Asleep

12 A Tea Party

Nora~~

Charlie and I sit at a glass table, Stefan across from us. Before each of us is a teacup, hot water curling as steam above the tea.

Pace. They both share the last name.

Just the name causes something to prickle in the back of my mind.

What is the connection? Is there one at all?

"Nora." Stefan pours a stream of milk out of a small pitcher and into his teacup. The set looks so delicate I'm afraid to lift my cup. "How are you liking your first day working for Charlie? He's a bit of a spoil sport, wouldn't you say?" Before I can answer, he raises the pitcher. "Milk?"

I don't know how I take my tea. "Thank you." I reach out for it anyway. "And the day has been unexpected but I'm enjoying it." Even if Charlie's rebuke left me fuming.

"What about Charlie though?"

I inhale, pouring the same amount of milk as Stefan did. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Charlie glaring at Stefan.

"I have no complaints." A lie. "He's helpful. Patient. And even has his moments of charm."

Charlie's spoon clatters against his saucer, and I give Stefan a perfectly innocent expression.

Stefan doesn't seem fazed. "How long have you been in Somnia?"

"This is my second day."

"How are you liking it?"

I swirl the milk into my tea with a silver spoon. "I'm loving it, and I feel very welcomed." I tap my spoon against the rim of my cup to shake the excess tea off and lay the spoon on the saucer. "My kitchen is fully stocked and so is my closet." With a glance at Charlie, I pick up my teacup. Clever people don't ask smart questions. Fine. I'll make my statements stronger than a question. "I'll admit I was surprised that all of the clothes fit perfectly, but I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when even the underwear seemed to be my size." I take a sip of my tea.

Charlie stiffens with an almost preternatural stillness, his teacup paused midair. Stefan blinks.

Despite having no memories before yesterday, I know I'm not supposed to be discussing my panties and bras in front of my employer; however, the part of me that knows that is also aware that employers aren't supposed to grab me by the arm.

The saucer wobbles when Charlie sets his tea cup down. "Thank you for the tea, but we have other messages to deliver." He scoots his chair back, and I follow suit.

Still looking dazed, Stefan stands and bids us goodbye.

Charlie doesn't say a word until we're in the lobby. "I'm sorry you don't feel welcome here. This is your home."

"I told you—"

"I knew you were lying, just as you wanted me to know."

The glass doors leading outside slide open upon our approach. The setting sun reflects off the windows of the buildings on the other side of the street, shimmering like the scales on a fish.

"Aren't I supposed to be mesmerized about this place?" 

"Do you want to be?"

"Isn't that what I should want?"

He rolls his shoulders back. "Yes."

We walk past a cluster of tables outside of an upscale restaurant. A couple seated at one wrought iron table laughs behind their glasses of wine. How can anyone laugh so freely, look at someone with adoration when once upon a time they suddenly were in a small room, knowing they were sixteen-years-old and knowing they must have been fifteen at one point? Fourteen. Five. Even one-year-old. But their mind is empty of everything?

How does Tye not question it?

How does Charlie expect me not to?

"A gift basket would have been perfect. I didn't need someone to draw me a bath." I wrap my arms around myself. "It feels as if there's someone there even when I'm alone."

"I understand it's hard. You're adjusting." Adjusting from what? I want to ask, and it takes everything in me to not.

Charlie has yet to call for a cab when we round the corner of the block. Our next stop must be close unless he's planning for us to take the subway,

A few feet away from us, under the shade of an awning of a wine store, a man holds a cardboard sign, his clothes wrinkled, and dirt streaked across his pants. His coarse beard is a mix of brown and white hairs.

Written in black marker on his sign are the words:

This Isn't Real

Before I know what I'm doing, my hands are splayed in front of me, fingers stretched apart.

I catch Charlie studying me, which makes him quickly look away.

The man sneers at us. Charlie shakes his head at him—clipped, deliberate—and the man backs deeper into the shadows, his sneer morphing into a grimace. Like he's a cornered animal.

Questions swarm my mind, but I bite them back. I shouldn't expect any answers I get from Charlie to be the truth anyway.

There's something about him. I haven't met many people yet, hardly anyone, but I already know he's more than the average citizen.

Charlie Pace has knowledge.

And that makes him powerful.

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