Her gaze landed on the dining room, which looked much like that of a fancy restaurant. Small tables seating four were well spaced for privacy, with candles lighting each table and an assortment of flatware she'd never seen before. The room was warm and cozy, its walls done up in dark lacquered wood, the warm glow of chandeliers non- imposing. The soft sounds of talk drifted to her, but it was the dress of the women within that drew her eye.
Few women wore similar fashions from similar eras. There were wide eighteenth- century ball gowns, women in little black dresses, one in a fifties poodle skirt, and several in dark dresses with ornate brocade on the bodice, like that of wealthy Middle Age royalty. One woman wore rustic battle wear from an era she couldn't name, another flowing Grecian robes, yet another robes of a different era. While their dress was different, their faces were similar: stunning beauties from across history.
"Ms. Katie?"
The maître d' looked at her skeptically, as if the woman passing in a revealing Middle Eastern belly dancing costume ahead of her was normal and jeans were not.
"Yes," she replied, her gaze going from him to the grand buffet in the center of the dining room.
"Shall I seat you?"
She nodded, hungry enough to set foot in the room with the most beautiful women in history. He led her to a private table in the corner near the buffet, as if sensing her unease. She had barely sat when a servant bearing a tray of coffee and diet root beer -- her favorite --set down the drinks in front of her.
How was it possible they knew everything about her?
Rather than go to the buffet herself, the servant joined several others selecting morsels and food for her to try. He returned and set it before her. She looked at him, then at the silverware, and picked a fork she recognized.
The food was heavenly, the duck crisped to perfection in a light, tangy sauce, the vegetables still fresh. Even the honey butter was a perfect balance between sweet and rich, and the rolls still warm when she bit into them. Dessert was a slice of five different kinds of pies, and she dug into everything, eating fast.
"…only fitting he'd choose a classless barbarian. He's a demon."
She froze at the cultured voice with its rich accent, knowing the woman at the nearest table spoke about her. She shouldn't care, but part of her did. She was alone in a world she didn't fit into, and she wanted more than anything to escape.