I, Cassandra

29 | CASSANDRA VALLIS

'Real eggs,' he says. I glance up at him, a forkful of the shimmering stuff halfway to my mouth. 'You ever have those before?' he asks.

I shake my head, thinking of the rubbery powdered eggs I'd eaten as a kid, and shovel them in, unable to stop from gorging myself, like Miro.

'Real eggs, and real butter,' I sigh as I finish. 'I must be in heaven.' I dip my knife into the pot of curled butter and spread a fat blob of it across the top slice of the toast—a thick, pale, creamy layer. I forgo the jam, longing to see what real butter tastes like. It's a little salty, rich, and smoother than the lurid yellow, slightly bitter chemical spread I used to get long ago, in another life. I gobble the buttered toast, greedy, and set to buttering the second slice, uncaring of the crumbs coating the duvet cover and my lap. Miro slips over and eats them, one by one, conscientious, missing nothing. I stroke her nose, thinking how old habits are going to die hard, even here in this place of plenty.

My rescuer turns his gaze back to the window and lets me eat. From the corner of my eye, I take a measure of him. He looks better from behind. He's built like a tank. Despite his loose-fitting fatigues, the contours of his thick muscles show through the material. I imagine him taking on Zee in a fistfight. Zee wouldn't stand a chance. This guy could break him in two with his bare hands. I wish I could see it, but somehow I doubt my rescuer will ever be going back to London.

I finish the toast and set upon the fruit. The pale green melon melts over my tongue, soft, sweet and honeyed, followed by the slightly tart oranges, blood-red, and cold, making my teeth tingle. Finally, I attempt the blueberries, little plump, dense indigo wonders that pop in my mouth, starbursts of grainy, bitter, sugary-sharp joy.

My rescuer leaves his vigil by the window and pours the hot water into the cup for me. I peruse the artful little selection of tiny boxes: white vanilla, orange chai—whatever chai is—strawberry infusion, and earl grey. I open the box containing the strawberry tea. Inside, a little white muslin bag containing a fragrant mix of dried flowers, berries, and tea leaves. It's so pretty—so unlike anything I have touched in my entire life—sorrow slashes into me. All this time while Miro and I endured endless miseries in a dying city, others were living in a world like this, making tea from fancy boxes, taking their good fortune for granted. The blinding unfairness of it cuts a deep swathe through me.

I lower the bag into the water, acutely aware of my rescuer's nearness, his eyes on me, watching me. I keep my attention on my work, following the trails of inky red circling the bag as I swirl it around the cup, freeing its contents.

'You have a name?' I ask. 'Or do I just call you Soldier?'

He doesn't answer. I look up, wondering if maybe he's not allowed to tell me like I wasn't allowed to tell Ryan my name. He's looking at me in a way that makes me feel strange. Like he knows me. All of me. Like he wants me to remember something. I wonder if I knew him as a kid before I blabbed about the flood. I rack my memories, but nothing sticks out.

'It's Ryan,' he finally says, low.

I blink. 'You trying to tell me you were friends with someone who had the same name as you?' I ask, sharp, suspicion edging in, harder than ever. I wonder if he's trying to fool me. Trying to take Ryan's place. I bet Ryan really isn't his name.

He nods and lifts an eyebrow, a half-smile catches at his lips. 'Yeah. Guess that's just one of many things we had in common.'

I don't know what to say. It's hanging out there between us, like a giant, pink unicorn. We share a silent glance, and then he scoffs, relenting, letting us both off the hook. He gestures to himself. 'Yeah, I know,' he says, his Slavic accent thickening. 'Ryan was a hell of a lot better looking than this. Can't win them all.'

I smile and sip the tea. It's gorgeous, like everything else. I decide I like this savage-looking, yet gentle Ryan, who knew my Ryan, too.

'Thank you for the breakfast,' I say, lifting my eyes to his. 'And for putting me back together again.'

He presses his lips together and nods, his expression shuttered. I get the feeling he's a complicated man. I scoot back to lean against the headboard, and sip again, the tea warms me, comforts me. For the first time in months, a feeling of security washes over me, reminding me of the nights Ryan held me in his arms as I slept.

'What did you do with my things?' I ask.

'Incinerated them,' he says, terse, his dark eyes on mine. 'I hope you don't mind.'

'I don't.' I sigh. 'I just wish I could have watched them burn.'

Ryan says nothing, though he doesn't meet my eyes. He picks up the empty cat food dish, sets it on the tray and leaves, the china rattling a little as he closes the door. I know he'll be back later to tell me what I'm really doing here, but for now, I watch the sun ascend into a cloudless sky and think of the enigmatic man washing my breakfast dishes, wondering who he really is, and why we are here, two misfits and a cat, hidden away in a beautiful, perfect place where there is still snow, and the sky is blue.