Sleep seems to be happening a lot lately. Despite promising Aoibheann I would be back later, I managed to sleep through what would have been my shift and, come to that, most of the day. Or at least, would have been my shift if we actually had shifts. There were dreams a-plenty, but like most of my dreams, fleeting and insubstantial. The only bit I can remember is that I was living in an attic room, sheltering from wild weather. Strangely, the room looked like the one in the painting Death of Chatterton. That much makes sense, I suppose, since I had written of said painting recently in Edmund’s story. Whatever the reasons were for me being there, my circumstances were reduced so that I had to share the bed in the room with my sister to keep warm. This I found most odd, since I don’t have a sister in real life. I suppose it is possible that Mother could have had a daughter before I was born that either died in infancy or was adopted out of the family. But surely she would have mentioned that. Mother and I always shared everything, even such things as a mother and son might not normally share. The person in my dream was definitely my sister although she did seem to have ears more pointed than mine, more like some of the fae I have known. I suppose the dream could have been something to do with the ambiguity of my relationship with Lalla, but the woman was not her; she did not resemble Lalla in any way and anyway, Lalla existed in my dream, separate from the woman in the attic room. Lalla was not around when I awoke. I have not seen her all day. Maybe she has gone down to the temple again to be rid of Adam.
I popped across to the tavern to do the morning stock-take. There was a note from Aoibheann, thanking me for the book and telling me that the cat was Marida. So, whatever type of being Marida and Seven are, they apparently shift into cat shape. This does, of course, mean that I spent part of the previous night rambling about the contents of my book at a 12-year old child. Fortunately, I don’t think I mentioned anything too awkward. At least I didn’t speculate on the nature of Josh and Hargreaves’ relationship or something like that. Marida was in the tavern when I came down from the kitchen. She did not look well; for all that she protested she was fine. She certainly seemed to be hanging on to the bar for balance. I gave her some chicken soup and some bread and told her she should really go and see Anna, and maybe take to one of the beds in the infirmary. She still insisted that she would be fine and, after the soup, curled up to go to sleep in the bar. I made sure she was comfortable and left her to it. Maybe sleep is all she needs, poor child.