The liquid was hot; it could tell that without touching it. And it had a slight scent, not at all unpleasant.
The plant dipped a tendril into the cup, prepared for the heat, but still instinctively pulling away. Some of the substance clung to its under leaf cilia, and there was a thin liquid sheen on the top surface.
The heat dissipated quickly. The plant relaxed a little, began to absorb the solution. Strange. It had tried her food before, but had been struck by its lack of subtlety. Sweet or sour or tasting too long dead. This was none of those, though there was a faint undertone of bitterness. A complexity of flavor, almost smoke, just the right intensity. Nothing like her, of course, not the perfect salt of her sweat, the perfume of her skin, the soft alkalinity of . . .no, but it wasn't bad. The plant decided to have another taste of the tea.
