Proto stared at the Lord of Dreams, hovering in a mirk of whirling stars. His words echoed in Proto’s head: “Now, there’s something I have to tell you! I hope you’re listening, because this is awfully important.”

  “There’s something I have to tell you about Dahlia.” Zeal gleamed in Somnus’ eyes. “I gave you the impression that Dahlia hoped you’d be her chance at life. She hoped you’d declare her your true love. And then she could join you up there in the breathing world.”

  “And guess what? That was 100% true! She’s hoping you’ll help her get a human body. And, boy, what a body that’ll be!”

  “But . . . there is one detail I left out,” winced Somnus with a smile. “This isn’t the first time Dahlia had a chance to leave here.”

  “About a century ago—yes, she’s that old and more, there’s a reason she loves Victorian robes and literature!—a century ago, we had another longtime visitor who was finally leaving this place. Reginald. Fine chap. Loved armagnac, wore a robe, and played a mean game of Euchre. My kind of man!”

  “Well, Reginald had gambled his way to 777,777 Breath Tokens. So he was all ready to trade them in and head up to the breathing world,” recounted Somnus. “That’s what the Tokens are there for, you see. I only have so many bodies to dole out. And if anyone’s determined enough to collect 777,777 Breath Tokens, why, clearly he ought to be given breath!”

  “The thing is, Reginald had a thing for Dahlia. He invited her to join him when he left. And . . . she turned him down.” Somnus shrugged. “Fine chap, but true love just wasn’t there. Not her fault! It’s not one of those things you can control. Or should control!”

  “And . . . it gets a little sad here,” recalled Somnus. “Reginald’s heart broke. He didn’t want life without Dahlia. And—even more—he wanted her, a woman with such life in her, to have a shot at life. So, he took his 777,777 Breath Tokens, left them at the old Shadowcaster, and went to the Mists.” He looked away wistfully. “In other words, he went to the place where all men go when life ends.”

  “So, Dahlia found the Breath Tokens. She’d been dreaming of life for some time. Now, she could have it! Go up there to the breathing world and seek her fortune!” said the Lord of Dreams. “But . . . no. She wouldn’t let the story of her life be written that way. Dahlia gave the Tokens to a couple here who’d been in love for a long time, but had no way out. She gave them their way out.”

  “As for Dahlia, she decided she’d wait here until true love gave her a way out. She was ready to wait here for eternity to see if that would happen. You know her. All those old romantic novels and such!”

  “And to think,” mused Somnus. “She picked you!”

  “Anyway,” he shrugged, “long story. But it seemed relevant.”

  “ . . . yes, that does seem relevant,” said Proto.

  “Oh, don’t be too vexed with me, Proto!” urged Somnus. “If you’d lost faith in Dahlia based on a few sentences from me—after all the times you’d had with her—well, I daresay that wouldn’t have been true love! In my view, there’s no true love unless you’ve hit such heights of bliss together that the memory alone lifts you above all doubts.”

  “But there I go, spouting off like one of those romantic poets that Dahlia likes!” waved Somnus. “I hope you like poetry. It comes with the package. But, boy, what a package it is!”

  Proto scanned the red-laced mirk surrounding them. “So . . . speaking of that.”

  “Yes, I suppose I’ve rambled, haven’t I? Here, let’s get this going.” Somnus waved his wand dramatically, and the mists started swirling. “Ah. I feel like Prospero, bidding farewell to Ferdinand and Miranda. . . . Eh. Dahlia would appreciate that.”

  The mists began solidifying into forms, tall and wall-like, curved and winding. They were bookshelves, Proto discerned after a moment. About fifty feet tall, and stuffed with books from top to bottom.

  Within moments, they stood within a grand gothic library. Colored light streamed in through stained glass high overhead. Amid the literary abundance stood occasional ornate chairs and tables, even some sofas.

  Proto blinked. “Um . . . what is this?”

  “It’s called a library,” Somnus patiently explained. “And it’s yours! Well, hers and yours.” He scanned what he had made in satisfaction—then yawned. “Hm! That took a lot out of me. But I suppose ordering Chaos into an endless library will do that.”

  “Endless?” repeated Proto. “Like . . . it goes on forever?”

  “Interesting philosophical question! For your purposes, yes, more or less.” The Lord of Dreams admired the boundless literary abundance. “I’ve created some fine bedrooms in my day. But, I have to say, I’ve really outdone myself on this one. Library of Babel, eat your heart out!” He slapped his hands off and started strolling toward the door behind Proto.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “A bedroom?” repeated Proto. “I mean, this is great. But I do have one question, Lord of Dreams.”

  “Hm?” Somnus craned his head inquiringly.

  “ . . . where’s the bed?”

  “Proto,” sighed Somnus with a smile. “Do you really think that will stop her?”

  Proto blinked.

  “Find it together, Proto! I have faith in you,” declared Somnus, walking out. The door slammed shut behind him.

  Abruptly, a woman’s voice was crying, “—not what it sounds like!”

  Proto spun toward the sound.

  There stood Dahlia—her eyes going wide even now, her hand thrown up in shock, her form bouncing dramatically beneath her robe as she did so.

  “Oh, you made it, Delphinium,” he greeted her.

  She placed a hand on her breast and took two breaths. “Sparky,” she spoke with studied calmness, scanning the towering walls of books. “Have I died and gone to Heaven?”

  “Interesting philosophical question,” replied Proto. “You should probably ask Somnus.”

  “Bugger philosophy, I have books! Books, books, and more books! Tastefully and functionally arranged.” She turned back to Proto. “And, better yet.”

  Faced with Dahlia’s glowing smile and blue gaze, he felt like the clouds had parted to let the sun shine solely on him.

  “When you said my name—well.” Her radiant hair spilled over her, curving over her figure, like a hilly sunlit field. “I’d never thought I’d be—I mean, I’d hoped—I guess I felt I’d been cast as Lilith against Eve, or Milady against Constance, or Acrasia against Una, or—you know, the romantic comedy who wandered into a comedic romance—oh, I’m not sure what I mean!” She was blushing. “Pardon, this is very un-Dahlia-like, isn’t it!” She fanned her red face.

  “Hot in here?” asked Proto.

  “Yes! Quite!” she cried.

  Then, she brushed her eye. “Hmph. Look at me, going all Victorian maiden. Catch me if I faint, would you?”

  “That’s understandable, given that you were a Victorian maiden,” observed Proto.

  Dahlia blinked at him. “Georgian, actually. But how would you . . . ? Oh.” Her face took on a far off look. “Somnus told you about all that, didn’t he. The Breath Tokens and . . . the rest.”

  “And the rest.” He clasped her hand and squeezed it gently.

  “Well.” She sniffed and brushed her eye again. “Yes, well, I’m glad you saw through that nonsense of his. The idea that I would do that—! After all these years of—ugh!”

  She smoothed her face and robe. “And the thing is, I’m not even in a rush to leave here.” She tried to firm up her voice but it still came out wobbly. “Someday, likely, but no rush. There’s still plenty to explore right here. Especially now!” She gestured toward the bookshelves. “And all I really wanted was the right person to explore it with.”

  “Who would’ve thought?” mused Proto. “Dahlia, deep down: the romantic.”

  “Yes, well, it’s literally true, you lovable twat!” she cried. “I’m a born romantic. Born in the Romantic Era!” Her voice was round and full with feeling. As round and full as . . .

  Eye contact, Proto. “Lucky me,” he managed.

  “Yes! To start with, I promise I’ll never be needy,” she vowed. “I mean, I need my books. And food and water, I suppose. But besides that, I’m a girl of few needs. And, between the two of us, I think we can meet the rest.” Her lips curved up. “That will take some long, hard work. But I love long, hard work.”

  “I think this will be a good match,” he declared.

  “Yes, well, true love usually is!” she said. “Even if, alas, you’re a visitor and I’m a shadowseer. You’re an orange and I’m an apple. ‘Thou art thyself, though not a shadowseer.’”

  Proto shrugged. “‘That which we call an apple, by any other word would taste delicious.’”

  “Ooh, that’s quick!” she praised, curling her fingers around his hand. “Well, rest assured, this apple’s very tasty.”

  “I’d love to find out what that means,” said Proto.

  “This.” She stood upon her tiptoes and kissed him.

  One moment, bantering about apples and oranges, Romeo and Juliet.

  Then, all was flush and flesh and blonde abundance—her parted lips on his, her breasts against his breast, the sun’s dispersion through her hair.

  He felt like he’d been given leave to taste forbidden fruit. Its fullness left him sated; its flavor left him starved. Like life, the more he had, the more he craved. And she was oh-so-happy to give it.

  Or was she taking it? Was this kiss given or stolen? Or was it planted? Would it grow and bear fruit for them both?

  That was love, supposed Proto—that which, being given and taken, somehow grows and makes more.

  But these thoughts were just glints of light upon a sea. And the sea itself was them, touching and tasting and knowing each other.

  Their lips separated. Dahlia sank from her tiptoes, even as her hand rose to her breast. She heaved a breath that lifted her hand, then let it sing out in a sigh.

  “That about sums it up, huh?” agreed Proto.

  “Yes, how strange!” she breathed. “The longer it goes, the more I long for more. ‘The giving famishes the craving.’ Hmph! You make me wax poetic, Proto.”

  “Strange,” said Proto. “It almost feels guilty that we can just . . . do it again.”

  “Quite!” Her pale gaze gleamed. “Well, I’ve always said, the guilty pleasure wins in the end. That’s literary history in a nutshell, you know! Yesterday’s guilty pleasures become today’s high arts, by winning young romantic people’s hearts.”

  “You’re waxing poetic again, Dahlia,” observed Proto.

  “Quite!” she sighed, fanning her flushed face. “Pardon. It’s the heat, I think.”

  “It’s awfully hot in here,” he concurred.

  “You feel it too then?” She lifted the neck of her robe and fanned beneath. “Glad it’s not just me.”

  “Awfully hot,” repeated Proto. “Of all the days for me to wear my robe.”

  “Strip down to what’s beneath, like I do,” suggested Dahlia. “Here, I’ll do the same, if you want.”

  “I wish,” said Proto. “But I have nothing underneath.”

  “That’s funny. Same here!” she replied.

  Proto blinked.

  Dahlia beamed.

  “I guess the apple’s finally fallen on my head,” he mused.

  “Well, she will,” assured the gleaming-eyed blonde. “If that’s the way you like it, Spunky.”

  Proto blinked.

  Dahlia beamed.

  Then, hiking up her Victorian robe, she turned and jogged away, her footfalls translating through her bouncing figure.

  “What . . . ?” Proto stared.

  Pausing, she craned her head at him, so golden tresses strayed over her face. “Hint: Chase chase chase!”

  Then, she ran away. “You’ll never take my apple!” she cried melodramatically, rounding the corner and vanishing.

  A moment later, a Victorian robe flew into view from ahead and crumpled against the bookshelf.

  Proto laughed. He felt a warmth from his breast thrilling through him from top to bottom, and everywhere in between.

  “You can’t hide!” he menaced. “The apple will be mine!” He ran after her, reaching for the sash of his robe.

  And off they went into the endlessness, exploring in the many-colored light of Heaven, chasing a future and making it theirs.