"How is that one?" a voice asks.
It could be the voice that called me before but now it’s soft and soothing, flowing like water through a stream with each word a pebble lost on the stream-bed far below. I don't want to think or concentrate or hear them properly.
I open my eyes and things are too bright - as is to be expected after a hen-night - and the edges blur. The only thing that stands out is a beautifully angular face that presumably belongs to the beautiful voice.
I try to say, "I'll live," but all that comes out is a croak.
"That one should not try to talk if that one is not able," the face says gravely.
I try to tell it to sod off with it's "that one" but fail miserably.
I’m pulled up by my shoulders so that my head is raised from the ground and it holds a leather thing to my mouth and the next thing I know my mouth is filling with water. I splutter and cough and, when the container is not removed, drink. The water tastes finer than champagne.
"That one has had enough," the face says and the drink is taken away.
I lick my lips and swallow a couple of times, just to clear the taste of last night from my mouth.
"How did that one get here?" asks the face. "Humans should not be here."
This person is insane. One of those idiots who has spent more money than anyone ought to have adjusting themselves to be other-than-human and hiding their sex like it offends them. The sooner I can get away from them the better.
"You should know," I croak. "You called me."
"This one did not," the face denies.
"You called me by name," I say.
"That one's name?" the face leans forward and the angles tighten with something. Perhaps eagerness. "What is that one's name?"
Like background noise, I can hear the world around me hum with a reaction, as if everything that I cannot see clearly has drawn closer to listen to me.
"Erin," I reply. “My name is Erin."
Whatever it is around us rustles. The face smiles both widely and wildly. If I hadn’t already known it was insane, I would have started to worry about my safety right about now. Perhaps I should be grateful I was already concerned.
"Erinerinerin," the face repeats, watching me closely.
Nothing happens.
The face tightens into disappointment.
"What’s your name?" I ask.
The face hisses and moves a little further away, making it hard to focus on the angry lines.
"This one's name is not important," it insists. "This one is not important."
"Fine," I say.
It's not like I have need of it. I'm hardly going to report them to the police. If it turns out they're responsible for me lying on the ground, I'll deal with it a better way.
I push myself to sitting upright and ignore the way the unseen world swirls around me. The face might be the only thing that stays anything like still.
"That one should stay quiet on the ground," says the face. "That one is too ill to move."
"I’m fine," I say.
As long as I ignore the queasy feeling and headache. Yay for hangovers.
"How do I get back to the hotel?" I ask.
"’Hotel’?" the face asks as if it's a foreign word.
"The Check Inn?" I ask. "Over by the Frenchgate?"
The face does not move further away but I have the impression of it moving back. I don't know whether I’m seeing or imagining a long, lithe but angular body change from kneeling to crouching. I can't decide whether the owner wants to be a woman, a man or a cat.
"This one does not know these words," it says.
"Does ‘this one' know anything?" I ask.
The face smiles and it's almost as unpleasant as the one my name raised. "I don't know. Does it?"
"How do I get back to my friends?" I ask.
"This one does not know," it says.
"Does anyone?" I ask.