honey sweetness but it also smells of orange blossom and vanilla and spice.
Zachary recalls innumerable fairy-tale warnings against eating or drinking in underworlds and at the same time realizes he is incredibly thirsty.
He suspects this is the only way forward.
He downs the drink in a single shot and replaces the empty glass on the stone. It tastes of everything he smelled in it and more—apricot and clove and cream—and it has a very, very strong kick of alcohol.
He loses his equilibrium enough to reconsider the relative stupidity of the whole idea but as quickly as the glass falls into its own abyss, it passes. His head, which had been pounding and swimming and sleepy before, feels clearer.
Zachary returns to the door and when he turns the knob it moves, the lock clicking open for him, allowing him through.
The room beyond the door looks like a cathedral, its sweeping high ceilings intricately tiled and buttressed, if buttressed is a word. There are six large columns, also tiled in patterns though some tiles are missing here and there, mostly near the bases, leaving bare stone visible beneath. The floor is covered with tiles worn down to the stone beneath, more so near Zachary’s feet and in a loop around the perimeter of the round space, with heavier wear near the other entrances. There are five entrances not counting the door he has stepped through. Four are archways, leading off in different directions into darkened halls, but directly opposite a large wooden door rests slightly ajar, a soft light beyond.
There are chandeliers, some hanging at irregular, chandelier-inappropriate heights, and others resting on the floor in illuminated piles of metal and crystal, their tiny bulbs dimmed or extinguished entirely.
A larger light above is not a chandelier at all but a cluster of glowing globes hung amongst brass hoops and bars. Craning his neck Zachary can see hands at the end of the bars, human hands cast in gold and pointing outward, the tile above them laid out in a pattern of numbers and stars. In the center, the midpoint of the room, a chain drops from the ceiling, terminating in a pendulum that hangs inches above the floor, slowly swaying in a tight rotation.
Zachary thinks the entire contraption might be a model of the universe or maybe a clock of some sort but he has no idea how to read it.
“Hello?” he calls. From one of the darkened halls there is a creaking sound, like a door opening, but nothing follows. Zachary walks the perimeter of the room, peering down hallways filled with books filed on long curving shelves and stacked on floors. Down one hall he spots a glowing pair of eyes staring back at him but he blinks and the eyes are gone.
Zachary turns his attention back to the maybe-universe, maybe-clock to inspect it from a different angle. One of the smaller bars is moving in time with the pendulum, and as he attempts to discern if any of the globe shapes have moons there is a voice behind him.
“May I be of assistance, sir?”
Zachary turns so quickly he hurts his neck and flinches and is unable to tell whether the man who is regarding him with mild concern is reacting to the action or his presence or both.
Someone else is in this place. This place is actually here.
This is all happening.
Zachary dissolves into instant, near-hysterical laughter. A bubbling giggle that he attempts to stifle and fails. The man’s expression switches from mild concern to moderate.
This man gives an immediate impression of agedness, probably because of his stark white hair, worn long and styled in impressive braids. But Zachary blinks and stares and as his contact lenses reluctantly focus he can tell the man is maybe pushing fifty, or at least not as old as the hair implies. It’s also dotted with pearls strung along the braids, camouflaged when their sheen isn’t caught in the light. His eyebrows and eyelashes are dark, black like his eyes. His skin looks darker in contrast with his hair but is a mid-toned brown. He wears wire-rimmed glasses balanced on an equine nose and reminds Zachary a little bit of his seventh-grade math teacher but with much cooler hair and a deep red, gold-embroidered robe tied with a number of looping cords. On one hand he wears several rings. One ring looks like an owl.
“May I be of assistance, sir?” the man repeats, but Zachary can’t stop laughing. He opens his mouth to say