The Dreaming: Old Shalon (Book 4)

5.2. Breakfast at Tiffany's

We sat around the table awkwardly, Michael fidgeting with his silverware, flashing his eyes 'I told you so' at me. I rolled my eyes in return, and was flummoxed when Tom caught me.

I cleared my throat, "This is amazing, Tom," I cooed, picking up a piece of silverware, all shiny and polished, and actually silver. I narrowed my eyes and put it back on the table.

Everyone but Nike and the elderly lady with dementia nodded and chimed in their agreement at just how absolutely beautiful and wonderful everything was. It was clear by the look on everyone's faces that they hadn't seen a spread like this in... well, perhaps ever.

"Thank you," Tom said graciously. "I am rewarded in my position as a taskforce leader, and it's my pleasure to share this meal with you." He stood up and took a fine bone china teapot from the table. "Tea, anyone?"

My ears perked up at that and I nodded, pushing my tiny teacup towards him. I caught a whiff of what he was pouring and it smelled like the real deal. My mouth started salivating. I hadn't had a real cup of tea in years. Only nettle, yarrow, tulsi, mint and other herbs that Michael collected or grew in the garden he'd created up on my roof.

"Is this real tea?" I asked, as I poured some milk, observing the colour carefully—it sure looked like real tea.

"Sugar?" he asked?

I nodded, and repeated, "Is this real tea you're serving?" I took a tiny spoon of sugar—the pure white, refined stuff—and savoured the fragile clink as I stirred it in.

While he poured tea for everyone he responded to my question. "The Family is an international organisation—we have communities on every continent." He smiled at me and I swear I saw one of those demon sparkles in his eyes. He was seriously trying to seduce me with tea.

I looked down at my perfect cup of tea. How did the bastard know that if he could seduce me with anything, it was with tea? I picked up the fragile cup and brought it to my lips, closing my eyes, savouring the scent. Then I tipped that cup to my lips and tasted heaven.

"I see you're a tea connoisseur, so I know you'll appreciate the fact that this tea was made from the tips of the leaves of the first growth in spring on a heritage estate in Bangladesh—the tea from this mountainside was once worth $1500 a pound in the old economy."

I nodded, wishing he would shut up. It could have been a twice-dipped tetley tea bag for all I cared; it didn't matter—it was real tea.

The elderly man and his daughter complimented the man, and there was some small chit chat while people drank tea and waited for breakfast. Michael started talking about the books he was collecting, trying to impress the elderly couple and their stone-faced daughter. He was such an eager-to-please kid. I decided I'd back him up in a moment, but first I wanted to finish my tea in peace.

I listened out of one ear to Tom talking about The Family while sipping delicate lady sips.

The Family—what a strange name. It reminded me of this group I'd been involved in in my twenties, back in the late 20th century, long before WW3. The group had been called—and it pains me to write this—the Rainbow Family of Living Light. It was a loosely affiliated group of hippies, hobos and anarchists, hanging out calling each other brother and sister and gazing in our navels for solutions to all the world's problems. I could shake my head at it now, but at the time I was a devoted member.

I wondered if Tom's Family was somehow connected to mine, but doubted it—the Rainbow had been staunchly anti-technology and by the looks of it, these guys loved the stuff.

I took the last sip of my tea and pushed the cup away. I wanted another one, but I was tired of this cat and mouse game. I had nothing to lose and Tom held all the cards. I said sharply, "So who exactly do you work for, Tom?"