Chance bowed his head and grimaced. For some topics, talking to humans could be as challenging as talking to angels. “It’s hard to explain when you can’t voice the angelic tense. I see probabilities, not realities. The probability is the ‘may choose’; the reality is the choice that only a human can make, the choice that contributes to the shape of creation.”

He grew pensive for a moment. “That is why there can be no redemption for angels. They see so clearly, you see, that there’s no excuse. But fortunately, there’s redemption for humans . . . and even for such as I, who can see so very broadly but not at all clearly.”

“You sound sad,” she said, both puzzlement and sympathy in her voice.

“I was just thinking . . . time can be wasted even when it doesn’t go in only one direction. I still regret the time I wasted when I was . . . when I was learning how to become myself. And speaking of which,” he continued, giving her a sharp look, “I’ve given you a long enough diversion to settle your nerves. Are you ready for the second maze?”

“Not yet,” she admitted.

A recent memory of grounding and peace gentled Chance’s voice. “Perhaps this will help.”

The green grass between them was suddenly empty of folders and papers, and the space was now occupied by two small bowls and a fat, round pot with a steaming spout. He took the pot and poured slowly, trying not to laugh at Miranda’s dazed blink, and cheerfully singsonged his mother’s traditional chant, a staple of his childhood. “Sit, sit. Take something hot into your belly and relax your legs for a moment.”

Miranda obediently sat and accepted a cup from him, her face blankly bemused. She sniffed the steam skeptically and carefully sipped. Chance knew what she was doing. She was verifying the world, testing her senses and welcoming the mundanity of the slight burn of hot liquid, the bitter tingling of ginger grass and spice, and the happy hum of sweet honey. A few seconds passed, and then she sighed and smiled, disarmed of all suspicion. “Delicious.”

“Thank you. I blended it myself. It’s my mother’s favorite.” He was expecting the startled look, and she did not disappoint. Even better, she was still smiling. He smiled in answer—not directly at her, which might have been too much, but at the hand holding her already half-emptied cup.

See, I am not so strange after all.

She drank two cups, and Chance one, and after that a few more moments passed in easeful silence. Miranda’s eyes were closed, and she did not notice when Chance waved the teapot and cups aside and returned the files to the space between them. When she opened her eyes and saw the change, her face fell.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Can I try this one again first?”