The lounge at Somnus’ Palace, of course, served food as well as drinks—real meals, not just biscotti and pastries. Behind the bar was a stairway leading down to the kitchen. A man in a black and white French waiter’s outfit brought meals on platters from down there. At any given time, you could usually find at least one or two people eating in the lounge’s side booths, with their ornately carved wooden inlays and cushions of purple and green.

  Today, though, for the first time since the day he’d arrived at Somnus’ Palace, the lounge was empty—that is, except for Lilac. She was busy preparing a batch of cold brew.

  On seeing him arrive, she paused, then resumed doing the same thing more stiffly.

  “Morning,” called Proto.

  “Good morning.” Now she paused her work and regarded him as though waiting.

  “So . . . where is everyone?” he asked.

  “Everyone else?” Her lips pressed slightly. “I suppose they’re all working.”

  “Ah.” He looked around again.

  “Astrid’s helping Somnus with something, if that’s what you’re wondering. And Dahlia is busy all day in the Shadowcaster,” she added. “Or was there someone else you had in mind?”

  “Um.” He scanned her face, but its pallor was inscrutable. “I guess I’m just wondering what I should be doing.”

  “I suppose you’ll have to decide that.” She started polishing a glass, glancing up at him after a moment.

  He frowned and rubbed his eyes, feeling foggy with sleep still. “Did Astrid leave any instructions on what dream I should visit?”

  “Instructions? You can’t intervene in a dream on your own,” responded Lilac. “You’re still a provisional visitor.”

  “Ah. So . . . no work today?” asked Proto. “Just sitting here and drinking on my own, huh.”

  Lilac stiffened. “Yes, I suppose so. What else would you do here all day?”

  Proto blinked. “I—”

  “Enjoy yourself,” she flatly urged. “I’ll be over here working on my own if you need me.”

  “Um.”

  “If you need any coffee Lilac-style, just give a holler and I’ll crank that out for you,” she said.

  “Um.”

  “Cups, cleaning, cocktails, and coffees Lilac-style,” she went on, polishing a glass. “That’s what I’m here for. I live to serve.”

  Proto couldn’t help feeling that Fate kept pushing him in different directions. Or maybe each of the three Fates sought a different direction for his life.

  Well, Fate was Fate, and here he was.

  “Alright, Madame Bartendress. Then serve me you shall!” he declared. “Today, you’re going to teach me to make a drink.”

  She arched an eyebrow but continued polishing. “Now you sound like Somnus. Haven’t you advanced today! First, doing a visit alone. Now, you’re the Lord of Dreams.”

  “Show due respect for the Darkling Hunter!” he chided. “Or was it Darkling Stalker, Nightly Hunter?”

  “Creepy Stalker, Daily Tracksuit,” she corrected. “Or were we still talking about Somnus?”

  Proto recoiled like he’d been shot twice. “Straight to the heart!” He gave her the double-guns. “Now, that drink you’re going to teach me.”

  Her pale face stayed straight, but her black eyes sparkled. “Tell me why I should partake in this exercise in futility.”

  “Because the best bartendress makes the best teacher?” he suggested.

  “And you’re a worthy pupil of the best?” she questioned.

  “The sun warms even the lowliest gnat!” he answered.

  She eyed him flatly.

  He gave her the double-guns again hopefully.

  “Stop pointing at me,” she chastised. “You’re like a traffic sign, you point so much.”

  He switched to two thumbs up—“No?”—then, two peace signs.

  “I suppose,” she sighed to hide a smile, “it’s too late to claim I’m busy today.”

  “Meaning?” He beamed and waited.

  “We’re going on a trip.” She bent down and started reaching for things under the bar.

  He blinked. “What?”

  “‘Just bother Lilac till she gives in,’ right?” she replied calmly. “Well, now I’m bothered. No backing out now! We’re going to make a drink. And since I’m missing two ingredients, we’re going to go get them.”

  “Me, back out?” He held a hand out like an orator. “And miss this odyssey? This search for the secret drink? This quest for Lilac’s concoction?”

  “You like to repeat yourself in different ways,” she observed. “Do you impress yourself that much?”

  “You bring out the best in me,” he shrugged modestly. “Like a Muse! An inspiration!”

  “I hope you’re not pointing at me,” she called from below the bar as she searched.

  He pulled his fingers in just as she looked up, leaving him with two fists extended toward her. “Uh, just rollin’ with the punches.” He gave a little Rocky-esque flurry.

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  She shook her head grimly and continued packing.

  “Dying to go, huh?” he said.

  “Like I’m on death row. But, as they say, ‘Suffering is the highest form of charity.’” The bartendress stood. In her hand was a picnic basket. It was embroidered with little lilacs.

  Seeing this, Proto’s eyes widened. His lips curved up.

  “Don’t say a word,” she commanded.

  Still beaming, he touched a finger to his lips and zipped them shut.

  “Very good.” She turned around and pointed toward the stairway. “This way.”

  She glided away and down the stairs, and he followed. “I didn’t know your job took you away from the lounge.”

  “Right, I just bustle about making drinks, as others go do adventurous things. ‘Lilac the homebody.’ ‘Lilac the domestic.’ Is that the thought?” she asked calmly.

  He blinked and searched for a reply other than “yes.” But she didn’t give him time.

  “As a matter of fact, I get out more than any of them. And by out, I mean out,” she went on. “Who do you think stocks that bar? You think Somnus just magicks it up?”

  “ . . . that might or might not have been my guess.”

  “Mm-hmm. Well, today, you’re going to learn how little you know. Including how big this place is.” She led him down many flights of stairs. Each opened into an unfamiliar looking area, completely different from either the lounge or misty blue hallways. The stairs eventually dead-ended into a sliding white door. “And what lies beyond it,” she added, tapping the door.

  Unlike the doors he’d seen previously, there wasn’t just one door. Instead, a series of heavy doors slid apart in various manners.

  “Are we robbing a bank vault?” asked Proto. “Or infiltrating a secret government facility?”

  “We’re going to the beach,” she answered, as the last door slid open.

  Beyond it was a mirky grey cave. A stagnant little creek could be seen ahead.

  Proto stared. “Drat, I forgot my swimsuit.” He snapped his fingers.

  “All that about odysseys and quests,” she sighed, retrieving a mini-flashlight from her picnic basket. She beamed it toward a tunnel across the creek. “And the excuses begin before we’re even out the door!”

  “I mean, this odyssey is looking a lot more literal than I—”

  “Who’s the homebody now?” interrupted Lilac, already several strides ahead of him. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back in time for hot cocoa. You can curl up by the fire in your flannel PJs.”

  “Pulling out the big guns, are we? Well!”—he sighed and entered the cave—“it worked.”

  “Go big or go home,” she replied evenly, hopping over the creek and continuing into the tunnel.

  He followed and ducked into the cramped passage. “I think I’ve seen this scene before.”

  “Oh?” She leaned around a stalactite, then squeezed between two stalagmites.

  “Yes,” he said. “This is where we have a near-death experience, I find out afterward we weren’t supposed to be out here, and Somnus freaks out and considers banishing me.”

  “You should leave the prophecies to Dahlia,” she replied.

  “And take up what? Mixing cocktails?” he asked playfully.

  “Let’s start with one and see where things go,” mumbled Lilac.

  “What?”

  “I said, let’s start with one and see how things go,” she calmly repeated.

  “Ah, ye of little faith.”

  “‘Ye’ is plural,” she noted. “‘Ah, thou of little faith’ is what you meant.”

  “Thank you, Miss Beatrice.”

  “What?”

  “She was my fifth-grade teacher.”

  “Did she also make you cocktails and go on odysseys with you?” replied Lilac. “Because, if so, I feel I suddenly understand you much better.”

  Proto pondered how to respond to that.

  He and his fifth-grade friends had been a bit young to realize it at the time, but by eighth grade, they’d all agreed that Miss Beatrice was by far the hottest teacher in the school. Even in her mid-forties, and well over thirty pounds heavier than she’d been a couple decades earlier, judging by an old family photo she’d had on her desk.

  Incidentally, Miss Beatrice had come to a school reunion event about a dozen years later—looking much the same as she had as Proto’s teacher—and, indeed, had shared a cocktail with him and his friends. It’d been much harder and drier than anything those early-twenties boys were used to drinking.

  He decided, on balance, not to share this story with Lilac.

  “I’m not sure what that’s getting at, but it seems disturbing and inappropriate!” he instead observed.

  “Yes, exactly. That’s my general reaction to your banter.”

  He clutched his chest and jolted backward. “Straight to the heart!”

  She pointed a finger at him with her thumb up, then made a bam sound and flicked it upward.

  Down they wended along shadowy ways. They passed several more underground brooks before reaching a black river, which was much more substantial—hundreds of yards wide. At its side was a rowboat with a single paddle.

  “Care for a dip?” he suggested.

  “You forgot your swimsuit,” she recalled. “And I don’t have one either.”

  “Well, as long as we’re in the same position, right?” he reasoned.

  “You’re suggesting we skinny-dip together? Sure, maybe,” she shrugged. He was just getting excited and approaching the shore when she added, “But I should mention, touching that water will make you lose your memories of life. The more you touch, the more you forget.”

  He frowned and halted about five feet from the black liquid. “Well! Let’s lay out our blanket, have a bite and enjoy the view.”

  “No, no,” she said. “Into the boat with you. We still have to get our two ingredients. No stopping halfway there.” She walked ahead of him and into the boat’s front, grabbing the oar.

  “Uh, you want me to do the paddling?” He’d only done it a few times, years ago, and that had been a kayak. But he felt he should make the offer.

  “No, I’m not about to let you capsize me in the River Lethe,” she said. “You get to hold the flashlight. And if you’d like to show your manly strength, you can push us out.”

  “Will do!” Cracking his knuckles, he began to push the boat, then eyed the ground. “This stone is wet. Is it safe to step on?”

  “Your shoes will be okay. They won’t forget anything too important,” assured Lilac.

  “Great. Thanks.” He finished shoving and hopped in, just as the boat began drifting out. She handed him the light and began paddling.

  She was good at it, he had to admit—deft, precise and efficient, as always. They soon were moving at a steady clip.

  He eyed the water. It had appeared black from the shore. But now that he looked more closely, it seemed almost mirrorlike. Except the reflection was not the rocky ceiling overhead, but . . . what? He seemed to see forms moving down there.

  Why did they seem familiar? Not the faces—he couldn’t see any—but the overall pattern of their movements. Like shadows of a scene that he’d participated in. He leaned and squinted.

  Just as he felt on the verge of remembering, a droplet of water hit his hand, churned up by the oar.

  He blinked. “Hey! You splashed me.”

  Lilac looked back with some concern. Then, seeing him pointing at a single bead of water on the back of his hand, she rolled her eyes. “That’s enough to forget what you had for breakfast two weeks ago. Maybe.” She resumed rowing.

  “Sounds good,” he said, “Lily. Or was it Lobelia? Lisianthus? Also, where am I?”

  She delicately touched a maroon fingernail to the black water, then flicked it at his face.

  He dodged aside. “Bloody Hell! She plays for keeps!”

  She already was turning away, but her shoulders shook with a suppressed chuckle.

  He smiled, his gaze falling upon the water again. Sometimes, his whole life at Somnus’ Palace felt like he were in rowboat and someone else were doing the paddling. And all he could do was banter from the backseat and enjoy the ride. Well, he’d enjoy it.

  He peered out at the rippling waters again, both black and strangely deep at the same time—like a million mirrors of obsidian, forming and unforming, showing fleeting depths. Were those depths real? He squinted down at them, absently keeping the flashlight angled ahead.

  Those shadow forms were moving there again. Were they memories the waters had stolen from others? Or were his memories being reflected back at him? Or . . . both? He strove to peer more deeply.

  There, he seemed to see himself. He was lying down. Others were bustling frantically around him—some focused on him, others busy with other things. He was being moved somewhere. He was being placed inside something. It was closing.

  A noise sounded from afar, but it was not part of this and it barely registered.

  The shadowy scene was waning away now. He stared harder in frustration. It reminded him of when he’d woken from a dream and wanted to return to it. But, try as he might, he couldn’t force his way back.

  It was a little like this rowboat, he realized. To get where he wanted to go, he couldn’t do the paddling himself. No, he had to be content to sit in the back and lightly coax along the paddler, and shine a flashlight on his destination. Trusting that part of him that wasn’t quite him to take him where he longed to go. And he felt so close—

  “Proto!” Two hands grabbed his shoulders.