“None of it was real,” he said with a tremulous laugh. “How could it be?” At the same time as he felt a burst of relief at this truth, a deep bout of melancholy fell over him. For, despite being friendless, feared, and despised in his nightmare, there were also moments when he’d felt…good, whole, like for the first time in his life he’d been doing something that he was meant to be doing. Hunting the Divided and growing his power.

He breathed deeply, trying to chase away the shakiness that had settled into his bones. What was he supposed to do now? How was he supposed to act? Normal? Like nothing had happened? Well, nothing had happened, he supposed, so that made sense, even if it would be hard. He would attend to his duties and his studies, or at least pretend to while sneaking peeks at whatever book he’d secreted in the folds of his robe, preparing for an imaginary day years in the future when he would be the King of Kinkalla, and expected to rule over everything he was entitled to as his mother’s heir.

He stretched, his muscles protesting, feeling very much as if they’d been overworked for days on end without rest. For all he knew, he’d been as tense as a bowstring all the night long as he’d dreamed that glorious dream. He would need to perform his daily stretches before practicing his sword work in order to regain his flexibility.

Groggily, he rubbed his eyes, realizing something odd. Odder than odd. The oddest. The room was lighted by rays of sun streaming through the glass wall that opened onto his balcony overlooking the eastern lands below the cliffs.

His eyes narrowed as he considered this. Had Mister Finch taken ill during the night? Or had his mother called upon the man for some other duty, finally giving up on nagging her own son to be better, to do better?

Nothing about those answers felt right, because Mister Finch had no other duties, and he never got sick, or if he did, he refused to allow anyone to see it. Like a regularly wound clock, he could be counted on. Every day at dawn, his knock would rattle the door, his voice carrying through. Edward, it’s time to begin your day. I’m coming in.

And every day, Edward would allow himself to be dressed for whatever occasion he was called upon to exist within, never complaining, keeping his small rebellions quiet, tucked between the pages of a book.

He pressed his feet to the cold floor, searching for his slippers. He spied them halfway across the room, where he’d left them the day before. Why hadn’t Finch had one of his servants place them back where they belonged? Whether he was ill or not, the man had never made such an oversight.