“Shakespeare,” Wallace said, glancing at Hugo, who hadn’t looked away from the door.
“Obviously,” Nelson said. He reached up and grabbed Wallace’s hand, squeezing it tightly. Wallace didn’t try to pull away. He told himself the old man needed it. It was the least he could do.
The porch creaked as someone climbed the stairs. Wallace strained to hear voices, but no one was talking. He found that odd. With him, Mei had chattered the whole way down the road, even if it’d been because of Wallace’s countless questions. The fact that no one spoke unsettled him.
Three taps on the door. The knocker. A beat of nothing, and then the door opened.
Mei entered first, a grim smile fixed on her face that didn’t reach her eyes. She was paler than normal, her lips a thin slash with a hint of white teeth. She took in the room, starting with Hugo, then Nelson, Wallace, and Apollo. The dog tried to rise to go to her, but she shook her head, and he whined as he settled back on his haunches. Nelson squeezed Wallace’s hand again.
If asked, Wallace wouldn’t have been sure who he was expecting to walk in after her. The tea had given him a clue, but it was a small one, and he couldn’t find a way to make it fit into the larger picture. The bitterness, harsh and biting, followed by grass like a field, and the finale of honey, so cloying it stuck in his throat.
Perhaps someone angry, more than he’d been. Someone shouting, filled with rage at the unfairness of it all. Wallace could certainly understand that. Hadn’t he done the same? He thought it was part of the process, being firmly planted in denial and anger.
Whatever he thought, the man who entered Charon’s Crossing this night was not what he expected. He was younger, for one, probably early twenties. He wore a loose black shirt over jeans with the knees torn out. His blond hair was long, messily swept back off his forehead as if he’d continuously been running his hands through it. His eyes were dark and glittering, his face a mask stretched tightly over bone. The man was unnerving as he took in the room before him, the light dim, gaze settling only briefly on Nelson and Apollo. He stared for a long moment at Wallace. His lips twitched like he was fighting back a terrible smile. His hand rubbed at his chest, and Wallace was startled when he realized he couldn’t see the hook in his chest, the cable that should have stretched to Hugo. He didn’t know why he hadn’t considered it before. Did Nelson have one? Apollo? Mei?
Mei closed the door. The latch clicked again, and there was a finality to it that Wallace didn’t like. She said, “This is Hugo. The ferryman, the one I told you about. He’s here to help you.” She gave the man a wide berth as she walked toward Hugo. Her expression never faltered, and she didn’t look at Wallace and Nelson. She stopped next to Hugo. She didn’t try to touch him.
The man stayed near the door.
Hugo said, “Hello.”
The man twitched. “Hello. I’ve heard things about you.” His voice was lighter than Wallace thought it would be, though it carried a palpable undercurrent of something darker, heavier.
“Have you?” Hugo asked lightly. “Nothing bad, I hope.”
The man shook his head slowly. “Oh, no. It was good.” He cocked his head. “All of it was good. Too good, if I’m being honest.”
“Mei does talk me up,” Hugo said. “Tried to get her to break that habit, but she doesn’t listen.”
“No, she doesn’t,” the man said, and there was the smile. The mask stretched tighter, cheek bones sharp. It chilled Wallace. “At all. Do you listen?”
“I try,” Hugo said, hands still clasped behind his back. “I know it’s difficult. Learning what you’ve learned. Knowing how things are never going to be the same. Coming here, to a place you’ve never been before with people you don’t know. But I promise you that I’m here to help you as best I can.”
“And if I don’t want your help?”
Hugo shrugged. “You will. And I don’t mean that flippantly. You’re on a journey now, one unlike anything you’ve ever been on before. This is just a stop on that journey.”
The man looked around again. “She said this was a tea shop.”
“It is.”
“Yours?”
“Yes.”
He jerked his head toward Nelson and Wallace. “They are?”
“My grandfather, Nelson. My friend Wallace.”
“Are they…” He closed his eyes briefly before opening them again. “Like you? Or like me?”
Wallace bit back a retort. They were nothing like him. There was a coldness emanating from him. It permeated the room, causing Wallace to shiver.
“Like you, in a way,” Hugo said. “They have their own journey to make.”
The man said, “Do you know my name?”
“Alan Flynn.”
The skin under Alan’s right eye twitched. “She said I’m dead.”
“You are,” Hugo said, moving for the first time. He brought his hands out from behind his back, settling them on the table in front of him. The teacups rattled on the tray as the table shifted slightly. “And I’m sorry about that.”
Alan looked toward the ceiling. “Sorry,” he said, sounding amused. “You’re sorry. What are you sorry for? You didn’t do this to me.”
“No,” Hugo said. “I didn’t. But still, I am sorry. I know how it must seem for you. I won’t pretend to understand all that you’re going through—”
“Good,” the man said sharply. “Because you have no idea.”
Hugo nodded. “Would you like some tea?”
Alan grimaced. “Never been one for tea. It’s bland.” He rubbed at his chest again. “And boring.”
“This isn’t,” Hugo said. “You can trust me on that.”
Alan didn’t seem convinced, but he took a careful step toward the table. The lights in the sconces flickered with a low electrical hum. “You’re here to help me.” He took another step. “That’s what you said.” Another step.
“I am,” Hugo said. “It doesn’t need to be today. It doesn’t need to be tomorrow. But soon, when you’re ready, I will answer every question I can. I don’t know everything. I don’t pretend to. I’m a guide, Alan.”
“A guide?” Alan asked, voice taking on a sardonic note. “And just where are you supposed to guide me?”
“To what’s next.”
Alan reached the table. He tried to put his hands on it, but they went right through it. His mouth twisted down as he pulled his hands away. “Hell? Purgatory? This woman didn’t feel like offering specifics.” The scorn in his voice was crisp and biting.
“Not Hell,” Hugo said as Mei narrowed her eyes. “Not Purgatory. Not somewhere in between.”
“Then what is it?” Alan asked.
“Something you’ll have to find out for yourself. I don’t have those answers, Alan. I wish I did, but I don’t. I wouldn’t lie to you about that, or anything else. I promise you that, and that I’ll do whatever I can to help you. But first, would you like a cup of tea?”
Alan looked down at the tray on the table. He reached out to touch the jar of leaves, but his fingers twitched and he dropped his arm again. “Those leaves. I’ve never seen tea like it before. I thought it came in bags with the little strings. My father, he…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”