The last shadows of the remaining mist from the vial ascended above the stony screen. As though on cue, Dahlia’s arched-back head went slack. Her shoulders slumped, and she breathed heavily for some time.

  Proto was close to asking if she was all right when she finally turned around. Her blue eyes were wide and peering off in thought. Her finger touched her lip as she pondered.

  “So,” he said slowly. “That guy you were describing. I know him.”

  There was a slight pause, and then her brow rose. “My, don’t you have interesting friends! Tell me about this hidden garden and the World Rood.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know all that crazy stuff. But Yemos—yes, I know him. He was the older of two twins. He lived on that ‘Cherry Blossom Lane’ you mentioned. So did I. And when he was young, he had a fever. I heard he almost died. I remember since I asked him to play for the first time soon afterward.”

  Proto had continued being friends with the rather dark and brooding but funny Yemos all through childhood. Maybe even best friends in high school. Unless you counted Yemos’ twin brother, Mannus—a blond, boisterous, simple-hearted football player—who, like many twins, was Yemos’ best friend by default.

  The fourth in their little band had been Quart, an eccentric nerd with world-class talent on the saxophone. Their group used to meet up two or three times a week to play cards, paintball, Capture the Flag, and Smash, in the way that suburban high school boys do.

  “Hm. How interesting!” replied Dahlia, yawning slightly.

  He squinted and tilted his head at her. It seemed like she should be reacting more to the fact that, coincidentally, he knew the subject of her shadowcasting.

  In response, she yawned again and stretched ostentatiously. This made all the clearer that her shapeless toga concealed quite a lot of shape. “Pardon my speechlessness. I’m still pleasantly woozy,” she said. “I tell you, if you felt this way, you’d likely fall asleep on the spot! Or abandon me and go smoke a cigarette outside.”

  Well, the normal Dahlia was back. But the mildness of her surprise still seemed off to him. “So . . . wasn’t that odd?” he said. “The memories we viewed happened to be from someone I know. Weird coincidence, right? You think it was just luck? Lady Luck, you said?”

  “Who knows? It seems awfully unlikely to be pure chance,” she said lightly. “I admire a man who ignores his low chances and throws the dice. But a one in seven billion chance is awfully low. Unless someone up there rigged the dice for you! And who but Lady Luck?”

  He stared and pondered. This was all bizarre. And there was something else familiar in what he’d seen. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  But there was no answer in her sky blue gaze, and he eventually shrugged. “Anyway, that stuff at the end. ‘Walking through the flames’ and all that. Do you know what that means?”

  “Not a clue!” she waved. “But I admit, that was rather unusual.”

  “Because, unless we’re being really metaphorical here,” said Proto, “I think I would’ve heard if an old acquaintance of mine ‘walked through flames’ and ‘in his dying turned undying.’ Whatever that means.”

  “Mm. Perhaps,” she replied. “Or perhaps it hasn’t happened yet.”

  “What?” Proto abruptly was confused again. “I thought those shadows were memories.”

  “That’s the simple way of putting it. But it’s not quite right,” said Dahlia. “It’s more like the shadows are little excerpts from the grand story of all things. And they roughly match what the dreamer remembers. But only roughly. Sometimes, they include bits of the dreamer’s future. Like when you try to grab a slice of pizza, but part of the next slice rips off with it!”

  “I’m hungry,” said Proto.

  “You know, I am too. For you, it’s sleep or cigarettes; for us, it’s food,” she sighed. “One craving isn’t sated, so we sate the other. All too often, it’s a woman’s lot, isn’t it? It’s unfair, I tell you. You make us both unsatisfied and fat!”

  At this point, even he was having trouble following her repartee. “Well,” he managed, “let’s go drown our sorrows then.”

  “Indeed.” She lifted her apple and eyed it like it were Snow White’s or Eve’s. “I don’t even want this anymore. I need meat. Care for an apple, Sparky?”

  “Can I have the apple and the robe?” he found himself replying.

  “What, Somnus’ gift-tunic isn’t doing it for you? You want this old . . . ?” She’d started holding the robe toward him. But now she trailed off, following his eyes down to her sleeveless toga, then back up.

  She tilted her head at him. That tress came loose again and fell over her face. “Well.” She smiled. “Yes, I suppose I’ve worked up a sweat. Yes, do be a dear and carry all this for me.” She wrapped the book in her robe and handed it over.

  “Come!” She spun toward the stairway and was off with a sprightly gait. “I’m going to get cold unless I start drinking straightaway. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  “No apple?” he called to her, following her upward.

  “Far above you and out of reach! Remember that, Spunky!” She tossed the apple over her shoulder surreptitiously.

  He didn’t see it coming till it was falling toward his head. He jerked aside at the last instant, so it glanced off and rolled down his cheek. But somehow, he managed to catch it.

  She’d turned around and now was beaming as he rubbed his stricken head.

  “Yes, it comes down on me eventually, doesn’t it?” he mused grimly, as she giggled. “And yet!” He lifted the apple and took a bite, savoring the juicy goodness. “Our suffering bears fruit eventually,” he spoke through a mouthful.

  “Maybe so! But don’t let that head of yours get too bruised,” she replied. “One fruit’s plenty, yes?”

  He chuckled and bit the apple again.

  They exited the Shadowcaster cave and strolled side-by-side toward the lounge.

  As they walked, Dahlia started talking about Sir Walter Scott’s works and asking Proto for his opinions. Lady Luck must’ve blessed him doubly today, because Ivanhoe was another book he’d read in his course on The Nineteenth Century British Novel.

  The familiar clinking of glasses and quiet chatter signaled that the lounge was near.

  “I’ve always wondered that,” Dahlia was saying as they entered. “Do I strike you as more Norman or Saxon? I mean, one wants to say Saxon. One wants to be the hero. But, being truly honest, I—”

  “Ah, our Provisional Visitor returns!” boomed Somnus from the bar. He extended his arms welcomingly. “Decided to change things up today, I see?”

  “We took a spin in the Shadowcaster,” replied Dahlia. “It was a good show. Maybe even a bit more than he bargained for!” She pointed Proto to a chair. “You can set my robe right here.” She fanned her face and smiled lightly.

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  “That’s good. It’s best to mix things up a little, when you’re starting out,” replied Somnus, stirring his drink. “We all have to pick our own path. But I’m a firm believer in making an informed pick.” His eyes gleamed. “I mean, who knows? Maybe you’ll be a shadowseer!”

  Proto often couldn’t help but feel that Somnus was—well, not mocking him. More like he was making a joke directed at Proto and the world, with the goal that they both laugh with him.

  “We’ll see,” said Proto. “Seemed a little hot for me.”

  “Indeed.” Somnus’ lips curved up. “Speaking of which.” He turned to Lilac. “How about a hot buttered rum? I’m feeling indulgent today.” He continued conversing with Lilac as Dahlia and Proto got situated at their table.

  “Anyway, we were talking about heroes, yes?” said Dahlia to Proto, absently smoothing her toga. “It seems to me that, in the best books, it’s often hard to tell the heroes from the villains. They both have reasonable justifications for their actions. And in that situation, picking the ‘right’ side isn’t so much about sifting through their past deeds and assigning the blame. It’s more about asking, ‘Whose world would be the more fair and beautiful, if it won this conflict?’ That side is the heroes. Or so it seems to me.”

  Proto marveled at the way she oscillated between bookish reflection, witty repartee, light mockery, and Sean Connery-esque innuendo. But one of Proto’s friends had told him what it was like to date a librarian, and this all seemed par for the course.

  “But I’m being boring now, aren’t I?” Dahlia sighed. “Here, let me fix that.” She waved Lilac over, and the pale bartendress soon made her way to the table. “I’ll take a Long Island.”

  “Uh oh.” Proto blinked and stared straight ahead.

  “You don’t approve? Only hard spirits for hard souls, is it?” asked Dahlia. “Or is a Long Island too ‘Hi, I’d like to get drunk as fast and cheap as possible and I swear this ID is real’?”

  “No. I forgot I still have my visit today. I was supposed to meet Astrid here. Hope I’m not too late,” he sighed. “Better stick with coffee.”

  Lilac arched a black eyebrow. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”

  “Disappointed? No, delighted!” replied Proto with exaggerated suaveness. “I feel like I looked for sunset and found sunrise.”

  “Psh!” said Dahlia. “Don’t be a poetaster, Spunky.”

  “There are no sunrises or sunsets here, Drunkie,” observed Lilac flatly. But her dark eyes sparkled.

  Why does no one here call me by my name?

  “Come on!” he complained. “You can’t call me Drunkie when I’m the only guy drinking coffee.”

  “Speaking of having drunk far too much coffee,” said Dahlia, “I’m off to pay a visit to the ladies’ chamber. Pour heavy please, Lilac!” She strode away briskly under the tree tapestry doorway.

  Lilac started walking away too, then turned back and looked at him. “By the way, normal-style or . . . ?”

  He extended his arms reprovingly. “Do you really need to ask?”

  “Noted.” Her lips quirked up and she strolled off.

  Proto found himself recalling this was all a dream less and less lately. Or maybe it was so ingrained now that he didn’t need to focus on it anymore. He certainly wasn’t acting with the self-conscious gravitas with which he’d approached real life. He idly wondered where his real life would’ve ended up if he’d let his heart lead him along from moment to moment.

  Probably on the streets. He smiled away a sigh.

  “Something funny, Slow-Show?”

  He blinked and looked up. Astrid had just entered beneath the painting of the old man. Behind her windswept bouffant of silvery blue was a look of light displeasure.

  He winced and tried to think of a good explanation.

  But meanwhile, Lilac was just arriving at his table. “Your coffee. Lilac-style.” She leaned and set the unique black mug with the white-lacquered crack before him.

  “Ah.” He inhaled the aromatic steam politely. “Bliss in a beverage! Contentment in a cup! Divinity in a drink!”

  Lilac already was turning around to get back to someone else at the bar. But she spared a moment to raise her brow and smile at Proto. “Kind compliments from a clown.”

  “Well said,” he acknowledged as she glided off.

  “Enjoying a late coffee, are we?” asked Astrid, as his eyes flicked back to her. Her look of light displeasure seemingly had darkened. “Where were you? I was going to take you to the Shadowcaster like we talked about. But now we won’t have time before today’s dream visit.”

  Donning a mollifying smile, Proto opened his mouth.

  “Oh, no worries! He already went,” called Dahlia before he could speak. She’d just strolled back into the lounge, her hair still unbound and a bit tousled over her sleeveless toga. “We ran into each other this morning, so I took him for a spin.” She swept past Astrid and sat down on the chair across from Proto, where her robe was draped.

  “Ah,” replied Astrid. Her stare shifted back and forth between them, finally settling on Proto. “Well, it seems you’re getting along just fine without me.” She turned to Somnus at the bar. “Does he still need a mentor?”

  “Of course he does!” boomed the Lord of Dreams. “I know you think he’s quick, Astrid, but surely not that quick.”

  Astrid’s cheeks pinkened. “I have no idea what gave you that impression. I don’t call him Dodo and Slow Bro and Loco because he’s quick.”

  “Loco? I don’t recall that one.” Proto tilted his head at her. “You do think these up in advance and save them, don’t you!”

  Normally, she’d have some witty and incisive retort. But in her current state, she just flushed further.

  “Anyway,” smiled Somnus, “don’t be too peeved with our Provisional Visitor. For being late, I mean. He went exactly where he had to go this morning. It was predetermined. Inevitable!”

  “Predetermined?” Astrid shook her head. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “The way you all speak to the Lord of Dreams!” lamented Somnus. “How do I know? Well, maybe I saw it in the Shadowcaster!”

  Now it was Dahlia’s turn to shake her head. “That’s not possible, because . . . ”

  “Because what?” Somnus’ eyes gleamed wildly.

  She stared at him a moment. “Never mind,” she mumbled.

  Proto felt like he had at age four, when his parents would spell words so he wouldn’t know what they were talking about. He wanted to tell them, “Hey! I’m right here! I know you’re talking about me.” But they already knew that, and if they cared, they wouldn’t be doing it.

  Somnus pointed at Proto. “By the way! I’ve been meaning to tell you. I think I’ve found the perfect drink for you!” He turned to Lilac, whose head had swiveled over at these words. “The perfect hard drink, that is. I defer to Lilac on coffees!” He winked at her, as Lilac blinked and went rosy. “Anyway, I think he’ll agree it’s perfect. But I’m going to save it for now. See how things go for a bit longer. We’ll find out if I’m right soon enough.”

  “How will we know?” asked Lilac. “Can’t you just change your pick later?”

  “Absolutely not, Madame Bartendress!” he replied, eliciting another blink. “No, because I’m going to tell you my pick right now.” He leaned forward and whispered something in her ear.

  Lilac eyed Proto as Somnus spoke. She shrugged and nodded ambivalently.

  “Whisper whisper whisper!” said Dahlia quietly. Her lips were an inch from Proto’s ear, and her hair tickled his cheek. “I’m always jealous when others tell secrets. I get my revenge by pretending to do the same. Whisper whisper whisper!”

  He laughed helplessly, his eyes drifting across the room. Through tousled blonde tresses, he saw the vast painting and, beneath it, Astrid’s violet gaze.

  “Well. I, for one, have a lot to get done today,” declared Astrid a moment later. “Why don’t you take the day off, Proto? I think you have your hands full as it is.” She turned and strode away, her grey jumpsuit shifting along her frame’s curves with her stiff strides.

  “I approve!” Somnus smiled like a father watching his teenage daughter stomp away. “As the Lord of Dreams, I’m the last to fault anyone for taking a day of rest.”

  “What do you know! It seems we can have that drink after all!” cried Dahlia delightedly. “Lilac, two old peated whiskies please. Hard spirits for hard souls.” She spoke this gruffly to Proto.

  “Two?” Lilac regarded Dahlia’s half-drunk Long Island and Proto’s half-empty coffee. “Do you think it’s a little early?”

  “Lilac,” chastened Dahlia, raising a finger. “I’m never late, nor am I early. I order precisely when I mean to.”

  The bartendress rolled her eyes. “I’ll conjure that right up.”

  “I suppose it is a strange mix,” Dahlia remarked, turning back to Proto. “I never thought I’d be drinking fine whisky side by side with a Long Island.”

  “What about side by side with a friend?” he replied with a look of smiling elfin hauteur.

  “Oh, that’s quick!” praised Dahlia, squeezing his hand. “Aye, I could do that,” she gruffly affirmed, then sighed. “I don’t do a very good dwarf, do I?”

  He shrugged and waved. “Maybe an ancient Roman dwarf, with that toga.”

  “Toga? This, a toga?” She cast an offended hand to her left breast. “Heavens, do I look like the sort to swill cheap booze in a smelly house full of beerbellies and floozies, while inexplicably wearing Roman garb and calling my decadence ‘Greek life’? Don’t answer that. Anyway, this is a chiton. Do call things by their proper names!”

  “Like Sparky?” he replied.

  “I call you Sparky because I sense the spark of life in you!” she admonished, full of faux-righteous indignation.

  “Why Spunky then?” he pressed. “Actually, don’t answer that.”

  Dahlia tittered, bouncing a bit beneath her chiton with laughter.

  On they spoke for quite some time, borne along from moment to moment and drink to drink by—well, he wasn’t quite prepared to say what. But it felt ardent and good. Warmth beckoned him toward more warmth, like a bird winging south for Winter.

  Or was it more like a moth fluttering toward the flame? Or Icarus flapping toward the sun? Or Adam reaching for Eve’s fruit?

  “Even apples and oranges have something in common,” she’d said.

  True, he mused. You should savor every juicy bite. He felt a tingle of guilty pleasure.

  Morning gave way to afternoon and weary evening. Judging by the bags beneath her eyes, she felt as exhausted as he did. The conversation smoldered down from bright banter toward warm contentment. But he didn’t have the heart to leave just yet. And, as exhausted flames keep aspiring toward Heaven as smoke, they kept going.