The Gilded Table

My name is Elara, and I’ve never known a life without motion. The world has been my playground since before I could walk, a blur of airports and ocean liners, of strange tongues and unfamiliar stars. My mother used to say I was born with a restless soul, and she was right. But some things you see in your travels stay with you, no matter how fast you run. I’ve seen things, things that don’t fit in the neat boxes of the rational mind. When I was three, in the steamy jungles of Belize, I saw a shadow with too many angles lurking behind a waterfall. I never told anyone, but I remembered. And now, on a cruise ship gliding through the sapphire waters of the Aegean, I was about to add another memory to that collection.

Dominic was my anchor in this floating world. He was solid, dependable, a man who planned our itineraries with military precision. We had boarded the Celestia, a ship so opulent it felt like a palace had grown barnacles and taken to the sea. The first night, we dined in the grand, chandelier-laden hall, surrounded by the murmur of wealthy travelers. Halfway through our appetizers, Dominic went silent. His eyes, usually so warm, became distant, his fork frozen halfway to his lips. I’d seen that glazed look enough times to recognize it—something was wrong. I’d learned to read the little signs, the subtle shifts in his posture, the way his fingers drummed when he was on edge. So I watched, waiting for him to snap out of it.

He did, just as the main course arrived. He blinked, looked at me with confusion, and then smiled as if nothing had happened. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I think I was just overwhelmed by the view.’ We laughed it off, and I tried to ignore the prickle of unease at the back of my neck. But when our waitress, a slender woman named Calla with eyes like ink, took our dessert order, the change was immediate. Dominic’s face contorted, his jaw tightening as if he were chewing glass. His eyes turned cold, hostile, and he began to spew venom. ‘You can’t even order a proper dessert,’ he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘You’re worthless, just like your mother.’ I was stunned. He had never spoken to me like that, ever. Calla stood frozen, her pen hovering over her notepad, a look of shock on her face.

The next thing I knew, he had pushed his chair back with a scrape of wood, his face twisted in rage. ‘I need air,’ he spat, and stalked off, weaving between the tables, his footsteps loud in the sudden silence of the dining room. I was mortified. I could feel the eyes of the other diners boring into me, the whispers starting. I apologized to Calla, handed her a wad of cash, and rushed after him, my heart pounding in my chest.

I found him in our cabin, a sumptuous suite with a balcony overlooking the endless sea. The door was ajar, and I pushed it open to see him standing by the minibar, a small, ornate knife in his hand—the one he used to trim cigars. His back was to me, and he was perfectly still. ‘Dom,’ I called softly, ‘are you okay?’ He didn’t answer. I stepped closer, and as I did, he turned around. His face was contorted, not in anger now, but in a grimace of terror. There was a thin, red line around his neck, like a necklace of blood. Then he collapsed.

I rushed to him, but he was gone. The knife was still clutched in his hand, but the blade was clean. There was no wound, no blood pool. Just that weird line around his throat, like a mark from a garrote, but it wasn’t a wound. It was a thin, bluish bruise that looked almost like a smile. I knelt there, staring at him, my mind reeling. I thought about the entity from Belize, about the way it had looked at me with those yellow eyes. I felt a cold presence in the room, a pressure change, as if something had entered and was watching me.

I turned, and there, standing in the doorway, was Calla, the waitress. She was holding a tray, but it was empty except for a single, black rose. Her eyes, ink-black, now glinted with a faint, unearthly light. ‘He tasted the lies,’ she said, her voice a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once. ‘The master saw in him a vessel, but he was too weak. You, though… you’ve seen more. The one from Belize, she waits for you.’ She smiled, and for a moment, her teeth were needle-sharp. ‘She likes you,’ Calla said, setting the rose on the floor. ‘She wants to know what other sights you’ve seen.’

I scrambled backward, my heart racing. ‘What do you want?’ I managed to say, my voice trembling. ‘What happened to him?’

Calla tilted her head, a grotesque parody of curiosity. ‘He was a curtain, a doorway. But he couldn’t hold the shape. You, on the other hand… you’ve been shaped since childhood. The master of the Gilded Table—she who sits at the golden feast—she wants to meet you.’ She stepped forward, and the air grew cold. ‘She has seen you, little one, in her dreams of the woven dark. She knows you can see her.’

I backed out of the room, through the door, and into the corridor. The ship felt different now, the lights flickering, the distant sound of laughter turned to low moans. I ran, not knowing where, just needing to escape. But everywhere I turned, I saw the same waitress, or another like her, with that same ink-black stare. They were all serving the same mistress. The ship was a gilded cage, and I had walked into it willingly.

I found a lifeboat, the latch unlatched, and I climbed in, releasing it with a splash into the dark water. I rowed until my arms ached, until the ship was a distant, glittering monstrosity on the horizon. When I finally looked back, the lights were going out one by one, and the ship was sailing into a cloud of unnatural fog. The last thing I saw was the silhouette of a tall figure on the deck, wearing the captain’s hat, and Calla beside it, pointing at me.

Now I’m in a small Greek fishing village, staying at a pension run by an old woman who thinks I’m just a young woman with a broken heart. But I know what I saw. And I know it’s not over. I keep the black rose, dried and brittle, in my room. Every night, I find a new petal has fallen, and the air smells faintly of rot and sweet tea. And sometimes, when the moon is high over the Aegean, I hear a voice whispering in my ear, a voice like silk over broken glass: ‘Elara, the feast is waiting. Come back to the table.’ I know one day she’ll call me back, and I’ll have no choice but to answer. The restlessness in my soul has found its source, and it’s a hunger that spans worlds.