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Atta

She tried not to overthink her outfit. It seemed silly. She wasn’t meeting Sonder for a date, she was going as a scientific peer.

That’s what Atta told herself anyway, as she dressed in black trousers and a loose, brown cable knit. This wasn’t a peculiar date with an unmasked man and it wasn’t her assisting a professor.

Taking one last look in the wardrobe mirror, she nodded resolutely and grabbed her satchel. She had just enough time to snag a cuppa from the coffee and tea cart on the green before Sonder met her.

But when she opened the door to her room, Domhnall was standing there, his fist poised to knock. Instinctively, Atta backed up.

“Aw, fuck. I’m sorry, Atta.”

“You look like shite.” She crossed her arms.

“I feel like it too. I keep getting glimpses from last night. I was an arse to you, wasn’t I?”

“You made a very determined pass at me, Dony. Even after I said no.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.” His contrition seemed genuine, but that didn’t excuse him.

“You need to stop drinking if you can’t control yourself. You’re going to end up hurting someone.”

He looked at his bare toes, but she kept going.

“All it takes is one fuck up and you’ve destroyed not only someone else’s life but your own, too.”

“You’re right. I don’t want to hurt anyone. Least of all you.”

“Just”—she put a hand on his shoulder—“get a handle on it, yeah?”

“Ye’. Thanks, Atta.”

She moved past him. “One and done or don’t drink at all, all right?”

“Deal.”

She smiled, but Dony didn’t.

“I have some glimpses of a masked man threatening me. Was that real?”

She should have lied. But it wasn’t her nature until recently it seemed, and she didn’t get a lie out fast enough.

“Are you mixed up in one of these secret societies?”

“No,” she said firmly and it was mostly true. “But I don’t answer to you, Dony. So drop it.”

He held up his hands in a show of surrender. “All right.”

Atta grabbed her keys and rushed out the door, irritated she didn’t have time for coffee anymore.

Sonder was behind the Medical Building where they’d agreed to meet, leaning against his Capri and smoking a cigarillo. He hadn’t seen her approaching and she slowed to watch him a moment, unobserved. It was strange now, putting both men into one, the seamlessness with which she viewed them before she ever knew for certain that they were one and the same.

Professor Murdoch, with his intellect and Morbid Arts. Gold Stitch, with his brooding and secrecy. And yet they were both just Sonder to her—had been for some time, in many ways—smelling of parchment, cigar smoke and spice, talking of academia and the Plague, pissing her off and pulling her back in; sharply dressed, hands ever in his pockets.

Sonder turned then, still mostly in profile, but he saw her and his mouth broke into a smile. He moved toward the back door of the building and stubbed out his cigarillo. “Good morning.”

Two cups were on the bonnet of his car, one a porcelain teacup and one a takeaway cup. One empty, one full. He handed Atta the latter, his face scrunching on one side as he thought aloud, “Dark roast, dash of cream, with brown sugar.”

Atta took the coffee gratefully, hoping she wasn’t grinning like a fool. “Only in the autumn.”