Chapter 11

Eleven

By the time they'd given honey to Toto and the lionman, waking them from their dangerous slumber, Dorothy had finally gotten over the sweet and salty embarrassment of her honey-kiss accusation. Of course, it helped that Nick had already slipped back into his ever-present neutral gear about the whole thing.

"We might have come perilously close to death," Lional declared, roaring out a yawn, "but I rather needed that!"

Toto stretched in agreement, tail wagging, pink tongue sticking out in a satisfied yawn of his own.

"Idiots," Dorothy muttered with a half smile.

Lional glanced around, paws on hips. "Should we wake Straw? Where is the good fellow?"

"That way. He went to get help," Nick said gruffly, wrapping the sticky thimbles up in a handkerchief and stuffing it into the front pocket of his pack.

He set off without another word.

"Looks like he could have used a nap," Lional remarked, winking at Dorothy.

She feigned a laugh, cheeks burning as she remembered the singular bliss of waking up to find him gazing down at her. "I think that means we're supposed to follow."

"Indubitably."

The poppy field fell behind them quickly enough, and the small village they came upon felt farm-friendly enough that Dorothy could have been in any small Kansas two-horse town. Excepting the distinctly different homes. She was used to the Victorian-era leftovers that dotted the prairies, but the Ozian village seemed to prefer a much more colorful, architecturally chaotic variety.

No two houses were the same. Some were short and stout, some were round and tall, some were single-story square boxes, others were narrow A-frame affairs. And all of them were painted wildly different and wildly colorful. It was like the residents had spewed their personalities onto the exterior, for all to see.

The few things they all had in common, though, were the slate-shale roofs, peculiarly wide gutters, thick blue-glass windows, and well-sealed doors. All security measures against the pollen, no doubt, in case the wind changed and sent a toxic cloud in their direction. Similarly, the barns lacked the usual evidence of livestock, though a few looked like they might have held horses.

The villagers peeked out the windows and doors, watching Dorothy and her fellow travelers come up the main road. There were maybe twenty houses in total, clustered together on either side of the double-rut trail. The whole thing could be walked through and passed out the other side in a minute or two.

Dorothy came to a stop. Toto barked once, and the rest of her friends came to a halt with her.

"Well," she whispered, "I sort of expected some kind of meeting hall or inn or something. That's how it usually is in the fantasy movies I watch, anyway. Where's the jolly landlady? The wenches? The tankards of ale? Heck, I'd settle for torches and pitchforks."

"I doubt they receive many visitors," Lional replied, equally hushed. "And as they likely all know one another, why would they need an inn when they can make merry at each other's abodes?"

Dorothy tilted her head from side to side. "Great observation. A little disappointing, but that's a fair point."

Although the farmers were watching them warily from half-cracked doorways and closed windows, their faces somewhat distorted by the thick blue glass, it didn't look like any of them were going to be brave enough to come and speak to the new arrivals.

"It occurs to me," Nick said, "that I don't see any actual fields or crops for these farmers."

"No farm animals either," Dorothy added.

Lional grunted. It was probably good that there wasn't a sheep to tempt his poor carnivorous stomach.

The poppy field continued again on the other side of the small village.

Dorothy tapped her chin. "You don't suppose they harvest the poppies somehow?"

"Maybe," Nick replied. "Perhaps there's a purpose to them that we don't know about. And it would explain the lack of animals. It's not like you can let sheep roam in those fields, and no one is going to dance for the sake of one, much less a flock."

Dorothy stared at him. "Huh?"

"What?" His throat bobbed.

"What did you say about dancing?"

"I said nothing about dancing," he replied blankly. "I said, ‘no one is going to chance it for the sake of a sheep.' You should check your ears for pollen."

She chewed on the inside of her cheek, certain she hadn't misheard. But what he'd claimed he'd said made more sense than what she thought he'd said, so for once, she chose to believe he wasn't pulling her leg.

"Well, we're not going to learn anything by just standing around all awkward-like," Dorothy declared.

She boldly walked up to the closest half-open doorway and said, "Excuse me, my good sir."

The shriveled older man on the other side soundly slammed the door in her face, the rush of wind and the sheer audacity dazing her. A couple of seconds later, the curtain nearest the door pulled to the side as he stared out at Dorothy and her crew.

Nick may have been less emotional than these people, but at least he hadn't been downright rude. And she had nearly dropped a houseboat on top of his head.

She stepped over to the glass and lightly rapped her knuckles on the pane, the old man glaring at the spot her skin had touched. His hair was fluffed out above his round ears like pointed bat wings and he was a little shorter than her, his head barely above the sill. The whole of him gave her the impression of a fennec fox. A fennec fox with a serious dislike for strangers.

"We don't mean you any harm, good sir." Dorothy put on her best peacemaker voice, the one she reserved for when her mother used to be particularly mean to her dad. Not that he ever seemed to acknowledge his wife's frustration and anger. "We were hoping you could assist us. Our friend came into town looking for help. He's a walking scarecrow. Did you see him?"

The farmer yanked the curtain closed again.

Dorothy turned to Nick, Lional, and Toto with a questioning shrug of her shoulders. Then, she turned back to the glass window.

"I promise you we don't mean any trouble. We just want to find our friend and head out."

The curtain twitched a bit, but there was no response.

Undeterred, she started to walk up the street to the next neighbor's house, but that curtain was pulled shut as well.

"What the heck?" she exclaimed, wishing her aunt and uncle were there. They'd have won over the locals in a heartbeat. If not, they'd have made it their business to teach the village a lesson or two about Kansas hospitality.

The lionman snarled his frustration. "This town is not large enough for us to have missed Straw," he said. "Do you suspect that it is possible he continued to walk straight through, forgetting his purpose? Might a flutterby or a humblebee have distracted him? Or, mayhap, has someone done him ill?" He paused, raising his voice to a thunderous growl, as he added for all to hear, "I hope our friend has not come to harm, as he is the most harmless among us. I would be vexed if someone took advantage of that."

Dorothy knew it was hot air and bluster as Lional wouldn't hurt anyone, but the farmers wouldn't know that.

Still, it didn't seem to work.

Nick tapped the side of his axe thoughtfully as he responded, "We'll go door to door if we have to."

Dorothy nodded and headed toward a third door, but as she lifted her hand to knock, the clip-clop of horse hooves on stone and dirt greeted her.

She darted to the side of the house, where a wide path led all the way up to one of the barns. The sound was coming from behind that large structure, heralding the appearance of a pair of horses leading a wagon. The wagon bed was filled with rectangular bales of something, each completely sealed with well-oiled canvas and twined tightly. At the reins was a small woman wearing a straw beekeeper's hat, the gauzy netting covering her face.

Walking lankily alongside her was the scarecrow.

The two were engrossed in a back-and-forth conversation that held a smile on the little woman's face. A smile that disappeared the moment her eyes landed on Lional.

The farmer squeaked once and pulled hard on the reins, the horses coming to an immediate stop. The beasts, Dorothy noticed, didn't seem to be wearing any sort of pollen protection. Immune, perhaps? Or did they get a dose of honey in their oats?

"Oh, my dear!" the scarecrow said, reaching up a gangly hand to touch the woman's arm. "These are my friends I was going to have you help me with. This is Dorothy," he pointed toward her, "and this is Nick and Prince Lional, along with our friend, Toto. Everyone, this is Amika. She was bringing her wagon out to grab everyone and get them back here."

Amika sat perfectly frozen, her wide eyes locked in fear on the lionman. Dorothy now understood the reactions of everyone in town. For Lional's part, he stepped away from the main group and did his best to shrink in on himself, making himself appear less like the dangerous monster he resembled.

"Oh," Straw added, "and we have honey you have to drink so you can wake up! Show them, Amika."

She stayed where she was.

Dorothy realized they only had one opportunity to repair the goodwill that Straw had achieved with the farmer woman.

"Hello, Amika," Dorothy smiled and casually walked forward. "Thank you so much for being prepared to risk the poppy fields to rescue us. But we've accidentally rescued ourselves before you could do it."

"That doesn't mean we're not grateful, though," Nick joined in, stepping beside Dorothy.

The irony of Nick mentioning gratefulness when he never showed it himself was not lost on Dorothy.

"And," Dorothy added, "we'd be happy to help you unrig your wagon and return these beautiful horses to their stalls."

One was black and one was white…or at least, they had been when Dorothy first saw them come around the corner. But now they were both gray. Had they had turned gray in the few moments she'd been looking away from them, or had she made another mistake, mis-seeing instead of mishearing, as she'd done with Nick? Maybe there were some lingering effects to the pollen sleep.

Before her mind could process the peculiarity, and before she allowed herself to get distracted, Dorothy spoke again. "And once we help put the wagon back for you, maybe you could join us for some supper. I'm afraid we don't have much, but what we do have we'll be happy to share."

The offer of sharing their food seemed to rouse the woman's natural farmer instincts. "Nonsense," Amika suddenly said, clambering down from the driver's bench. "You're all guests here. I'll be happy to serve you some food."

Just as Auntie Em or Uncle Henry always said, strangers need fed, and that's what farmers do best, Dorothy thought. She felt a little guilty for pushing the woman's helper button, but it had worked, and she'd take the win.

"I'll even talk to the neighbors on your behalf," Amika added, coming further down the path with a wary eye fixed on the lionman. "I'm sure we would all be happy to cook something up for you and your companions."

"That would be delightful," Lional said, bowing deeply and royally to the woman.

Amika rolled up the netting of her beekeeper's veil, revealing a young, pretty face, and really stared at Lional for a moment. Then, showing a bravery that no one else in her town seemed capable of, the young lady continued to walk toward him, peeling off one of the gloves she wore as she went. Stopping in front of him, she reached up and offered her bare hand to the beast-like creature. Lional daintily took it, bent at the waist, and kissed the back of that peace offering. His whiskers tickled her to the point of a smile, despite the dreadful fear that had flashed in her eyes when he'd first bent to put his mouth to her hand, as though she thought there was a good chance he might just bite the whole thing off in one crunch.

Dorothy was impressed. Even suspecting that, Amika hadn't run screaming; she hadn't so much as flinched.

The beastly prince released her hand, and she shook Nick's next, taking a long, closer look at his metallic-colored skin. Then, finally, she took Dorothy's.

Amika's hand was small, but the grip was firm and comforting. Toto ran around the woman's ankles and yipped a few times, earning himself a pleasant scratch behind the ears that set his hind leg thumping.

The enchantment of fear broken, the rest of the town started to filter out from the various buildings.

Introductions were soon made, and they were surrounded by a host of friendly, if a little wary, faces.

The farmers had pulled mismatchedtables and chairs out of various houses and lined them down the dirt-packed street through the middle of the village. Lional had looked pretty pleased with himself at that, inclining an "I was correct" nod at Dorothy. And she was glad he'd been right; a street party was way better than any dingy, cutthroat inn.

She sat between Lional and Nick. The lionman was sitting daintily on a backless stool, precariously balanced on the dainty, three-legged thing.

"You have to eat something, Lional!" Dorothy urged, already onto thirds. Everyone else had the same mindset, tucking into the offerings, passing food around, making sure no glass remained empty.

An impromptu celebration of equally impromptu friendship, with every household bringing a different dish. The table was covered end to end in serving platters, tureens, cake stands, and steaming bowls of delicious delicacies, the likes of which Dorothy had never seen let alone tasted. Nor did she ask what was in any of it, allowing ignorance to be bliss.

"No, thank you," Lional replied. His feline nose twitched, and he sighed deeply. "So many wondrous vegetables, and I cannot abide the smell anymore. If I were myself, I would be the size of a house by the time I was done."

"There's meat," Nick pointed out. "No one's going to judge you, Lional. You're cursed. You do what you have to do to get by until you're yourself again."

Lional smiled stiffly. "Nevertheless… the scent of vegetables has robbed me of my appetite anyway." He bent his head and lapped from a cup of water, the discussion over.

Straw sat at another table with Amika and Toto, who had abandoned Dorothy in favor of some smoked fish jerky that Amika constantly snuck him under the table.

Nick, who had no choice but to press against Dorothy's side in order to stay on the edge of the long bench where they'd settled, nibbled on one of the bright colored corn cobs while striking up a conversation with farmer Jahn, the same man who had reminded Dorothy of a fennec fox.

"I could sit on your lap if you'd be comfier," Dorothy teased quietly. "Or you could sit on mine—you're halfway there already."

He'd been slowly shoved closer to her by the addition of more and more villagers. Not that she minded.

Nick's posture straightened. She immediately regretted her joke. Throughout the dinner, he'd become more relaxed with each passing moment, and though his expression had stayed the flat neutral she had come to expect from him, there were nuances to it. She'd made a study of them, having traveled with him over the past day: a slight pinch at the eyes when he seemed pleased with something; a twitch of a lip when a frown wanted to fight its way to his mouth; a tiny flinch at the corner of his mouth instead of a smile; a faint crease above his left eyebrow when he was afraid. She remembered that last one keenly, framed by hazy poppies.

Apparently, he wasn't nearly as cold hearted as she'd been mentally accusing him of being.

"I can move if you're uncomfortable?" he said coolly, pausing his conversation with Jahn.

"I was… It was… There are lots of people, and…" She was spared her awkwardness by another villager, who banged the end of her spoon on the table and demanded to hear the travelers' story.

Noting that Nick didn't move, his arm still flush against hers, Dorothy launched into the tale of her tailspin into Oz. The villagers leaned in, a captive audience, hanging on her every word as she segued into the quintet's perilous adventures thus far: the battle between the witches on her arrival, the Fighting Trees and the stern talking-to she'd given them, the Kalidahs and the magic mathematics—and axe-wielding, of course—that had saved their asses. There were gasps as she regaled them with the mother stork's plight, a few women holding tighter to their own children, and a few wry-yet-sympathetic snorts as she concluded with part of the group's nap in the poppy field.

"And here we are, enjoying this delicious meal with you all! Thank you again for your generosity. Best meal I've had in ages!" she said, her throat dry.

She grabbed the clay mug in front of her and was disappointed to find it empty of the sweet berry juice she'd been relishing. Without asking, Nick leaned forward, continuing his conversation with Jahn, and picked up the jug of sweet berry juice. He poured it for Dorothy, not breaking his attention from the crop rotation conversation he was explaining to the poppy farmer.

Nick had pestered her on and off during their yellow brick journey, after she had tested Straw with her wheat and corn riddle, until she had broken down and explained it. Now he seemed ready to share the process with anyone who would listen.

Like the coat he had put on her during the rain, the double whammy of Nick pouring her a drink without her having to ask and the compliment he'd paid her of both paying attention as she gave him a basic tutorial of managing crops and then eagerly passing it on, was so endearing she thought maybe her poor heart was going to squeeze dry in her chest. Silver skin aside, they didn't make men like Nick back in Kansas.

Dorothy didn't have much time for dating other than her failed attempt with her ex, thanks to college, and most of the boys she met there were only interested in putting in the least effort they could for the most reward anyway. Plus, she wasn't one to give out those kinds of rewards so easily.

"Thank you," she said to Nick as he put down the large brown glazed pitcher. He broke away from his conversation long enough to capture her with those steel-gray eyes and nodded thoughtfully, a pensive expression hiding just below the surface.

But he quickly returned to the hushed conversation with farmer Jahn. They had obviously moved away from the subject of potatoes before onions in the field. Dorothy's curiosity piqued. She tuned into it and caught the last part of what the small farmer was saying.

"I ain't one to gossip"—although, apparently, he was going to anyway—"but from what I've heard, the Emerald City ain't letting nobody in, not unless you already live there. My guess is there might be a little bad blood rolling about between that Wizard and that mayor."

"What makes you say that? What have you heard?" Nick asked.

"Well, that's it," Jahn answered. "We ain't heard nothing. Normally, it's a flock of gossiping hens that come clucking up the road here on the regular. Thems that come during the non-poppy season, I mean. Most people know not to risk those fields like you crazy coots did."

It turned out that the canvas-covered bales that were on Amika's cart were in fact bales of poppies that the town regularly harvested. The village stayed awake to bring in the flowers thanks to several domestic beehives and a ready supply of honey. Every breakfast bowl of oatmeal each morning was served with a heaping teaspoon of the golden poppy protection. The beekeeper hat that Amika had been wearing was just that, to keep her safe around the bees, and also "to keep the pollen out my face. Can't stand it getting on me. Itches like I've got a bad case of the nettlers."

The horses got a honey-lick, attached to their stall doors. Plus, the steeds wore a kind of barding when they went outside: horse armor, essentially, made from a thin, shiny gauze that required a lot of knot-tying to make sure they were fully covered. Dorothy knew because she'd had to remove the barding when she'd helped Amika with the horses and wagon before the feast had started.

"So, wait," Nick continued. "You're saying that the fact no one has come to say anything makes you think something is going on between the mayor of the Emerald City and the Wizard?"

"Yep," Farmer Jahn declared with a forceful nod. "Makes sense, don't it?"

Nick looked back at Dorothy, who in turn raised an eyebrow back at him, indicating, It's your world; I have no idea.

"Course, we'll know more when Amika heads out to deliver the poppy product to them on the morrow," Farmer Jahn said. "First of the run to go. Looks like we're going to get a nice long harvest this year. Probably a good thousand bales or more. Gonna be a long summer."

The farmer to Jahn's right agreed with a "harrumph" and soon the conversation changed to the typical who-had-the-hardest-job banter, and a debate on whether the whole weird crop rotation mumbo-jumbo would work. Not that they were going to use it; they were a poppy town after all.

Dorothy glanced toward Nick. "Maybe one of those wagons could fit a couple of travelers? What do you think?"

Nick nodded. "I think that's a fantastic idea, and my legs think it's a fantastic idea as well."

Dorothy waved down to the third table where Amika was sitting next to the scarecrow, the pair discussing something that had Straw in stitches. If he laughed any harder, he'd unravel.

"Amika," Dorothy called down to her.

She looked over and replied, "Yes, Dot?"

Dorothy had asked the young woman to call her by her nickname, as they were close in age, and it felt more friendly. Her mother would have had a field day, all her suspicions confirmed, not realizing that it was the silver man who had Dorothy feeling a little feverish. The way he'd gazed at her after the honey woke her up—she couldn't get it out of her head, the memory sneaking in at the most inopportune moments.

Amika got up from her table and walked over, Toto following dutifully behind, licking fish bits from his furry face.

"I noticed that wagon of yours is already full of poppy bales, and Jahn says you're leaving soon," Dorothy said.

"That's right. In the morning," Amika replied.

"I don't suppose you have room on the back of that thing for a couple of extra travelers?"

Amika thought about it for a moment. "I'd have to pull off a few bales…"

"We would compensate you, of course," Dorothy said, and then looked questioningly toward Nick. She had no idea what form the compensation would have to be. Did they use money in Oz?

"Um. Actually, I'm not quite certain," Nick replied. "I don't really have any coin…"

"Allow me," Lional interjected as he dug inside the threadbare majesty of his purple tailcoat and pulled out a sizable pouch that clinked and jingled. He reached into it and pulled out a half dozen platinum-colored slugs that looked like carved nut-and-bolt washers.

"Would this suffice?" he asked, standing politely to fold the coins into Amika's hands.

Her eyes went wide. "This is a whole cart full of poppy money! We can't take this!"

"Nonsense," Lional protested. "My weary feet understand the value of your wagon. I should say that we are getting the richer deal."

"In that case…" Amika hesitated. "I can get you there within two days, I promise!" She hugged the coins to her chest and then handed them to the village's mayor. Who also happened to be Jahn the farmer.

And with that, they had a ride to the Emerald City, and the celebratory air became that little bit more triumphant.

The sky had long darkenedby the time the festivities began to thin out, the warm night air carrying an unusual, burnt-sugar scent that Amika explained came from the poppies cooling after a hot day.

Bit by bit, the dinner broke up and lights went off in the quiet village until only Amika, Mayor Jahn, Dorothy, and her yawning companions remained on chairs that no one had carried inside yet.

"Y'all need a place to stay for the evening?" Jahn asked. "Some can stay at my house. I have a spare room." He glanced from Dorothy to Nick, including the two of them in his invitation, but not Straw or Lional.

He finally did glance at the lionman and added, "It won't be the most comfortable, but my barn is warm and dry, and the hay for the feeding of the horses might make you a fine bed."

To Lional, the fact he would not be invited into anyone's house was something he seemed to expect. Yet, he smiled and bowed his head. "That is abundantly kind. Gratitude, good sir."

Dorothy's sense of injustice flared up inside her, and she wanted to reprimand the farmer for obviously excluding the lionman. She was about to do just that, or at least tell Jahn that the barn would work for them all if Lional wasn't invited, even though it would risk a warm bed for herself, but Lional caught her eye and shook his head.

A courteous warning not to make a fuss.

Nick, however, didn't seem to have received the message. "You know, if Lional is relegated to the barn, perhaps it's best if Dorothy, Toto, and I stay with him and the other animals. You too, Straw, if you feel like pretending to sleep." Nick's always-neutral voice held an undertone of contempt that even the somewhat obtuse farmer caught onto.

"Oh… no," Jahn floundered. "I just meant… I thought… maybe he'd be more comfortable because it's more… uh… open to the outside. I assumed that's where the scarecrow was gonna stay anyway. But yeah, of course, you know, all of you can sleep in the room together. It'll be a little tight, but…"

The prince put his hand up in a clearer objection. "Actually, Nick, I would say that you and Dorothy should enjoy a comfortable bed while you can. I will take the man up on his offer. Sometimes, it is best for me to be alone anyway, especially with my hunger." Lional touched his hands to his stomach, and the farmer shivered.

It was not the threat Jahn probably thought it was. Lional was simply letting his friends know that he was going to have to hunt something down outside of the village. Once again, Dorothy was reminded of the terrible curse that made a man, who valued all life, have to take it just to survive.

Without waiting for a reply, Lional stalked off into the dark.

Straw took off his hat, held it to his chest, and sighed deeply. "What a wonderful evening. I think this might be the best evening of my life. So many new friends. Oh, I do love friends."

"The best evening of your life so far," Dorothy encouraged.

"Yes, true! There will be many evenings now that I'm alive," he replied, smiling his cartoon smile. "If I just live one year, that will be four hundred and twelve evenings! If I live for six years—two thousand four hundred and seventy-two! Oh, what a gift that would be! So many evenings!"

Dorothy arched an eyebrow. "There are 412 days in a year, not 365?"

"Of course. Silly Dot. Why would you want fewer?" Straw chuckled then wandered off, murmuring, "I'm going to watch the bees sleep. Lovely bees. I shall make them all my friends, too, but five is the best number. Yes, five is the best."

Dorothy was going to order him to stay close, but he seemed to be heading to one of the many beekeeper boxes at the edge of the poppy field and not the monstrous mound Nick had described down by the creek.

Jahn looked at Nick and Dorothy. "Come on, then."

He took them into one of the short and stout homes a few doors down. Toto sprinted inside the quaint, cozy home and raced around the place, putting his nose everywhere and into everything. Thankfully, he knew better than to cock his leg.

If the house was this small, Dorothy feared for the promised bedroom. Not only was everything built for people of a smaller stature, it was full of the various knickknacks and bric-a-brac that a bachelor collects and shoves willy-nilly onto shelves rather than attempting to display with any order.

Jahn took them to a back hallway and opened a door to a small bedroom. A lone bed with a twin-size mattress sat on a brass frame in the middle of it, surrounded by crates and boxes of items that Jahn had stuffed into any and all empty spaces to the point where all that was left was a single narrow path to the bed.

"I'm right here 'cross the hall," Jahn said. "You kids get your rest. I'm tuckered out and got a long day in the morning." He closed the door behind him, and Dorothy gave the room a sarcastic appraisal.

"Realtors in Frisco would call this a studio with oodles of character and plenty of potential."

Nick paused. "Potential? For what?"

"Uh…" Dorothy faltered, heat rushing up her neck. "For breaking an ankle," she spat out, very aware of the closed door and the tiny width of the bed. Dinner had merely been a prelude to this kind of "coziness." In fact, the bench had been positively spacious.

Toto, on the other hand, had no such qualms. He flopped down on the carpet in front of the door and dozed off immediately, their very own guard dog.

Nick shrugged off his backpack and placed it on a particularly lopsided stack of crates.

He looked at the bed and looked at Dorothy. A single hard swallow later, he nodded and climbed over to the other side, pressing his back against the wall of wooden crates that bordered it.

Dorothy shed her own pack but nothing else, not even the silver shoes—which wasn't going to happen even if she wanted it to—and crawled in next to him, instantly faced with the squeezing-past-people-in-the-movie-theater conundrum. Was it better to turn toward him or away from him?

She flipped over, facing away from him and trying to give him any possible room. But the creaky springs sank in from their joint weight, tilting the mattress, sliding her back against his front.

One fluffed pillow between them later, and they were resting in the dark of the room.

The moons' light spilled quietly in through the thick-paned window, and Dorothy relaxed into the rhythm of Nick's breathing as she did her best to settle in. But it wasn't the breath of someone sleeping or trying to. It was the breath of someone who was very conscious of each inhale and exhale.

"You can move it," Dorothy whispered into the dark.

"Oh… right." He shifted a little. "You'll have to get up first."

She smiled to herself. "The pillow, you blushberry. Don't want it suffocating you in your sleep."

"The pillow…" He cleared his throat and removed the pillow, his hand reaching out to gently lift her head. As her cheek fell back down, it landed on cotton-covered eiderdown, soft as a marshmallow.

In their new proximity, Nick's knuckles grazed against the middle of her back, sending a bolt of electricity up her spine. She could picture him, arms crossed, rigid as a statue, too courteous to be at all comfortable. He wouldn't be feeling any crackling thrill, that was for sure.

"This is silly," she said, turning over.

"It is," he agreed, sitting up. "I'll shift some crates around and take the floor. If it's good enough for Toto…"

She grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. "Lie flat."

He did as she asked, that tiny crease of worry appearing above his left eyebrow as he stared up at the rafters. "But there's no room for you."

"Sure there is." Boldly, she curled up against his side, nudging under his arm the way Toto liked to do. She lay her head down on his shoulder. Not as soft as the pillow, but… nice. Very nice.

His arm tightened around her, and her "pillow" became as hard as a plank of mahogany. Oddly supportive, holding her in place, but not conducive to a good night's sleep.

"Really, I'll take the floor," he repeated, his voice strained.

"Shut up, or I'll fetch some poppy pollen," she murmured in reply, closing her eyes.

As she pretended to drift off, slowing her breathing down, she knew he was watching her. She smiled inwardly, resisting the urge to peer up at him.

With every moment that passed, his shoulder became more comfortable again, a muscle-and-flesh softness. And as his arm tightened again, his hand scooping her at the waist, it felt warm and reassuring and… deliberate.