The aroma of tea creeps into my consciousness. The scent is light, full of jasmine, the perfect tea for the afternoon. I can’t quite make sense of it, though, or of my surroundings. The cushions beneath my head are unfamiliar, and the blanket is lovely and warm, but nothing I’ve ever owned.
A subdued clattering has me bolting upright, eyes flying open. I glance around without really seeing anything, memories flooding my mind. Yes, the housing development and the showcase home. We’re trapped. We need to find a way out. Somehow, instead of helping Henry, I fell asleep.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, “but I’m glad you’re awake.”
The look in his eyes is so tender that it has me peering over my shoulder for the object of his affection. Nothing except thick drapes. Nothing to explain the smile that pops those dimples, the deepening crinkles around his eyes, or the gentle kiss he bestows on my forehead.
I am breathless.
“Still sleepy?”
No, not in the least, but I manage the tiniest of nods. I am very much awake and very much confused. Henry folds a cup of tea into my hands. The bright scent of jasmine does little to clear my head, but the warmth against my fingers is reassuring. Until it isn’t.
With care, I set the teacup on the coffee table. “The electricity’s on?”
He chuckles at this. “That must have been some dream you had.”
Yes, I was asleep, but this is starting to feel more like a dream. Something about the showcase home is different. Worse, something about Henry is different and vastly so.
“We’re in the housing development,” I say slowly, like I’m trying out each word. “We’re trapped in the showcase home. Something chased us here. The Screamers, maybe?”
I take in our surroundings, which are far cozier than I recall. True, it was dark. But I remember the showcase home, have peeked through its windows dozens of times. It never had anything more than bare-bones furnishings and uninspiring, if high-end, decor.
Now it’s something else entirely.
“Don’t you remember?” My voice is thin and pleading, as if I already know the answer.
For a moment, concern clouds Henry’s expression. “More of a nightmare, then. Or perhaps the Sight.” He nods, mostly to himself, as if he’s worked out this problem and can set things right. “Well, there’s one way to take care of that.” He heads for the pantry in the kitchen and returns with a small bottle, like so many that line my own pantry at home. “I’ll let you add the dose.” He places it next to my teacup.
I examine the vial. That’s my handwriting, although the numbers swirl when I try to focus on the date. I uncap the bottle and sniff. The combination of bracing herbs would be just the thing to counteract the Sight. Assuming, of course, it had been giving me trouble.
The Sight seldom interrupts my sleep, and my dreams are almost never prophetic. But I’m beginning to think that this is the Sight inducing some sort of delusion. That’s when it hits me.
A coma.
Fear thrums low in my belly, icy and sharp. The sensation inches upward, freezing my lungs until I can barely pull in a breath. Would I recognize a Sight-induced coma? I don’t know. I’m always an observer, never a participant, watching the future or past unfold, but I always know it’s not my reality.
This feels like reality.
“The tea,” Henry urges. “You’re looking a little pale. We can cancel dinner?—”
I shake my head, because something inside me knows this dinner means the world to Henry, and I can’t deny him that. Nonsensical, but I can’t contradict him, can’t insist there’s no actual dinner to cancel. I pick up the teacup, and a glimmer on my left ring finger catches the light.
A wedding band, an elegant, low-key design that only hints at the expense behind it. And on Henry’s hand? The ring’s mate.
Never go into the housing development after dark.
But how was I to know? How on earth could I predict this situation? I rage silently at my mother, the Screamers, the Sight. But the burst of anger is meant for me. Henry was slipping into this fantasy even before we escaped into the showcase home. I knew he was. And yet I still fell asleep when I should’ve been on my guard and kept him safe.
“Are you sure?” he prompts, that concern flooding back into his expression.
“I’m sure,” I say, and pretend to drink the tea. I really don’t know if I should drink or eat anything. Despite my lack of acting skills, Henry seems to think I am swallowing his tea. For now, that’s good enough.
“In that case, I’m going to head back to the kitchen.”
He leaves me with another smile that shatters my heart.
With Henry in the kitchen, I do a quick recon of the first floor. On the mantlepiece, framed photographs take up every available space. Again, the images swirl, but I catch hints of me in a wedding dress, Henry in a tuxedo—devastating, of course—and a honeymoon somewhere with a rugged coastline and colorful villages clinging to cliffs. If I try to focus, the mirage fades, replaced by that same grayness surrounding the house.
