Chapter 16The morning dawned airy and bright as wildflowers, full and fragile. Theo woke with Henry in his arms, thin and lanky and indisputably present; the bed was not unpleasant, and his body felt good, sated and comforted. He was, for a moment, at peace.
And then Henry stiffened, not quite waking but caught someplace on the precipice, wild and rigid. And the bed was not Theo’s bed, and the crack in the ceiling did not belong to Theo’s tower room, and none of this was right, none of it, it was unfamiliar and wrong—
Henry hadn’t woken, not entirely; he was trembling, as if the dream remained too strong to release him. Theo knew he’d had a restless night—not so bad as a previous occasion, perhaps, but constantly shifting, half-rousing, murmuring names uneasily—and reached out both physi
