She can get into the talk of art. It helps her to distract herself from how you look, sleepy or otherwise. Distract herself from her own imagination, the urges it inspires in her. The things she wants to do, such as plopping herself down in your lap, sleepy as you are. She is trying very hard not to think about that.

     He seems ... not to remember me. I do not understand it, but I recognized him when he lowered his hood. It gave me a very bad turn. And he invited me... he wants me to join the Hunt.

     "My mind is... somewhat spinning," he'll admit that to you, if to no one else, "... from all she has told me. I feel like Mohammed or the Buddha, only without the foresight of taking notes."

     "It was an ... interesting image. He burned as a dark sun. I ... would not trust him with my soul, I do not think, if I had one. But it made me wish to paint. Not him, perhaps. But to paint."

     "I have known for some time that only a man would move me. You, Greydon, have moved me; to you, I respond. Your words hold me spellbound, and your touch enslaves me. As an individual, removed from my sense of self, I wish to study under you; with you, as the object of my study and as my instructor. I wish to work with you. As a man..."

     Lost. He is so very lost. In a maze not of his own creation, not even of his own recognition; this is nowhere that he has been before. Not even with Johannes Arnaul, Saint-Protector of Saarbrucken; not anywhere. Perhaps he is nowhere at all.

     Her hands go to your shoulders and she pulls herself up to be at eye level with you, the blue seas of her gaze dancing as her smile widens, pulls, opens. "My two husbands have given me two little boys," Fiona whispers.

     The white fringe lowers as she looks down to begin picking loose the plastic seal on the bottle. "Open it and find out. Or maybe Miss White," her, "will kill Captain Crimson," you, "with a bottle in the living room..."

     And it is alive. Though Yew trees and Blackthorns are there, reminders of Death, Life is everywhere. For without Death there is no understanding of Life; and no Life without Death.

     Think not of what cannot be done
     Think not of what cannot come to pass
     For none of those things exist
     On earth, in dreams, or in the highest heaven

     "So, I think we're agreed. You get your own place, we love and all that entails," his voice lowers to a teasing growl, "...we find out what Davydd's up to and eventually tell him of our involvement, but not yet as there's no point in upsetting the apple cart..."

     Fiona scowls at you. She's just aware enough, dim though the light over the porch is right now, that you're cutting her off. "If you don't appreciate my custom," she says majestically, "I can go drink somewhere else. I'm not drunk!"

     He pushes himself from the support, letting the breeze blow him your direction. "I should convince you to go to Copenhagen with me one night. Or how about Capetown..."