Latte Art Is Not a Combat Skill

They wanted Wendy to learn the family business, by which they meant the keeping-things-from-eating-the-neighbourhood business. She pointed out, reasonably, that her only marketable skill was a passable fern in foam. "That's not nothing," said Moira, who had stopped crying and now seemed almost cheerful, which Wendy found more alarming than the screaming. "Intent, focus, a steady hand. You pour a ward like you pour a heart in a cappuccino, dear. Same wrist." "I'm not pouring a ward." "You poured one last Tuesday. The one that kept the thing in the alley out of the cafe." Moira patted her hand. "We all noticed. We just didn't want to spook you before payroll cleared." Wendy looked at her own hands. They were, she had to admit, very steady. Nine months of closing shifts had made them that way. She had thought she was just getting good at coffee.