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“Disappointed?” He shot her a crooked smile.
It would have been easy to lie; she was so used to it. But she found herself not wanting to. It had been a long, trying day. “No.”
His smile widened. “You say such kind things.”
She turned her gaze away from him, examining the ruin of the room. Her gaze fell to the open books, and she realised why Hawthorn was here—he was reading them. “Have you worked out how to turn the pages?”
He shook his head. “No. I really do appear to be little more than a dream here.”
“Must be dull.”
“I cannot disagree.” He raised a hand towards her cheek, examining a cut there she hadn’t even noticed. “You didn’t have this earlier. Trouble in the woods?”
“I handled it.”
“I would not expect otherwise.” He tilted his head. “Tell me.”
With nothing else to do, she did, sitting down with him on the pile of books that didn’t move an inch beneath their weight, talking like old friends as the moon waned.
We are old friends,she realised.For some reason I cannot quite fathom.
Hawthorn sighed as her story drew to a close. “So, they are gone then? Owen and Saoirse?”
“They will be, soon.”
“I suppose I should be glad, but I will miss them. By far my favourite tavern.”
“You are easily pleased.”
“That is not necessarily true,” he remarked. “Not with most things.”
He paused, and Juliana was afraid for a moment that he would say something else, but a second later, a yawn broke her silence.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Although it’s strange that I can feel tired in a dream.”
“Strange to feel anything at all,” he agreed. “But we must be connected to our physical bodies. You’re not really sleeping, if you’re here. Your consciousness is too awake.”
She nodded. “That makes sense. I don’t think I want to be shocked out of this one, though. Maybe we should try your other suggestion—falling asleep here.”
“We could go up to your room—”
“No!” she said, more harshly than she meant to. She didn’t want to be back there and not really there, didn’t want to risk seeing his body laid out on his bed. “I’ll be fine here, I’m sure. I can’t even feel anything, anyway.”
“Except me,” he remarked.
“Right.”
“You can use my lap as a pillow if you—”
“I’mfine!”
Hawthorn sighed dramatically, falling back on the pile of books like he was stretching out at the beach. Juliana curled on her side, hugging the hilt of her sword like she’d been doing when she fell asleep, thanking whatever spirit of sleep allowed her to take this with her into the dream.
She closed her eyes.
“Did you ever have a stuffed toy to sleep with when you were a child?” Hawthorn asked. “Or was it always a blade?”
Juliana didn’t want to tell him that she’d had a ragdoll she’d worn to pieces but still kept up until her father took her to the woods. He’d not approved of it, and Juliana herself was ashamed of the attachment; her mother had given it to her.
