"Could it?"

Darlington considers his cup for a moment before picking up the pot and pouring. The liquid inside is tea, it seems, a deep amber and steaming faintly; nothing to concern himself with, aside from whatever strange force is still keeping him and Flynn in their respective chairs. Lifting his cup, he gives it a discreet sniff, then takes a slow, considering sip.

"You know, it tastes fine to me," he says. "Not bland, by any means. Not even overly heavy on the sugar."