The winter night breezing through the open window snipped crisp and cold, the kind of thin, icy air that makes it hard to breathe. It did little to cool Alastair's body and his temper as he rummaged through his dresser, slamming drawers. The situation was his fault, but that didn't make him any less angry; in fact, it fueled his rage. He had never felt so worthless, alone, and disgusted with himself.

Alastair couldn't believe he had been the only one to stick around earlier, wanting to see if the animal was okay. It wasn't. And neither was he. He could barely look at his mom, he was so ashamed. He had to get out of this place. He had to get some air. He had to get more Amp. His skin itched with the need for it.

He loaded anything else he could fit into his duffle bag and headed for the door. As he crossed the living room, his mother pleaded with him to stay.

"Please don't go, Al." She was crying now, her anger dissolved in tears. "We can get through this together."

"I'm sorry," his voice was hoarse. "I have to go."

He shook his head and reached for the door. There was a thud outside, like a bag of potatoes dropped after being carried up three flights, which made him flinch and pull back. Their apartment building was always quiet. Even though they were in the East Village, which was a pretty youthful neighborhood, most of the tenants in the building were older. So strange noises from the hallway were unusual, especially at this late hour.

He looked over his shoulder at his mom, who shrugged. Alastair was on edge, and he didn't want to throw open the door without caution. He peeked through the eyehole, but all he saw was the dingy turquoise hallway lit by a flickering bare bulb.

His mother stood right behind him now, laying her hand on his back. "Open it," she whispered. She sounded tense as well, and as he placed his hand on the knob, he felt hers gripping the back of his shirt. Neither of them said it, but Alastair knew they were both thinking the same thing: his drunk dad had reappeared again and passed out on their doorstep.

As he pulled open the door, a figure flopped forward into their entry, naked and bloody, covered loosely by a large wool coat. Alastair straightened up in surprise. He was sure it must be dead from the grotesque purple lump on the side of its forehead, but a low moan rumbled deep from its gut and blood bubbled out of its, no her, mouth. Alastair gasped as he realized he knew this pitiful creature, whose left eye was swollen and puckered. She was barely recognizable.

"Rose?" he croaked, hoping for some response. There was none.

"Al, you know her?" his mother whispered over his shoulder.

Alastair nodded slowly. Rose was exposed. This was not the way he imagined seeing a girl naked for the first time. This was not how he wanted to either. He flipped the arm of the coat across her, effectively returning her to a modest state.

He leaned down and lifted her, turning to his mother, "We have to help her."

"In here," she answered evenly, all of the earlier strain between them gone in an instant.

Alastair carried Rose into the bathroom and set her gently in the tub, murmuring in her ear. Then he turned and strode out of the apartment, the door clanking shut behind him.

Rose was startled awake by the cold enamel tub against her bare skin and Alastair's whispered promise that she was okay. She was dazed, unsure where she was or how she got there. Lukewarm water swirled with rivers of orange-red to make peach, and Rose was braced by two strong arms under her own.

"Come on," grunted a woman's voice. "Up you go."

The woman peeled the coat away once Rose was steady on her feet. She leaned her head forward against the tile wall to keep herself up. The shower was gentle, pouring warmth down her back. Rose opened the one eye she could. There was so much blood.

And Rose remembered, remembered the sound of his zipper.

She turned and retched over the side of the tub, spilling her dinner all over someone's shoes. She felt dizzy, and the sturdy hands stabilized her quaking form. Rose closed her eyes, sobs rippling through her body. The worst was the uncertainty: just how far had he gone?

She vaguely remembered waking up now. Avery was lying on the floor nearby, unconscious and partially disrobed. Rose had bolted from the house, grabbing a coat from the rack by the door, instinct telling her to get out. Immediately. She ran through the deserted streets unseeing, following her ballet flats as if they had GPS. Rose looked down at the broken, stained shoes still on her feet. Blood trickled around them to the drain. She breathed in a quavering sigh and replayed the scene in her mind, clearer now from the fresh water. He didn't. He didn't... I hit him, I got him before, she thought. Before it got to that. But even after reassuring herself, Rose still wasn't certain if she was right or if her own mind lied to her to save her having to face the unbearable truth.

When the water ran clear again, the woman helped her from the shower, enfolded her in a towel, and led her to a bedroom. It was dim and messy, with piles of clothes outlining the large bed. Rose sat on the edge of it, clutching the towel to her chest. She shivered although it wasn't cold. The woman caressed her wet hair, and walked away. This is his mother, she reasoned, feeling comforted and envious all at once.

Mrs. Silver returned with a pair of soft cotton shorts, which she slipped onto Rose's legs. Then she peeled off Rose's tattered shoes. Rose was passive and malleable, happy to let this woman take care of her. "Lie on your stomach, honey. I need to tend to your wounds."

Rose scooted over and buried her aching face in the pillow. It smelled like safety, that familiar Alastair's-T-shirt-when-he-hugs-her smell. Her body took over, and she cried. Oh she cried so much. Mrs. Silver used the same spell and poultice that Alastair had used over a year ago to help her. There was a reason she came here.

Alastair tore across the icy night, running with rage and purpose. He had looked up the address for Rose's home at the end of last school year, thinking he might check in on her. But, in the haze of Amping, he had completely forgotten his concern for her. He found the house easily now, and moved quickly through the already open door. The interior of the home was unlit, but the street lamps outside gave Alastair enough to see. Dark smears of blood marred the inside of the doorframe. He heard a low moan from further inside and stepped toward it.

A middle-aged man lay half-naked and semi-conscious on the dining room floor, a pile of shattered glass and a bloody belt beside him. Alastair scanned the room for traces of anyone else, but all he found were signs of the brutality that had occurred. Near the dining table, there was a trail of torn clothes that used to be delicate and pretty. The table itself was littered with crumpled papers, spattered with droplets and smears of blood, some large enough to make him feel dizzy. Alastair was disgusted. He had wondered why Rose was naked, and now seeing this creep with his pants around his ankles, he understood. It was so much worse than he had known. His stomach clenched at the disturbing images crowding his thoughts. Alastair pulled the man up by his throat and slammed him against the table.

"Aaagh! What?" the man was dazed as he spoke, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

"You. Sick. Perverted--" Alastair punctuated each word with a deep breath, puffing like the big bad wolf. He needed the air to maintain Control, which was quickly faltering.

"Who are you? What?" The man's words slurred with alcohol fumes and the daze of recent unconsciousness.

"Worthless-piece-of--" The last three words flooded from him like a torrent, adrenaline filling his mouth with the flavor of tinfoil. He had lost Control. "--Shit!"

Alastair had felt this kind of fury before, this loss of Control. Black mist pulsed from his hands to the beat of his heart. He released all his anger on this man's face, pummeling until he resembled the broken form that Rose had become. He used no magic, or at least he hadn't meant to. It was sheer physical force that destroyed this sleaze-ball's face. The man tried to raise his arms to fend off the beating, but he was no match for an Amped up Alastair, even on a comedown. He tried to run, but he tripped over the pants shackling his ankles and was easily restrained. He tried to speak, but his words just slurred out of the bloody mess that was his mouth.

When the moans gave way to silence, Alastair flipped the man over and lashed his back with his own bloody belt dozens of times. Finally, Alastair rested his weary arm. Like jello, the man's limp body slimed to the floor. Alastair kicked him where no man should be kicked, except men like him--and again a second time--then left.

He walked home slowly, guilt flooding his mind. He wished he had not let her go home. He had known. He was the only one who had known. And he just let her go. God, and worse, he had almost told the dean last year after the museum incident. If he had, maybe she would be okay right now. He clenched his fists, which was agonizing. The knuckles of his right hand were swollen, scraped, and, he was pretty sure, broken.

Back at his apartment, he heard his mother murmuring a restorative incantation from his room. He closed the front door quietly, and she shuffled into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She gasped as she saw him. He glanced down; his shirt and arms were covered in blood.

"I'm okay," his voice was raw, as if he had been screaming. He guessed he had.

"What did you do?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"What he did to her."

"Oh, Al," she shook her head. "You shouldn't have done that."

He gave her silence as a response. He could not agree with her.

"Well," his mother gave him a stern look, "she's okay, and she's dozing. She had some Somnolence. I gave her one round of Calendula Cream, but we're running short. The wounds are pretty deep. She's going to need at least a few more rounds of it. I have to get back to work. I've already missed too many hours tonight, so I'll send Deanna by with some more Calendula, and some Swelling Salve also. Her eye is pretty bad."

Alastair continued in his silence, grinding his teeth. Beating the shit out of that guy had not really taken away any of his anger. His eyes settled on the bag of clothes he had packed so haphazardly.

"Alastair, you need to stay with her," his mother said firmly, seeming to understand what his fixed gaze meant. "You will stay until I get back, won't you?"

He nodded and brushed past her into his room, peeling off his bloody T-shirt as he went. Alastair stopped short inside the door. Rose lay face down on his bed; her back was a gruesome sight, oozing yellow and crimson through the off-white restorative cream. It was so much worse than the few gashes he had healed last year. The front door clicked shut as his mother left. He wiped away the spatters of blood from his arms and slipped on a fresh shirt from the dresser, then slid onto the bed next to Rose.

Rose lifted her head groggily when she felt someone's weight on the edge of the bed next to her. Her left eye was totally swollen shut, but her right opened a little. She was relieved to see Alastair there next to her. But he looked like hell, like he had all semester. His electric blue eyes were sunken and hollow, dark rings of sleep-deprivation circling them. And he had lost so much weight. So much. His cheek bones were too defined. There were drops and smears of blood on his face, arms, and hair. She wondered what happened to him. Or is it from me? Is that my blood? She felt queasy at the thought.

"Hey," he whispered, reaching a hand out to touch her forehead. "Brace yourself. I need to give you another round of Calendula."

Alastair wiped at Rose's back with the moist cloth his mother had left on the night table, then applied Calendula Cream, muttering the now-familiar restorative incantation as he did. He added a bit to the deep cut on her cheek.

She turned her head to peek at him. Rose wanted to ask where he had been while his mother helped her. His right hand was broken, she could see from the way his knuckles stuck out at odd angles. She covered his knuckles with her left hand.

"No!" he tried to pull away, but he was too late.

Rose healed Alastair's broken hand, her own hand breaking and then mending. It was painful but not so bad as the wounds she already bore. A moment later, her mouth flooded with sour saliva, and she turned to vomit over the edge of the bed. Conveniently there was a wastebasket just in the right place.

Alastair was clear-headed for the first time in weeks. He shook his head slowly, realizing just how far he had sunk into an abyss of Amp. When Rose healed his hand, she must have drained the remaining potion from his system. He laid one arm across the pillow and pushed her hair back with the other hand, leaning close to her forehead and resting his cheek against it. Rose nestled down onto his shoulder and went to sleep. She looked so small, so fragile. But he was amazed that after everything, she still wasn't broken. He had seen the light in her dark eyes as she healed him, shining confidence and consolation through her misery.

His mother had barely gotten her cuts to ooze instead of bleed freely. But he gave her one dose and they scarred over. Alastair thought it must be the Amp at work. Even so, these new wounds on her back were still in awful shape. He was pleased to see that the cut on her cheek had closed entirely, though, leaving a thin pale scar about two inches long. He brushed his finger across it gently, a wave of guilt and remorse sweeping over him again. He never should have let her go home.

Alastair waited until Rose's breathing became a steady rhythm, then carefully maneuvered his arm out from under her head. She stirred slightly but didn't wake. Now that he was sober, Alastair knew he had fences to mend, or maybe burnt bridges to rebuild. His relationship with his mother had never been this strained, and he would have to work hard to repair it. He worked silently, cleaning each room of the house in turn. After awhile, there was a soft knock at the door.

"Leah asked me to bring dis stuff by," Deanna said in her thick Jamaican accent.

Alastair nodded, taking the bag from her hands. "Thanks."

He dug through the package to see what she had sent. There were two jars of Calendula Cream, a tube of Swelling Salve, a jug of Sanguine Solution, and a vial of Somnolence. They may not need this much Calendula, but they would certainly need the rest. He sighed and turned to continue cleaning. When he got to the bathroom, his horror returned again. The bloody wool coat still slumped in the corner, and spatters of watered down blood dripped from the shower walls. He set about scrubbing away the last remnants of this horrible night.

I run through the first floor of the house, like a maze. I don't want to be here. I'm not supposed to be here. I am confused. Where are the stairs? Where is the front door? My heart is banging like a kick drum. I turn again and don't recognize the room. Dozens of hands grope my arms, legs, and belly. They want me. They want to hurt me. I twist away from them, desperate to leave, but the door is gone. I am naked from the waist up, I realize, and cross my arms over my chest. My heart pounds in my ears. It is dark, and I know I need to hide somewhere. The hands want to hurt me. I slide my own hand along the wall and pull at the doors I find, but they won't open. I hear scraping behind me, like fingernails on wood. They are coming. He is coming. He is coming for me. I run to the other side of the room blinded by the dark. My hands reach for a doorknob. Instead, I find the soft flesh of his naked middle-aged belly. He laughs. He tears at my skirt. I scream.

Rose woke to the sound of screams, sitting up in bed, holding the sheet to her chest, and heaving heartbreaking sobs. My screams, she thought desperately. She felt like she couldn't get enough air, but her breathing was so rapid. Alastair dropped the trash bag he was carrying and ran to her.

"You're okay, Rose," he tried to soothe her, sitting down next to her. "You're okay."

She rested her head against her knees and tried to catch her breath. Alastair smoothed her hair down and murmured calming words until she breathed normally. Rose sat up and squinted at him through bleary, swollen eyes. Sleep was so much worse than consciousness.

"I'll be back in a sec," he said quickly. Rose shook her head. She really didn't want him to leave her alone.

"It's okay." He pushed the sliding doors of his room all the way open so she could see him in the dining area. "I need to get your medicine." He grabbed it from the table and was back by her side as promised.

Alastair dabbed at her eyes, forehead, and lip with that nasty smelling ointment. It was horrible, but Rose felt immediate relief.

"There," he said as she opened both eyes fully. A sweet smile spread across his face that made what little composure Rose had falter. Her wide eyes crowded over with tears. She shook her head in frustration, hating the weakness that crying signified for her. All those years she had spent in strangers' homes and hospitals, most of them unpleasant, had forced her to hide, well, everything. Emotions, wounds, valuables. Her magic. Name it, she hid it. Cry in front of the other, older, bigger foster kids, and you could expect trouble. But Alastair. Alastair was different. He was a safe place to lay her head.

Alastair wished he could heal her heart the way she healed his hand. How could anyone ever get past what Avery had done to her? He wrapped his arms around her thin frame gingerly, careful not to hurt her back, and he held her until she fell asleep against his chest. The hazy amber light of dawn was knocking at the windows; it was already after 6 am. This night had been so strange, and he needed sleep as much as she did. Alastair laid Rose down on her side, mindful of keeping the sheet around her bare skin.

He ran out to the garbage chute and dumped the trash he had gathered in his attempt at cleaning. Then he lay down on the couch to get some sleep himself, but he was fitful, and he could hear Rose thrashing in the other room. Alastair finally got up when he heard her whimper. "No," she seemed to say again, louder the second time.

He went to the door of his room and saw that she was curled up on her side, rocking herself. What else could he do? Alastair knew what he wanted to do, which was crawl into bed and go to sleep. But Rose. Rose was laying there wrapped up in his sheets, crying, with no shirt on. There was no way it was okay for him to get in his bed and sleep with her. Next to her. He rubbed his eyes, sandy from days without rest. Rose was so restless. He wanted to calm her, to comfort her. He pet her hair softly, and she breathed slower. He took his hand away and she stirred, as if she were waking. He put it back, and she sighed and seemed to snuggle down to sleep.

Fuck it, he thought and got into bed next to her. She was curled away from him, the thick scars on her back shining against the dull light sneaking around the edges of the window. Alastair slid one arm under her neck, draped the other carefully over her hip, and went to sleep.

Rose dreamed she was back in Avery's house, over and over. But, the dreams were just snippets now, like footage from a horror movie that didn't make the final cut because it was too violent. Sometime around noon, she finally peeled her eyes open, salt-wet from crying through her sleep. She stared at the wall for several minutes, trying to remember without remembering. She was at Alastair's, she breathed out. She was safe. Breathe. She would be okay. Breathe.

Her pillow was unusually hard, so she moved to roll over, finding instead Alastair's extended arm leading away from his sleeping form. She sucked in a breath and reached for the covers. Her top half was still undressed, probably so the wounds on her back could heal, she guessed. The wounds on her back. Rose sat up with the sheet around her, pulled her knees up, and put her head in her hands. She had always coped by pushing down her thoughts, feelings, memories. This felt too big to be buried. She didn't have a hole deep enough.

I'm nothing but empty spaces, she thought, letting out a silent sob, her breathing faltering.

Eventually the frame would have to crumble. No one can be made of filled in graves and buried secrets and abuse. No one could bear the weight of it all.

Alastair was awakened by movement in his bed. Rose sat next to him, shuddering lightly. She could be in shock, he realized. He sat up and placed a calming hand on her shoulder. As she turned, he saw that her face was streaked with tears, which he brushed away with the side of his hand. She rested her head on his shoulder. He wasn't sure what else he was supposed to do. He pushed her hair off her face, thinking of his mom.

"You're safe here," he murmured. "And you don't ever have to go back there," a promise he didn't truly know whether he could keep.

Rose nodded against his neck, gripping the sheet to her body so tight that her knuckles went white. Those knuckles that bent and broke last night in healing him. Alastair touched her fingers softly, and she relaxed somewhat. "Just breathe," he murmured against her hair. Her hair smelled like caramel. And coconut. He remembered how she had tried to help him all semester. And he had just pushed her away. When she needed him so, he wasn't there to protect her. His fingers traced a looping pattern on her bare shoulder.

As she sat away again, they made eye contact for a moment. Alastair felt his face flush red with embarrassment, so acutely aware of her nudity under that sheet and so very guilty for sleeping with her. Next to her. He slid away and went to his closet.

Rose stared at Alastair, wishing he wouldn't leave. But he didn't go far. She watched as he rummaged through his closet, finally pulling out a black T-shirt with Van Gogh's "Starry Night" on the front. He grabbed scissors from the kitchen and began to cut the shirt. Rose was so confused. But watching him perform this strange task was a suitable distraction from her other thoughts.

After a couple of minutes of fiddling around with the shirt, Alastair brought it over to Rose's side of the bed.

"I cut away the back." Rose took the offered garment.

Rose felt her shoulders and neck, finding thick gashes that were sealed but sore. Just her light touch started them oozing. She shook her head and stared at her hands. Her left index and middle fingers bore a deep cut--where the belt buckle had bit into her skin as she tried to cover her head.

He ran a cold finger across one of her scars. "Are you in pain?" She shook her head, no. But she realized as she did that her back was stinging a bit. He was back in two long strides, smearing the familiar pain relief along her scars despite her refusal. Rose felt not only the tension and ache of her back easing, but also the strain in her mind; she wasn't sure if it was the medication or Alastair's touch.

She held her left hand out for him to see.

He ran his thumb along the thick cut, his touch laced with regret. "I missed this. I'm sorry." She glanced into his face and was surprised by the look of anguish there. She had the feeling he was apologizing for something other than this cut.

He slathered Calendula on it quickly, and the scar left on her fingers was fat and ugly.

"I'll be back in a few minutes." He ran his long, spidery fingers through her hair as she nodded.

She waited until he closed the bathroom door before she pulled the "shirt" over her head. He had done more than remove the back. The neck had also been widened, the sleeves had been cut off, and there was a thin strip of fabric left at the hem in back to keep the shirt in place around her.

She reached for one of his books, Magical Artifacts and Their Uses, and Rose lost herself in the book. A large tabby cat jumped up onto the bed and sniffed at Rose. It approached her with a flirty, curly Q tail and purred onto her lap, mewling at her and kneading her leg. He rammed his head into her arm, and she pet his velvety fur and scratched his arching back, which elicited a raspy, revving meow. As he settled down to sleep against her hip, his purring seemed to radiate through her the way a hot beverage warms and comforts on a cold night. She closed her eyes, letting the soothing presence of the cat flood over her for several minutes before returning to the book.

The textbook was pleasantly heavy in her lap, and gave easily when she opened it, meaning it had been read many times before. Rose was someone who had always found comfort in books. Even when she skipped school, back when she was in foster care, Rose would find her way to the library and spend hours reading until it was time to return home. The pages before her now captivated her with images and tales of ancient items that held magical powers. There was the famous magic carpet of Aladdin. Then the clay army in China. The vases of varying shapes from Greece, each shape signifying different powers.

The apartment was still and quiet. It felt unnaturally quiet. It didn't seem like Alastair was even home. But she felt better, safer now, even if he wasn't right there next to her.

Alastair leaned against the bathroom door. He felt completely unprepared for this. She needed so much more than he could give her. He was so grateful that his mom would be home soon. He was barely treading the rough waters of his own screwed up life. He needed rescuing, not to be someone's life vest. He felt like he would drown in it all. He splashed some water on his face, holding his hands over his eyes for a few moments, then returned to the bedroom.

His old T-shirt seemed to work well; Rose sat like a hunched Indian, her back muscles relaxed from the straight, tense posture she held before. She had settled in to read one of his old textbooks with Mungo by her side.

When his mom returned from work a few minutes later, she went to his room and fussed over Rose. He flopped onto the couch and sat with his arms folded. Alastair knew there so many things he needed to say to his mom. So many apologies that would never be able to bridge the chasm between them. He watched her mixing batter for pancakes, one of the only things she knew how to cook. The sizzle of bacon made his stomach gurgle. He couldn't remember the last thing he ate. Chips maybe. Sips of soda at the police station last night. He had sunk so deep into the Amp that he had entirely stopped caring, stopped sleeping, stopped eating.

After a few minutes, his mom carried a plate in to Rose then plunked another down on the kitchen table. She walked past him without a word and closed her bedroom door.

He ate quickly, and when he finished, he found a stack of pancakes and bacon still waiting on the now-cooling stove. He added a few more to his plate, glancing into his room as he did. His 20-pound cat was at Rose's side, licking at the butter on the edge of her otherwise empty plate.

"Mungo," Alastair chided. He shooed the cat away and washed Rose's plate, then finished his second helping, and then a third, standing at the sink.

Alastair cleaned up the rest of the dishes quietly, then went to his mother's door. He listened with his hand perched, ready to knock. There was no question he would have to talk to her, to get them past this, but he just didn't know how. He unfurled his hand and placed his palm on the cool surface of her door. What could he say that would repair all the damage? He had to fix this.

With a deep breath, he tapped lightly on the door with his fingertips. She slid it open quickly, as if she had been right on the other side.

"Can I come in and talk?" he croaked. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

She waved him in, and he sat on the edge of the armchair by the window. Alastair stared at his hands while she slid her door closed with a thud.

"I know that I'm sorry isn't enough," he began, still unable to look up at her. "But I am. I am sorry. I hate that I disappointed you. I hate that I've lost your trust and respect--which I totally deserve, by the way."

The words poured from him like October rains. "I hate myself," he concluded after a few minutes.

"I don't hate you," she said, reaching forward and pushing his hair up and out of his face. "I love you."

Alastair stood and buried his face in her shoulder.

"You're okay," she said. "It's going to be okay." He wanted to believe her.

Alastair broke away from his mother's embrace and plopped back into the chair, poking at his leaky eyes with the inside of his T-shirt.

"Alastair," she said in a deep serious tone he knew well from his childhood, "who is this girl and what happened to her? Was she part of whatever happened at the zoo yesterday?"

He shook his head, unsure how to begin. He had kept the secret of Rose's wounds from the people at school all last year, but he could not keep this from his mom. He felt like he would never be able to keep anything from her again. "Her name is Rose. She started at Whitman last August, and she showed up...injured."

He glanced at her to see if she understood.

"In the same way," she said, not really a question.

Alastair nodded as he continued, "I helped her then with Calendula and a Restorative Incantation. She doesn't speak, ever. And I, I--" He shook his head, realizing again how completely he had failed in this situation. "I didn't tell anyone. Until now." He rested his face in his hands, unable to believe everything that had occurred in the past day, shit the past year.

His mother laid her hand on his arm, a comforting gesture. "Who did this to her?"

"Her guardian, some guy named Avery. Wallace, no Walter. Walter Avery. Mom, I think he--" Alastair choked on his words. He couldn't say it. He didn't want it to be true, and he thought saying it out loud might somehow make it true.

"Alastair, I need you to tell me everything you know about this, about him."

He spoke in a hush, telling her everything that had happened last year, including Rose's empathic healing and how she had saved his life, all the way through last night and the address where he had beaten the half-naked Avery back into unconsciousness.

When he was finished, she watched him for what felt like several minutes. It was probably several seconds, but the silence that stretched between them was like gum on the bottom of your shoe, uncomfortable and messy.

"Okay," she finally broke the tension. She stood up resolutely, "Stay here."

Alastair stared at the closing front door in confusion. He was so tired. The tired where your eyes feel scratchy. The tired where you drool when you sleep. He had unburdened himself of these heavy secrets and was now weighed down only by exhaustion, which hung around him like thick fog.

He picked up Jelly, his other tabby cat who was curled contentedly on his mom's bed, and went back into his room. Rose sat cross-legged with a textbook in her lap and Mungo at her side.

"I was gonna get a bit more sleep," he mumbled as he plunked Jelly down on the bed. "Is that okay?"

Rose was afraid to sleep, afraid of her dreams. But she was so very tired. Alastair had calmed her earlier, perhaps she would be able to sleep again. She nodded and scooted to stretch out on her side, facing away from him as she had been when she awoke a few hours ago.

He quickly plastered her again oozing back with fresh Calendula, then laid his arm across her pillow. Rose snuggled down against his arm, loving that warm, comfortable Alastair smell. The two tabby cats curled between her legs and his as she drifted off to sleep--a blank, recuperative sleep without even her usual nightmares, let alone the new and far-too realistic ones she had last night.