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“I–I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”
“I’m not going anywhere. How was your soup?”
“Delicious. I ate it all.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Good. I can hardly remember what it’s like. To eat, I mean.” His voice was low with melancholy.
What am I supposed to say to that?
I sat down on the end of the bed, and he leaned against my dressing table, sitting on the edge, and crossed his arms. Nothing on it moved.
“So, you have some questions, Beauchamp?” He was all businesslike.
“I do.”
His face darkened for a moment. “Not sure I can answer them.”
What’s he hiding?
“Are you unwilling or unable?” I asked.
“Unable. It’s against the rules.” He tapped his nose.
“Rules?”
“Yes, rules.”
Oh.
“Whose rules?”
He tapped his nose again.
“You can’t tell me?”
He shook his head.
I pressed ahead anyway. “So how do you know what Dylan’s thinking?”
He shuffled looking uncomfortable.
“Please. I’m fascinated.”
Narrowing his eyes, he dragged his hand through his hair, and with a resigned shake of his head, he stood. “I am not supposed to tell you any of this shit. But since…” He trailed off, then started again, this time using his hands to illustrate his point. “It’s a question of space. If a person, a mortal, is occupying a certain space in their dimension, and I do too—the exact same space, the exact same time—I can feel what they’re feeling, think what they’re thinking. You know.” He shrugged.
My mouth popped open in astonishment. “I see,” I whispered, not seeing at all. “You get inside mortals… um… people?”
“Yeah, sort of,” he said, and he looked away. “It’s difficult to explain. I’ve not really thought about it before. It’s exhausting as well.”
“Exhausting?”
“Yeah. These forgotten feelings, processing them, trying to understand what they mean. It’s been a while.” He paused, frowning again. “It’s hard. Dealing with pain.”
“Bye, Emily!” Dylan called up from the hall.
Gosh. I had no idea he could be so loud.
“Don’t go,” I murmured, glancing back at Tristan as I made my way to the door and dashed to the top of the landing.
