The book she had been reading was under her pillow, pressing its cover against her ear as if to lure her back into its printed pages.

The truth's not pretty of course. No one likes to look it in the face.

She wanted to return to her dream. Perhaps it was still somewhere there behind her closed eyelids. Perhaps a little of its happiness still clung like gold dust to her lashes. Don't dreams in fairy tales sometimes leave a token behind?

Didn't books say that too: that there is always price to pay for happiness?

Fire and water," he said, "don't really mix. You could say they're incompatible. But when they do love each other, they love passionately.

Let's run away to Venice, and hide out in an old movie theater. We can dye our hair blonde, so no one will ever find us!

Dustfinger closed his eyes and listened. He was home again.