“You thought about Nick.” His gaze held hard. “You loved him. You would have followed him anywhere.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s mine. It’s private. Do you oneiromancers have any concept of privacy?”

“You have kept it secret for far too long.” He didn’t touch me, but his look was almost as intimate. “I cannot take the memory from you while you are awake. But the minute you fall asleep, I will read the pictures from your mind, and you will dream them, as you have before. That is the gift of the oneiromancer. To create a shared dream.”

“Bet you never get bored.” My voice was laced with contempt. “Seeing people’s dirty laundry.”

He ignored the dig.

“You can learn to keep me out, of course, but you would have to know my spirit almost as well as you know your own. And a spirit as old as mine is difficult to know.” He paused. “Or you could save yourself the trouble and let me see inside you.”

“What good will come of it?”

“This memory is a barrier. I have sensed it inside you, buried deep in your dreamscape.” His eyes never left mine. “Overcome it, and you will be free of it. Your spirit will be free of it.”

I took a deep breath. The offer shouldn’t tempt me.

“Yes. I can help you with that.” He scooped a handful of crisp brown leaves from the snuff box. “This was what was in the pills. If I prepare an infusion, will you take it?”

I shrugged. “What’s one more dose?”

Warden regarded me for a few moments.

“Very well,” he said.

He left the chamber. I guessed there was a kitchen down below, where Michael worked.

I rested my head on the cushions. A slow, cold tremor sidled through my chest, filling the space behind my ribs. I had hated Warden with a violent intensity, hated him because of what he was, and because he seemed to understand me. I had thrived on hating him. Now I was about to show him my most private memory. I thought I knew what it was, but I couldn’t be sure. I’d have to dream it.

By the time Warden returned, a defiant certainty had surged up inside me. I took the glass cup from his hands. It was filled to the brim with clear ocher liquid, like diluted honey. Three leaves floated on the surface. “It tastes bitter,” he warned, “but it will allow me to see the memories more clearly.”

“What did you see before?”

“Fragments. Periods of silence. It depends how you felt at each individual moment, how strongly you felt it. How much that part of the memory still troubles you.”

I looked down at the tea. “I don’t think I’ll need this, then.”

“It will make it easier for you.”