Page 8 of Sawyer’s Mistake

It felt as if he and Saoirse had been transported to some kind of alternate universe and landed in a pleasure cruise. One side of the room was taken up by a buffet table laden with heaped, steaming dishes. He counted over twenty people who came up to the buffet table to serve themselves before sitting down at one of the six-person tables that were beautifully laid out with crisp, white tablecloths, polished silverware, and crystal wine glasses.

Sawyer looked at the food Paul had piled on his plate. Grilled trout, rice, and some kind of vegetable drizzled in sauce. Leaving Saoirse at the table they were sharing with Paul, Miranda, Amélie, and a young couple, he went over to the buffet and served two plates.

He placed a plate in front of Saoirse. She looked up gratefully at him. She’d looked fresher earlier, when she’d been playing Nancy Drew. Now she looked on the verge of tears, overwhelmed by the situation.

Paul looked at the plates, a small smile playing on his lips as he noticed Sawyer had filled his and Saoirse’s plate with the same items he’d chosen for himself. Sawyer silently held his gaze, daring him to say something, but he did not.

“We grow our own vegetables, you know? Not here on the ship, obviously, but in a garden across the river,” Paul said cheerfully. “Please, enjoy your meal.”

“Where are you from, Paul?” Sawyer asked. Something about the man bothered him, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was.

“From Paris, of course,” Paul smiled. He brought out his hand to Miranda, sitting beside him, who took it gently, an adoring look in her brown eyes. “Miranda and I came to Cambrai after the first attack. Some wine?”

Sawyer looked at the bottle then back at Paul, his expression hard. Paul shrugged and served himself, took a long sip, then looked back at him questioningly.

“Thank you,” Sawyer acceded, offering up his own wine glass. The more Paul drank, the more likely it was he’d let something slip. Even as out of practice as he was, Sawyer had no doubt he could drink any Frenchman under the table.

“Saoirse?” Paul asked. She nodded, and he filled out a generous glass for her as well. She brought it to her lips with shaking hands.

“How … how is this possible?” she finally asked. She was so pale, her freckles stood out.

“What do you mean, dear?” Amélie said. She was older than they had originally thought, closer to seventy years old, but still beautiful. A true French dame.

“You’re living in a different universe. You’re dining on white tablecloths and polished silverware. Do you have any idea what is going on out there? People are dying!” Her pitch rose at the end of the sentence, betraying her desperation. The hum of conversation ceased in the tables closest to them, as people turned to stare at them.

Sawyer put his hand softly on her back to steady her. “Breathe, Saoirse,” he whispered.

It was Amélie who broke the spell. “Oh, honey, of course we know what is going out there.” She folded her napkin in four and reached over to hold Saoirse’s left hand in both her own. “We don’t know why, but the aliens have never bothered us. We live like we do for the sake of the forty souls who live with us. But we know what things are like out there … Though we haven’t left Cambrai in a long time, people have joined us over the months. We welcome everyone with open arms. Louis and Marie were the last ones to arrive. They joined our ship just a few weeks ago,” she finished, pointing at the couple on the opposite side of the table, who they’d already met earlier in the afternoon.

Sawyer studied the older woman’s peaceful expression. She was either telling the truth or she was the best actress he had ever encountered.

“We hope you will also choose to stay with us,” Paul said, still clasping Miranda’s hand.

“We can’t, we have to …” Saoirse began.

Sawyer interrupted her before she could say anything else. “We thank you for your hospitality tonight, but we must be on our way tomorrow morning. We’re just passing through.”

Paul and Miranda nodded. “Of course. A toast then to this evening and to new friends.”

Saoirse took a long drink, almost emptying her wine glass. He watched the wine flow into her lips, mesmerized by the contrast between the deep burgundy and her own fiery curls.

He sipped lazily at his own drink, more to distract himself than out of any interest in the wine. He needed his wits about him.

The conversation flowed, along with the wine. Unsurprising, given the delicious food and the palpable lack of fear in the room. Sawyer refused Paul’s offer to refill his glass and saw Saoirse do the same thing.

After dinner, Paul and Miranda excused themselves from the larger party.

“You probably have more questions,” Paul said, leading Sawyer and Saoirse out of the dining room. “The library is just this way. We’ll chat over coffee.”

“How civilized,” Sawyer muttered. Stepping into the library, he tripped on a raised carpet but righted himself easily.

Saoirse headed straight towards an enormous bookcase taking up the entire far wall. Sawyer followed, not wanting to let her out of his sight.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Paul boasted.

“Where … where did you find all these books?” Her fingers caressed the spines. Several times she made as if to take one out but then kept going, needing to touch them all.

She stopped in front of the only wall not covered in books. He followed her gaze towards a dark painting showing a pale woman holding a blade against a naked man’s neck. It was a violent, disturbing scene. Certainly not one he’d choose to hang in his home.