“That’d be a question for Claire,” Rami demurred. Hero noted he didn’t pour a cup for himself, so surely he agreed with the sentiment.
Hero resolutely gulped the tea. It was the precise golden color of the light spilling from the candles, and had a sweet note to it. Perhaps licorice. “Where the blast are we anyway?”
Rami’s gaze flickered over the room in a way that said he’d already spent time culling any useful details from it. “I’m not certain. Middle Eastern and Persian influences, that’s for certain. No one’s bothered us so far, so they must be used to new souls.”
An active realm, at least. Not a cannibal realm that would attempt to eat them at the first opportune moment, at the very least. A well-fed realm might wait until the second opportune moment.
Hero missed the Library sometimes.
The tea was helping, at least. He took another determined sip. The tearoom—because that seemed the only thing it could be—was warm and subdued. Some of the inhabitants had the scruffy appearance of having not slept in a couple of days. On the other hand, a Persian grandmother bundled in a bright red blanket worked on some kind of yarn art in the corner, pausing occasionally to warm her bony hands on a mug idling by her side. Everyone seemed lost in their own thoughts or quiet conversation, all waiting for something.
In Hero’s experience, there was nothing good worth anticipating in these kinds of realms. “We should get out of here.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Rami nodded tightly, perhaps because any grander gesture would have risked tipping the bench. “What do you propose?”
Rami’s eyes were somber, intense, and Hero found himself pinned under their focus. There was no mockery, no doubt, just patient attention.
“Why do you do that?” Hero asked. The question was suddenly pressing, urgent as anything else he could accomplish.
Rami turned to meet his gaze. “Do what?”
Hero’s mouth felt dry and awkward. “Take me seriously. Why do you take me seriously?”
That received a raise of one thick eyebrow. “Should I not?”
No. No one should have taken Hero seriously. Earnest regard had weight, had consequences, had familiar ties and responsibilities. “The others don’t. I work very hard on the frivolity, you know. It’s handcrafted, artisanal even. But you ignore it entirely.” Hero realized he was staring but only seemed able to drop his focus from Rami’s eyes to his chin. “I want to know why, I guess.”
Rami’s serious expression muddled with a kind of softness at the edges. He considered before speaking, “It’s a fair enough question. I mean, I can see you’re vain; you’re arrogant and irresponsible—”
“Flatterer,” Hero muttered, but Rami wasn’t going to be derailed.
“You choose to behave as a beast sometimes. And you’re very hard to tolerate, let alone like,” he said firmly. Then he paused, a complicated look ill settling on his features until it drifted off again. “But then there’s who you are when you’re taken seriously, treated with respect and thoughtful consideration. You’re insightful and kind. I like that man.”
“Nobody likes me,” Hero said, a little aghast.
Rami stopped, and a very un-Rami-like smile taunted the shape of his lips. It was a soft smile, and if he wasn’t careful, someone would accuse it of being fond. Not Hero; Hero knew better. But still. It was a dangerous smile, with what a less cautious fool than Hero could read into it.
“You might be surprised. You seem to have found a home in the Library, at least.”
Hero sniffed. “Only because I can’t return to my book, so I can’t be shelved.”
“You really think so?”
“Of course,” Hero said with a certainty that had been there a moment ago but was disappearing fast as Rami frowned at him. He managed to break the gaze, turning his head to fish through the crowd for anything, anything else to talk about. His attention lit on a tall figure who slipped through the tearoom with a peculiar kind of familiarity. The figure was dressed in a long tunic and flowing pants, belted loosely at the waist. They were broad-shouldered and thick-hipped, moving with the kind of surety that described a comfort in their own skin. The figure cut a sure path through the quiet crowd, saying a word here or there. Each time, the figure would withdraw, and the table would soon get up and leave through the curtained doors at the far end of the room. Some left with purpose, but many with reluctance.
They stopped at a table not too far away, close enough for Hero to hear. “Last call,” the newcomer said quietly.
“Can’t we stay, Sraosha?” asked an old man wrapped in gold-embroidered finery.
The figure called Sraosha smiled, and when they shook their head, there was no malice in it. “Why would you want to stay? You’ve got family waiting for you across the bridge.”
“I do.” The man didn’t seem comforted and suddenly looked at his hands. “I hope I see them.”
Sraosha didn’t say anything to that but placed a hand on his shoulder. “Everyone crosses the bridge sometime. Your family is waiting.”
The man nodded and drained the last of his tea in one ponderous motion. His grip was white-knuckled, but after he finished, his courage seemed restored. He nodded to his companions and left at a march toward the door.
They left their cups behind. Sraosha swept their hand over the table, and in a moment it was refreshed with clean cups and a steaming pot of tea nestled next to a comforting candle.
Hero glanced to the side to see if Rami was observing all this. He was, frown pinned with a particular kind of concern. When Hero looked back, Sraosha had turned and spotted him.
They approached the table at a glide. “Last call,” they said quietly.
Up close, Sraosha struck Hero as likely fluid in gender presentation, but
