“It did,” he said, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers together over one knee. “The dream begins in the red room of the mansion. It is spring at midday; the sunlight is pouring in through the windows, and pots of flowers and green vines are flourishing in the chamber, and I realize my brother is standing among the foliage.” He paused to give me time to catch all his words on paper.

“Do you dream of your late brother often, Your Grace?” I gently asked, thinking of the duke’s older brother, who had died years ago.

“I do,” he replied softly, as if the memory still ached. “Returning to the dream . . . he asks me to walk the streets with him, because he is weary of meetings and councils and being trapped indoors. I agree, and suddenly the room melts away and we are walking Verdaner Street toward the open air market. That is when I sense something is wrong. There are too many people, too many noises, too much movement. I tell Charles we should return to the mansion, but he is intent on something ahead of us, something I cannot see. I lose sight of him, but then the crowd opens up. I push my way through to step within the empty space, only to find my brother’s neck cut open, and he’s lying on the stones, bleeding out.”

I wrote every word, the quill’s nib biting into the paper. The ink turned gold as I wrote, some crafty charm of Phelan’s, and yet I wasn’t moved by the duke’s dream. I couldn’t begin to understand why it rolled off me like rain, as this sort of nightmare used to be the kind that roused my compassion.

Perhaps it was because the duke had dreamt countless nightmares of his brother’s death before, recorded in earlier entries. Perhaps it was because I had read so many nightmares as well as encountered them in the streets on new moon nights that I had begun to learn the slant of them.

This nightmare felt fabricated.

I didn’t believe Lord Deryn had dreamt it last night.

“I fall to my knees,” the duke continued. “I hold him in my arms as he dies. And I watch as his face turns pale as bone, and he tries to say something to me, but I cannot understand his final words.”

I finished the recording and gave the ink a moment to dry. I glanced over the sparkling porcelain of the tea, the untouched biscuits and sandwiches, and met the duke’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. This is a very upsetting dream.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgment, and I sensed the deceit as if it were a diamond hanging from his neck, sparkling with each of his unsteady breaths, giving him away.

I closed the book and began to pack, but I waited to rise only after the duke had stood.