In my dream there are piles of straw, mountains of it, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t spin them into gold. My fingers are torn up from the attempts, bloodied and raw. There’s a lock on the door and a faint lightening of sky through the bars, which means the king will expect me to be done spinning soon. I’m running out of time.
I wake up with a sudden start, my eyes wide open as I look around the living room. A knock comes at the door, and I realize that must have woken me up. My palms are pressed to a chest as wide and solid as a table, but rising and falling in gentle breaths. Sutton looks up at me, rather adorable in his sleepy state. “You expecting someone?” he says, his voice rusty.
A glance at my phone. Four thirty. In the morning.
I pull open the door, half expecting there
