He didn’t know what to say. He was scared of what Hugo would do next.
Hugo said, “Better get to work,” his voice strangely gruff. He turned toward the kitchen, Apollo prancing around his feet as he followed Hugo through the doors.
“Oh dear,” Nelson said.
“What?” Wallace asked, staring after Hugo, the hook in his chest feeling heavier than it’d ever been before.
Nelson hesitated before shaking his head. “I … it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Because saying not to worry about something always makes me not worry.”
Nelson sighed. “Focus. Unless you’re good with what you’re wearing, that is.”
And so they began again as the sun rose, cool light stretching along the floor and wall.
* * *
By the time the second event of note occurred on Wallace’s thirteenth day in the tea shop, he’d managed to dress himself in jeans and an oversized sweater, the sleeves too long and flopping over his hands. The boots were gone. In their place was a pair of loafers. He’d considered trying for one of his suits, but had dismissed the idea after thinking about it for a long moment. The right suit was made to show power. If worn correctly, it could cut an intimidating figure, making a very specific point that the wearer was important and knew what they were talking about, even when they didn’t. But here, now, what purpose would it serve?
Nothing, Wallace thought. Hence the jeans and sweater.
The din of the shop was loud around them—it wasn’t quite noon, though the lunch crowd was already forming—but Wallace was too impressed with himself to notice. He couldn’t believe that such a little thing as a new outfit would bring him such peace. “There,” he said, having waited ten minutes to make sure it wasn’t a fluke. “That’s better. Right?”
“Depends on who you’re asking,” Nelson muttered.
Wallace squinted at him. “What?”
“Some people might have enjoyed what you were wearing more than others.”
Wallace didn’t know what to do with that. “Oh, uh. Thank you? I’m flattered, but I don’t think you and I are—”
Nelson snorted. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Don’t always see what’s right in front of you, do you, counselor?”
Wallace blinked. “What’s right in front of me?”
Nelson leaned back in his chair, tilting his head toward the ceiling. “What a deep and meaningful question. Do you ask yourself that often?”
“No,” Wallace said.
Nelson laughed. “Refreshing. Frustrating, but refreshing. How are your talks with Hugo going?”
The conversational whiplash threw Wallace off-balance, causing him to wonder if Nelson had picked up on one of his professional tricks. “They’re … going.” That might have been an understatement. The last few nights, they’d been speaking of nothing in particular. Last night, they’d argued for almost an hour over how cheating at Scrabble was acceptable in certain circumstances, especially when playing against a polyglot. Wallace couldn’t be sure how their conversation had ended up there, but he was sure that Hugo was in the wrong. It was always acceptable to cheat at Scrabble against a polyglot.
“Are they helping?”
“I’m not sure,” Wallace admitted. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.”
Nelson didn’t seem surprised. “You’ll know when the time is right.”
“Cryptic bastard,” Wallace muttered. “What do you think I’m—”
He never got the chance to finish.
Something tickled at the back of his mind.
He frowned, raising his head to look around.
Everything looked as it always did. People sat at the tables, their hands wrapped around steaming mugs of tea and coffee. They were laughing and talking, the sounds echoing flatly around the shop. A small line had formed at the counter, and Hugo was putting pastries into a paper bag for a young man in a mechanic’s uniform, the tips of his fingers stained with oil. Wallace could hear the radio through the kitchen doors. He caught a glimpse of Mei through the porthole windows, moving back and forth between the counters.
“What is it?” Nelson asked.
“I don’t … know. Do you feel that?”
Nelson leaned forward. “Feel what?”
Wallace wasn’t sure. “It’s like…” He looked toward the front door. “Something’s coming.”
The front door opened.
Two men walked in. They wore black suits, their shoes polished. One was squat, as if he’d reached an invisible ceiling during his formative years and expanded outward rather than upward. His forehead had a sheen of sweat on it, his eyes beady and darting around the shop.
The other man couldn’t have been more different. Though he was dressed similarly, he was as thin as a whisper and almost as tall as Wallace. His suit hung loosely on his frame. He appeared to be made of nothing but skin and bones. He carried an old briefcase in his hand, the sides worn and chipped.
The men moved to either side of the doorway, standing stock still.
The sounds of the tea shop at midday stopped as everyone turned to look at the new arrivals.
“Oh no,” Nelson muttered. “Not again. Mei isn’t going to like this.”
Before Wallace could ask, a third person appeared in the doorway. She was a strange vision. She looked young, possibly around Hugo’s age, or even younger. She was tiny, the top of her head barely reaching the squat man’s shoulders. She moved with confidence, her eyes bright, her frizzy hair unnaturally red under an old-fashioned fedora with a crow’s feather sticking up from the band. The rest of her outfit had probably been en vogue at the turn of the nineteenth century. She wore ankle boots with thick laces over black stockings. Her dress was calf-length, and looked heavy, the fabric black and red. It was cinched tightly at the waist and cut low on her chest, her bosom pale and generous. Her white gloves matched the pashmina shawl around her shoulders.
Everyone stared at her.
She ignored them. She raised one hand to the other and began to pluck at the glove one finger at a time. “Yes,” she said, voice deeper than Wallace expected. She sounded as if she’d smoked at least two packs a day since she’d learned to walk. “Today feels … different.”
“I agree,” Squat Man said.
“Absolutely,” Thin Man said.
She pulled off the glove from her left hand before holding the hand out in front of her, palm facing toward the ceiling. Her fingers wiggled. “Quite different. I believe we’ll find what we seek today.” She lowered her hand as she moved toward the counter, the floorboards creaking with every step she took.
The customers in the shop began to whisper as the men fell in step behind her. They passed Wallace and Nelson by without so much as a glance in their direction. Whoever this woman was, she wasn’t the Manager that Wallace had been fearing. Unless she was ignoring him on purpose to gauge his reaction. Wallace kept his expression neutral, though his skin crawled.
Hugo, for his part, didn’t look as perturbed as Wallace felt. If anything, he was resigned. The customers at the counter scattered as the woman approached. “Back so soon?” Hugo asked, voice even.