His phrasing could be true, but Cecelia certainly dislikes it. But if her simile of seasons were true, then...then death would be as necessary as rain or snow.

She watches him pour the wretched brew, biting the inside of her cheek. Before he can imbibe, she sits up straighter, reaching a bit.

"You--you can just...have some of mine. It's safe." She pushes the pot of black tea in his direction while he's asking why.

"All I have is speculation. I don't remember the entirety of my magic study, and my specialty is certainly not in death..."

Unlike some people at this table. Or likely wandering about.