"My order got lost," Abigail says. It's as calm as she can sound, but the frustration sharpens the edges. Because, at this point, she can either have a bit of bite to her words or break down into tears. And she is not going to cry in public. Even if she is tired and frustrated.

She's twenty, she's moaned to Unthank some nights. Twenty-year-olds don't try to get positions in government, especially not at so high a level. She should barely be old enough to be considered a coven leader. But, of course, she finds no real sympathy from him. Fifteen, to him, is old enough to be the head of a house. Twenty is a considerable adult. So her complaints there fall on deaf ears, and it isn't right to turn to those who follow her and burden them.

Which leads to a lost drink order being enough to make her want to scream or cry or both. But it isn't the barista's fault that everything else is almost overwhelming. So, she tries, especially with the intercession of a stranger, to be calm and mature.

The barista looks ready to argue with Abigail's assessment of the situation but thinks better of it, swiping the card again, handing it back, and starting to make the drink there and then.