“Flattery, flannel,” she accused. “What else are you
doing to secure my compliance?” Her fingers traced her
temple and her dark eyes pierced more than the mirror.
They lanced towards him-
“What are you, My Lady, to remain so calm in the
presence of an unchaperoned bloodied stranger in your
bedchamber?” He extended his hand bearing the
handkerchief she’d given him, unsure of his motives. Did
he want, need to terrify her?
Stop! Realisation dawned, interceded.
“Dreaming,” she replied, unperturbed. “I have
been prone to talking and walking in my sleep since I was
a child. There are case notes bearing my name in the
cabinets of many emanant doctors. Eventually, the
diagnosis given, begrudged and not unanimous, was that I
have an overabundance of imagination rather than a deficit
of sanity. Though clearly I have created an unlikely
companion to share my fitful state with this evening.”
“Do you have likely companions?”
“Not that I recall.”
“For no reason I can fathom, you have responded
to me as though I were an invited guest, not an
unwelcome intruder. Your hospitality shames me.” He
dipped his hand into his pocket. “Please allow me to make
myself presentable. Even overabundances of imagination
should observe some decorum.” He pulled a fine linen
handkerchief free and looked around the room.
Something fell from his pocket. Slipping through
the pocket flap as he stepped towards the washstand, it hit
the floor and rolled towards Mercy’s feet.
95