China's not going to be that blatant, dear. For Pepper, the tea is just tea. And it's been years since she poisoned anyone, really. China has a tea-tray set out already, as if she plans to entertain guests at any given moment, and she measures leaves into the pot with a careful sort of idleness. The pot already has water in it; when she lids it she presses her fingers to the ring of fine sigils around it, which glow faintly.

The pot steams.

"It will have steeped in a few minutes," she says, waving that hand as she turns back to Pepper, observing Pepper's observation. "And regrettably, it's past business that doesn't lend itself to leverage." Note how she does not say the word blackmail out loud.

"The one who got away? No." At this China frowns, marring her porcelain-perfect features with it for some few moments. "However... tell me, my dear, what does it mean if I have heard not even a whisper?" This isn't a query for her edification: it's pointed, wanting to see if Pepper will draw the right conclusion.