My cheeks are on fire now. He’s me, so I’m clearly misreading something here. But his tone was enough to make the inside of my mouth turn to wool.
I shut up and watch him barter his necklace away in exchange for two large and copper tankards of ale, one of which he pushes towards me.
After everything that’s happened so far today, it’s odd that this should be the most compelling. To touch a cup that’s one hundred and eighty years old, but that’s also new… to feel the moisture of beer froth on my fingers and know it’s long gone, every drop of it, now and forever, every trace of whatever type of beer this is, of the man who served it, of the people who made it, of the humans in this room… to know this is all dust on the wind where I’m from.
It’s scary, but it’s special. There’s something almost sacred in it. A look into a world extinguished.
Except not here. Not in this reality that I never knew sat right beside my own. That was close enough to touch if…particles, did he say? If particles lined up just the right way? A long-gone existence that was right here all along, waiting for August to walk into my life and show it to me.
He’s watching me now, and I don’t know why, but I’m colouring again. This time, it’s not because I’m embarrassed by all these other people who are still looking at me. I’m just… completely overwhelmed.
“I’m sorry about today,” he says.
I can’t help but laugh. “Which bit? The stalking me and almost scaring me to death, the dropping the doppelgänger thing on me, or the getting me lost in another time situation?”
“Um… all of that. Also your coffee. I still feel bad about that.”
“You bought me a drink to make up for it.”
“And this is the best beer you’ll ever taste. I guarantee it.” The expectant arch of his eyebrows and the quirk at the corner of his lips suggest he really is sorry. But also that maybe he genuinely cares whether I enjoy this. And I think it’s the first time in years that a man’s been concerned about whether I’m happy.
That realisation hits me hard, harder than I thought it could, so I blink away the sting and take the tankard up. It’s heavy, oddly shaped and unwieldy, with its pot-belly curve and wide handle.
I’m going to drink almost two-hundred-year-old beer.
I lift it slowly, savouring the moment. It smells of coffee beans and chocolate, the froth thick and brown and promising. And when it hits my tongue… it’sdivine. The taste is blindingly fresh. There’s a riot of flavour here. Malt and yeast and a deeply satisfying richness that’s absent from the fizzy junk I usually drink.
August’s waiting, and I can’t hide the smile that prompts. “This is incredible.”
“I knew you’d love it.”
“Because you love it?”
“I know me quite well,” he quips.
Another chuckle ripples out of me. At all of this. It’s all too bizarre. But it’s also somehow… lovely.
He turns his back to the bar and leans an arm into mine as he surveys the room. It’s crowded, nowhere to sit. People are still looking at us, but only a few now, in a whispering, gossiping sort of way.
Their faces aren’t what I’d have expected, had I ever thought to try to expect this. Not a hint of makeup, none of their hair done in fancy styles like it might have been for the professional portraits we see copies of in the modern era. They’re rougher. Yellowed teeth. Wearing clothes that are probably casual for them, but seem a thousand times more dressed up than what most people wear to the local pub in my time. Certainly more dressed up than the track pants I ran out of my house in.
I feel hideously out of place. I wouldn’t come in here in my own time wearing this, let alone the Victorian age. It feels wrong. And as I shrink from that fresh embarrassment, I realise I’m leaning hard into August.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
Maybe it is safe to touch him after all?
He’d know better than me, I guess.
Still, I shuffle an inch away from him. “Sorry,” I mumble, glancing down at the space where our arms had been touching.
He takes my meaning with a shrug that brings his shoulder back against mine. “It’s really alright. I was just being cautious. But as you can see, everything’s fine.”
Fine?
Why isn’t he remotely bothered by this? By any of this? Does this qualify as normal for him? “How many times have you been here?”
My question seems to catch him off guard. He gives me this piercing look, long-lashed and dark-eyed, like he’s sifting through my thoughts. He’s looked at me like that a lot today. Do I look at people like that?
