The priest pulled the door closed behind him. The room became perfectly quiet, except for the soft popping of the burning logs.
Beatrice sat down in the right chair. She groaned softly as she took the weight off her tired legs. She leaned her wooden cane against the armrest of the chair. She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the peace and the warmth.
After a few minutes, she opened her eyes and looked at the small table.
On the silver tray sat a beautiful white porcelain teapot and a matching teacup. A thin wisp of steam was rising from the spout of the teapot. It smelled like rich, floral jasmine.
Beatrice felt very thirsty. Praying and crying had dried out her throat.
She reached out with her trembling, wrinkled hand. She grabbed the handle of the teapot. She carefully poured the hot, golden liquid into the delicate teacup.
She lifted the cup to her lips and blew on it softly to cool it down. Then, she took a small sip.
