“Magnifique,” he says.
We talk for a few minutes before they leave.
“It does indeed grow late,” Nicolas says. “May I suggest one last hot alcoholic beverage and one last ride on the roller coaster?”
“May we reverse the order of those events?”
“You are wise. Yes. The roller coaster, and then we shall collect our scarves and have a drink to warm us for the trip back to our hotel.”
8
We do not walk back to the hotel. I want to—it is such a glorious night—but it is more than a mile, and Nicolas has noticed me limping despite my attempts to hide it. He bribes me with a second drink, this one in a public house made of ice. Then he hails us a cab.
When I exit the cab, my ankle gives way, and while I will blame the boots, it may also be the unprecedented consumption of alcohol. Before I can right myself, Nicolas sweeps me up, over my protests.
“Nico,” I say as he heads for the door. “You cannot carry me inside a hotel.”
“Cannot? That sounds suspiciously like a challenge. Do you dare suggest I lack the strength to do so?”
“I know you do not. I suggest instead that it is most improper.”
“This is the twenty-first century. I have the sense we are permitted to be improper.”
The doorman swings open the large glass doors and says, “Sir. Ma’am,” as if nothing is amiss.
“She has new boots,” Nicolas says. “And it was a very long evening of walking.”
“I am fine,” I say.
“Let me get the elevator for you, sir,” the doorman says.
“I would appreciate that.”
I let Nicolas carry me up to our room, where the magical card allows him to open the door without setting me down. Only when we are in the room does he toss me onto the bed. Before I can sit up, he begins unfastening my boots.
Once both are off, he holds them aloft. “One would think that the twenty-first century could invent more comfortable boots.”
“I have pockets,” I say. “That is all that matters.”
He tosses the boots aside and slides beside me on the bed top. We sit, looking out the massive window to the illuminated world beyond.
“Do you ever wake fearing this has all been a dream?” he says after a moment.
I nod, silent.
He props himself up. “There are few things as wonderful as that moment. I wake, fearing I have dreamed it all, and then you are beside me, and I know I have not, and that feeling...” He exhales. “I hope to never lose it.”
“I have nightmares,” I blurt. “Nightmares where it has all been a wild fancy, and I am furious with myself for having such dreams, for thinking that I could move through time itself, that I could have such adventures, that I could meet such a man.”
His fingers close around mine. “It is real,crécerelle.”
I nod again without speaking.
He gestures at the window. “That is real.” He motions to the room. “This is real.” His free hand reaches for a switch by the bed, hitting it and letting light fill the room. “That is real.”
“And it is all wonderful, but what I truly care about”—I turn toward him and lift a finger to touch his cheek—“is thatthisis real.”
“It is.”