"Miss Mill," Carlisle begins when she answers the phone.
"Yes," Mill says. She wraps the teapot in a crisp dishcloth.
"Your service is unimpeachable," he says.
"It's nothing," Mill says. He can read her thoughts after hours, when all the shops are closed. He can read her thoughts at a distance of city blocks. He can read her thoughts over the din of books on the bedside table. He can read thoughts she filters with J. S. Bach.