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“I deserve that.” He spun his own cup around on the table in front of him, watching it rotate as he paused to think. “To answer your second-to-last question, or third-to-last, perhaps. I’ve lost count.”
She snickered.
That got him to smile. He continued. “No, Marguerite. You aren’t insane. However.” His smile faded once again. “I fear you are not entirely well, either.”
“What do you mean? How is that possible? How does this make any sense?” She tried to keep the panic that she could feel welling up inside her from leaking out. She knew she failed. Namely, because she began bouncing her leg. It was her telltale giveaway. Getting up from the bench, she began to pace around behind it. “The things I’ve seen—the visions I’ve had…”
“They aren’t products of your imagination.”
“That’s not true.” All the visions of dying. Of places of other times—of impossible monsters. Of him. He was the impossible monster. Her Grim Reaper, always there to end her life. Always beside her. You will never die alone. She shuddered as the phrase in his voice echoed in her memory. What little of it she had. “It can’t be true.”
“I know this is difficult to accept. Trust me—I know. You and I have had this conversation so many times, and yet…I never know how to make it any easier on you.” He stood from the table as well to approach her carefully—as if he were afraid of spooking her and sending her running into the street.
To be fair to him, she was pretty close.
“Who—who am I? What am I?” She was trembling. She shook her head wildly. “No! This is stupid. This is nonsense. I’m dreaming. I have to be. This isn’t real.”
Images of a mental institution crashed through her. Of being strapped down to a table while electrodes were fitted to her temple. A gag with a towel around it shoved between her teeth. The ripping, searing, mind-numbing pain. There was nothing she could do but cry and silently beg for them to stop. For mercy.
For death.
Squeezing her eyes tight, she put her hands into her hair and fisted the strands, tugging them, trying to clear the memory from her head. “Please…I can’t…”
“Shush, princess…” Arms circled her, strong and warm, and pulled her to his chest. He smelled like crisp cologne and cigar smoke. His dusky voice rumbled as he quietly murmured to her. She could almost feel it more than she could hear it. “You are all right. You are safe. No one is going to hurt you here.”
She leaned against him. She knew it wasn’t appropriate—him holding her like that—but she didn’t care. There was such strength in his embrace, and she needed something to hold her up before her legs gave out beneath her.
Before everything crumbled beneath her.
It wasn’t until she took a second that she realized her breaths had been coming short and fast. She was hyperventilating, and if she didn’t slow down, she’d pass out—faint—whatever—again. Her dignity wouldn’t abide it. Filling her lungs with a long, slow, deep breath, she held it for a second before letting it out in a rush.
“That’s it.”
But she had to know. She had to ask the question. She knew it was only going to get her in trouble again. Either way, the answer wasn’t going to be good. “All those deaths—all that suffering. All that pain…please tell me it isn’t real. Please tell me it didn’t happen to me.”
A “no” meant she really was insane.
A “yes” meant it was real, and that was worse.
Silence.
He kissed the top of her head. “Come. Let’s go inside into the shade. It’s warm out here in the greenhouse this time of year. Let’s sit down, I’ll get you a glass of water, and we can start from the top.”
She was almost glad he dodged the question. Any seconds added between it and the answer were seconds she could spend in willful ignorance. Nodding weakly, she let him take her by the hand and lead her inside. He brought her to his living room. Well, a living room. The house was so big she was pretty sure he had multiple. Or they all had silly names like “parlor” or “drawing room” or “smoking lounge” or whatever.
But one thing seemed out of place.
One thing she recognized.
Her kitchen table. Part of it, anyway. The top that she had frantically and inexplicably carved a strange geometric shape with ancient language circling it, was leaning up against the wall by the door. She froze to stare at it.
“One thing at a time, princess. Please.” He pulled her away from it to the sofa and sat her down. The upholstered surface was soft and lush, and she instantly wanted to snuggle into pillows against the arm and nod off. But she found herself staring at the top of her kitchen table.
What was that shape? Why did it seem to resonate with her? Why had she carved it?
Who was she? What was she? What was he? Why was this happening to her? Why couldn’t she remember her past?
He stroked a hand over her hair before crooking a finger under her chin and tipping her head up to look at him. There was such softness—such empathy—in his gaze, that it broke her out of her spiraling thoughts. She didn’t know what to do as he cupped her cheek in his palm and stroked his thumb slowly back and forth along her skin.
