At five in the morning, Scoone Ave. was surrounded by the the sort of silence that only the most ancient cathedrals can pull off. Making any noise louder than a faint whisper felt like the most grievous sin. The clatter created when Vimes pulled the antique silver tea service from a high cupboard would have gotten him excommunicated.
“Daaaad,” Young Sam hissed and giggled, “you'll wake Mum.”
“Your mum can sleep through a sword fight at the foot of the bed,” Vimes muttered, “I've seen her do it.”
Young Sam put the tea kettle on the stove. He put his hands on his hips and watched the little fire heating the kettle for a few minutes.
“What's on the menu this morning, chef?” Vimes prompted.
“Can you start some toast?” Young Sam said already walking to the larder.
Vimes watched kept one eye on the bread as it toasted. Toast had a tendency to go from being soft bread to slabs of charcoal the second he wasn't looking at i