The clock strikes eight and I stop, my foot landing, flat and firm, my arm snapping out, parallel to the ground. I feel the sun on my back, and recall the way the light had moved slowly over the trees and onto me, mixing with and intensifying the heat of my own body, goading it on until a thin, slick film covered my chest, back, and arms, and I knew my routine had started in earnest. I look at the clock again, the minute hand chasing its next neighbor with slow persistence. I'd been standing and catching my breath without realizing it, my heart humming at an almost continuous pace. A few more breaths and I'm heading towards the house, taking the stone path I'd laid out with my uncle the summer before. Father had given me a job and a decision: earn the money and buy the supplies and do the work myself, or hire a crew.

He said, It's appropriate that you learn the value of your money, how to maximize its use and to know when it's possible to do so.

And implicitly, We'll see if you can handle learning to do something useful.

I walk along under the trees and note the hawk that scans the ground near the path. It cocks its eye towards me, holds my gaze for a second, then launches itself off, the thin support branch shuddering in recoil. Leaves fall and I catch one, turning it over in my damp hands, running my thumb along the center vein. It looks perfectly symmetric about that vein, and I find myself becoming more delicate in my grasp, gripping the stem as though it were brittle and dry instead of supple and fresh. I keep it near me, careful not to press it too close to my body, or expose it to the breeze that's blowing in my face. I think of putting it in a book, but I have no idea if it'll preserve or not, and I don't know what it would accomplish either way.

For a moment I stand beside the back door, leaf in hand, turning that question over. I'd have a memento, at least, of the first few weeks of spring. Then I realize, with a shudder, that I'm still wasting time and with a shrug let the leaf fall to the ground. I watch it settle next to the stonework of the patio, shrug one final time, and enter the house. Father isn't around; he's probably in his room, or the library, or out, out where I can't say. And Azula. She went to bed late and I knew she'd done that just so she could sleep through the early morning and not have to greet me without father there. I go upstairs, past her door and down the hall. The light is already filling my room; it's always the morning light, never noon or evening. I go outside at noon and let the light hit me directly, not moving or thinking. We rise with the Sun, we rest with the moon, we live with the Sun, we live in the Light, we... I pull the shades all the way up and the room is full. I feel the heat all over again, but it's just warmth and it doesn't goad my body into anything except a slow, rising pleasure which I can't indulge in for long. I sigh and turn from the light, and walk to the bathroom. I shower and shave, using a straight edge razor uncle had given me as soon as I'd developed the need and inclination for it. There's something about my reflection that troubles me, as always. I run my hand across the spot, the opposite hand miming each movement. When I reach the boundary between rough and smooth, pale and dark, both hands stop, and I wonder, with a kind of laughter rising up, which one is acknowledging reality and which one is illusory. Let it serve as a constant reminder of what you haven't accomplished. And when I do, when I've done..when I've gotten into...I'll be able to...

Away from the mirror I dress and then head downstairs, wanting nothing except the cup of tea I'd been promising myself since I started training for the day. Uncle told me, when he'd given me the crate of sealed canisters, You should experiment and see what kinds of flavors you can get; tea is temperamental and unpredictable, like a beautiful woman, I'd say. The white leaves can't be boiled or you'll lose the flavor to bitter overtones, the greens are slightly more robust, but I've given you only the best quality, so they should be given cooler water...

And on and on. I'd told him I'd find my own way with the box's contents, and that pleased him. I open the crate and place my thumb and ring finger around the rim of one of the lids and slowly withdraw the container. Taking a knife I break the seal and twist the cap off, taking in first the sight then the scent of the leaves. Dry and twisted and shriveled, like burnt wood and old cinders; they smelled like smoke, and ash, and wood. I could picture them being dried over burning pine, loosing their water and color to the fire and its heat. I lay out a white cloth, place three equally spaced mounds of leaves in a line, and set a cup across from each; the whole kitchen smells like the burnt wood. I fill the kettle, set it to boil, and wait, slowly uncurling myself in increasingly familiar surroundings. I look through the refrigerator and note that my sister still keeps bottles ordered according to decreasing height, cold cuts stacked by type, and fruits and vegetables arranged by criteria I can't quite pin down yet. I mentally slice the pineapple into equal quarters before closing the refrigerator. By now the water has been boiling for a few seconds, and I wonder if that's too long.

Remembering uncle's advice, I let the kettle sit for a moment before adding leaves to the pot and pouring on water. I pull my watch out, set it against the steel lining of the oven, and lean back again. The ticking is audible; the piece should really be on my wrist, but I never keep it there. Father had offered me a pocket watch, but I'd chosen this out of a motive still unknown to me, apparently mixing the positions of the two timepieces. The hand slid past 12 again, and I still hear the ticking. Uncle said three or four minutes. Three or four. I look at the other cups, sitting across from their leaves, like awkward couples. Half past six again. I wonder if I'll have to make two more drafts of water. Azula is asleep and Father is Out I ran out towards the door and the morning light was pale and grey like the sky The sky is white and the clouds are grey I chase after her and clutch her hand and wrist She looks at me and smiles out somewhere. At six again. The ticking is oppressing me. Just another minute and I take the watch and shove it back in my pocket, silencing the sound of the hands. I keep time mentally, in a crude, butchered way, stretching a second at first, contracting it later on, like I'm oscillating wildly between reference points without realizing what's happening.

Finally I just give up, grab the pot and pour the tea; it has the pleasing amber color I've come to expect, so I don't mind my lack of patience. I take a drink and wait, the flavor riding just behind the heat, slowly eliciting the response of my pallet until I breath out and the sense comes rushing in and my mouth is full of ash and pine and smoke. I drink again and it's different this time, more bitter, but with a sharpness that I find pleasing. The steam from the cup rises in twisting tendrils, like pale, transparent copies of the leaves, and I let it hit my face and imagine that those leaves are burning and boiling in the cup.

I hear footsteps, coming down the stairs and look up, cup in hand, and moments later I see her, standing there, smile forming slowly Only it's not a happy smile She reaches down and kisses me again and clutches hard I can feel her tears They're cold and wet and grey I look up and I can't stop.

I take another drink. "Azula."

She steps closer and doesn't sit down, so I look up, and she looks down. "Is that all? We haven't seen each other for months and that's all you have to say to me?"

I shrug, drinking again.

She sighs. "Really, Zuzu, is that what they teach their students at those private universities? I may have to reconsider my options." She traces her chin with the tip of her finger, ending by brushing against the strands of hair hanging along the right side of her face.

I can see the same order in her; the twin strand on the left side, the even shading of her lips, the thickness of her eyebrows. I could split her face in two and reconstitute it with a mirror. She moves past me and over to the counter, stopping in front of the cups.

"Expecting company, are you?"

I grunt in response.

"Your classes must move at break neck pace with that kind of communication. Do the professors all speak in guttural?"

She continues, "It's odd, though. Usually when you're expecting company, you make some kind of effort to prepare for them, beyond just setting the ingredients out in front of them." She shakes her head. "It's possible that whoever you're waiting for doesn't even want tea, or perhaps they're not sure of how to make it properly."

I set my cup down as gently as I can, but some tea still sloshes over the edges, soaking into the red and gold linen. I turn and face her. "Would you like some tea?"

She nods. "I would, actually."

I sigh and put the kettle back, pouring on the water when it reached a boil. This time I didn't even bother to tick out deformed seconds in my mind; I just waited until the the water turned a deep enough amber, and then let the liquid flow. I feel the heat through the porcelain, and only have to relinquish my grasp after holding the cup for a few seconds. My sister takes it with a 'thank you', her fingers encircling its rim so that the container is about an inch above her palm. She sits down across from my seat and takes a sip, barely audible. Her breath came in softly, sharply, and I heard it because my head was near her's and she said, Said...

She looks at the cup."It's good." I scowl. She sets it down, nails against the table and looks at me. "So that's it, hm?"

I shrug. "I don't know what you want me to say. I talked to you three times over the last six months, twice because you picked up the phone before father, and the other time because you wanted to know..."

"We still talked, didn't we? I told you where I was thinking of applying." She smirks. "Who knows? We might even share a few classes if I decide to head your way."

"I'm sure you're considering that just for the sake of my company." I sit down and return to my cup, the contents of which are reaching a disappointing temperature. The ash and smoke are still swirling, almost imperceptibly.

She's tracing the rim of the cup with her nail. Her hand traces my cheek and, wet and cold like my face and I can't stop. "Yes, I can imagine, if this conversation is any indication." She moves the cup to the side, as though testing the smoothness of the two surfaces. "So what are you studying anyway?"

I look at her evenly. "Quantum information theory."

"I wasn't aware they allowed such specialization in the first year of undergraduate study. You don't know yet, do you?"

"Does it really matter to you?"

"Father is probably more interested, since he is paying for it, after all."

"I'm riding mostly on scholarship at this point, actually."

"You still have his name, don't you?" I say nothing. "As I was saying, it does matter to me, even if only because it gives me a first hand account of what things are like.

I'd said Father, Father I've been accepted by, I've gotten into...I couldn't contain my accomplishment I had no modesty I flaunted and exposed myself like a drunkard I had no control.

"No, I don't know. I've been plowing through requirements. I'm actually thankful for them, or else I'd be taking random courses at this point."

The cup is in her hand again but it just stays there, hovering above her palm like an ornament. "Still need father to push you places, do you?"

"Yes, Azula, that's it. And I also need him to wipe my ass and say "blow" when I have a runny nose." And he looked at me unblinking and unmoving and said Now you can see whether you have enough force of will and competence to make use of an accomplishment.

"I was only joking, Zuko. No need to get so riled up." She takes another small drink, smiling. "Not that it still isn't fun to wind you up."

I can barely taste it now. I shake my head. "Just..." I close my eyes. "Go. I don't know why you're talking to me."

She sets the cup down, smile gone. "That's unkind of you, Zuko."

I interrupt. "Unkind? Well, you still have audacity, I'll give you that." She says nothing and I continue. "You wonder why we haven't spoken? This is why. I don't need this shit. I don't need added irritation from arguing with you every time you get bored, or playful, or whatever else." And she wasn't there. Grey and cold, she wasn't there and I couldn't stop. "Where's father, anyway?"

"He didn't say and I didn't ask." She shifts the cup again. " You'd talk to him, though, wouldn't you? I mean, you want to talk to him."

"Yeah, obviously. That's why I came back for recess instead of just going to a friend's or getting some temp job." I drink again. It's cooling, becoming more bitter, but my pallet is still reacting positively.

"A conversation with father."

"You can't stop, can you? When have I ever had a conversation with father? Talking to him was like talking a teacher after class because they thought you were slacking off. Except the teacher could throw you out of the building and change the locks."

"He never did that."

I just drink again, this time almost loosing to the rotten ashes.

"Why did you set three cups out?"

"Force of habit. And uncle."

"Oh so uncle taught you manners?"

"No, but he taught me that I should always have enough tea out to jump start conversation."

She sighs. "You're talking in circles, Zuko, but that's all right. Why didn't you just go to uncle? You always did before. He's even an academic himself, so he actually has useful experience, for once."

"Philosophy, he teaches philosophy. Focuses on the comparison between far eastern and modern western. Anyway, Father said, Philosophy is the pursuit of fools who try to dress up reality with abstruse rules because they can't contend with their own short comings and doubts. There are no rules in human reality, just expected modes of behavior, and those who can't follow them are cast aside and trampled. "he's on sabbatical, and I'm not in the mood for a phone call."

"So in lieu of uncle, you've come to father."

"No. And stop asking questions you already know the answers to."

"It wasn't a question." She moved the cup until it was directly in front of her. "Well, since you're not in a talkative mood, at least not when I'm present, I'll leave you to your meditations." She stands, straightening her shirt as she does so. Blue against the black of her hair. "Regardless of what you think, I am glad you decided to come home, and not just because you get riled easily." She stops mid turn. "And thank you for the tea. It was pleasing." And she's away.

I look at her cup, nearly full and still steaming. Then down at mine, neglected, three quarters gone. I take her cup, drink, exhale, and can't make out the taste like before. She always...I take another drink, and another, and it's gone.