, swapping stories about rejected job applications and rapidly dwindling savings accounts. Mika had even warned him that she probably wouldn’t be able to afford to renew her tenancy next month. (It was the truth, but she had decided not to mention the fact that she had never intended to stay on in the first place.)

Poor Noah. He was looking at her in such bewilderment. And why wouldn’t he? In his world, people didn’t just up and move house with barely any warning. They had employers to give at least a month’s notice to, family members popping in to help them pack, and scores of friends to throw them tearful going-away parties. They didn’t pack up their possessions in a single morning, say “I’ll be off, then,” and just go.

Noah flung himself into one of the chairs at the chipped, wobbly monstrosity that passed for a table and scratched Circe behind the ears, a rather mournful look on his face. “I’m going to miss this most excellent of dogs,” he said. “And you, of course,” he added, as something of an afterthought.

Unoffended, because Circe really was the most excellent of dogs and absolutely deserved the lion’s share of Noah’s sorrow, Mika put two freshly washed teacups down on the table and scooped up her jars of tea leaves. “What’ll it be today?”

Noah perked up. He studied the labels on the jars, considering the question as if it was of the utmost importance. “Luck,” he said after a moment, nodding decisively. “If I’m going to have to deal with a new neighbour, one who may or may not own a clown costume like the man who lived here before you did, I’ll need all the luck I can get.”

“Good choice,” said Mika, who felt that she, too, could use a little luck.

She unscrewed the lid of the jar labelled luck, shook a handful of small, dried tea leaves into a teapot, and returned the jar to its place between sleepy and when your uterus is up to its usual tricks.