I woke up and stared at the phone on the desk next to the bed. I thought I had caught a flash of the message light, but it was dark. In the background, the battle of Kitchen Stadium was still raging.

I had believed the Questor’s wife when she said I was safe. It was rare for a Dream sending to be dangerous, and honestly it was hard to tell how much was sending and how much was dream. It was considered a chink in the armor of many wizardly beings, though, since so few remembered to put up a guard. (Maggie did. She said it kept her from being able to have more prescient dreams, but it did protect her from a variety of minor curses and banes. Banes were apparently negatively oriented charms, which could be both physical and psychological in nature.)

I’d read enough psychology to know that there was no way I could tell if there was something more or less “real” about the dream. I thought there was, but the dialogue wasn’t quite right. I wasn’t going to call up the Questor at (glancing at my cellphone) dark o’clock and ask if I’d been dream-warded by his wife. We were tentative buds, but not bros.

I thought about calling Sylvia’s cell phone. Had it been on her? Had it gone with the police? I had driven here carefully. Which meant I didn’t care about the speed limit unless the cars around me did, but I kept having this guilty feeling that there ought to be a warrant out for me or something. I didn’t like it when magic and the legal system butted heads. Not just because of that Swamp Thing in Gotham City bit, but because the magic world always felt kind of underground. Clandestine, that was the word. Some have it that people outside the culture would come at it with pitchforks and torches, but I don’t think that’s true.

I have a hammer and everything I see is a nail. I think if people were clued in and closed their darn kitchen cabinets, we’d have less spaces inbetween. I’ve heard a lot that a closed life doesn’t have room for magic to creep in, I guess. It’s a perspective. I think that science is pretty darn magical, and that’s even when I understand it, Mr. Clarke. (Oh, and for the record, when I was in the kitchen of Mr. Questor, I saw his wife close the cabinets behind him.)

I look at the world and I see magic. I see magic that frightens me, but mostly, I see magic that gives me hope. I see the magic that Barrie said create fairies, I see the fabulous colors of the sunsets against the mountains and know the magic there.  I see the magic between a smile and shy bowing of the head.  I see the magic of shadows on the sheets.  Doloise was a creature of magic, and yet there was the shimmer of her laughter when she watched the cavorting of meerkats as edited and made into, well, magic.  I like the magic of a hot fudge sundae when you put one of those plastic red spoons right through the whipped cream, make sure you have the proper number of nut pieces, and then pop it into your mouth, enjoying the alchemy as it hits your pleasure centers.

Man, I was hungry.  Just look at those dishes up on the television.  Ignore the judges because they never have any taste. Ahem.  So to speak.  It was too late for a run to an ice cream shop and too late for room service.  (Which is a joke, if you ask me.  Aren’t hotels like a 24-hour project?  Don’t they have people to handle the bizarre cravings of the penthouse suite?  “Jeeves, I need a sirloin brazed on both sides for 30 seconds and then put in the microwave for 4 minutes, some potatoes mashed with sour cream made from the milk of a recent primigravida, some shallots minced with a silver knife, and a large double scoop of mint chocolate.” “Very good, sir.  Would you be wanting the whipping cream also whipped with mint and a hint of ginger? And the chocolate waffle cone?” “Jeeves, do you even have to ask?” “Of course not, sir.”  Of course, this was a budget motel and I think ‘Jeeves’ anymore is a title, not an actual name.)

I had seen an all-day cafe on my way into town, but I wasn’t really motivated into leaving my bed.  I needed my sleep if I was going to make it back home in the morning.

Why was I in a hurry to get back?  Sylvie’s comments came back to me for a moment.  I’d had houseplants, but no fish, no pets, an unofficial girlfriend who my dream says lives with someone else, and a war.  Memories.  I could get my books packed.  Really, I could probably pay for some movers.  The job search sucked everywhere, but I could float for a while.  I’d be farther away from my sister, and Ed, and my mother, but for two of the three it was really kind of a blessing.  Plus I was pulling Ed too deep into this stuff.  He might be better off without me.

Whoa.  That kind of thinking was not the kind I was used to making.  What was with that?  That, my friends, was a spiral.  I could blame low blood sugar, I guess.  Nothing but to go get some of the trip snacks, which meant leaning over to where I’d put my briefcase.

Sugar bar in hand (it claimed to be a “granola” bar, but we all know better) I watched as my favorite Iron Chef was marked the winner.  I ate it while flipping through the channels for something else to watch.   This time of night there were an awful lot of commercials, as if the late hour weakened the usual resistances against buying things, or maybe because no one creates good movies for the 2am crowd.  (“Jeeves and the Giant Chocolate Sundae.”  It’s a small art film, designed for people hungry for the Queen’s ice cream delicacies.)

Eventually I fell asleep.  And I dreamed.