The truth stung. Bryde had come to Rhiannon Martin just as he’d come to Ronan. He’d come to her as a dreamer, in her dreams. How many other dreamers had he also approached this way? Ronan knew he had no right to feel jealous or betrayed that Bryde wasn’t simply his and Hennessy’s. He’d known Bryde was infamous before he ever rescued them. For what? For this, perhaps. For showing up in people’s heads.

“So you’re a dreamer,” Hennessy said. “And Bryde here gate-crashed your dreams, too, and invited us over. That’s what’s going on here? Yeah? Sorry, I’m a little slow. This one”—she indicated Bryde—“didn’t explain what we were doing today when we came out. He fancies himself a mysterious stranger. These biscuits are very good. The ones shaped like stars. You’ve got a gift.”

“Oh, yes, Rhiannon is a dreamer,” Bryde said, standing. “Here in this stagnant valley. She is a very, very good dreamer.”

Rhiannon blushed. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

It was so peculiar to see a dreamer like her. All the others they’d saved so far had been a little like Ronan and Hennessy. Not exactly of the world. Living on the fringes in some way. Punky or funky or estranged or drifters. But Rhiannon seemed quite … not ordinary, but … content. Settled. Like a good mom.

Like the world wasn’t dismantling her.

“Take a look,” Bryde said, indicating the mirrors that covered the walls of the room. “That’s her work.”

Ronan and Hennessy each took a station at a different mirror. Ronan’s was about the size of a large envelope, just big enough to show his face. The frame was ornate, painted roughly with white paint so that the wood showed through in places.

He looked into it.

The Ronan in the mirror was older than he thought of himself as—somehow Ronan was always a little behind in his own estimation of his age. When he was in middle school, he saw himself as a little kid. In high school, he saw the awkward pimpled kid in puberty. After high school, he still perceived himself as the jagged rebel kid.