Theobald gasped and opened his eyes. There was only the familiar ceiling of his bedchamber overhead. He was not outside, and he did not – oh, God, he did not have wings!
It had been another of those dreams, but he had never had this dream before. And this one had not frightened him as the others had. There had been no monsters. Only he. Was he the monster?
He sat up.
He hated these dreams. It was pointless to try to sleep again after one of these dreams. This one would be worse, for it was a new dream, and he would spend hours trying to puzzle out the meaning of it.
He got up and went to the fire.
The larger log had still not burned away, and the lamp by the window had not yet run out of oil. Therefore it was not yet very late. He would have hours to spend alone, anguishing over his dream, before he could speak with people again, and feel like a person himself again.
He wondered suddenly whether he should tell Sigefrith. He had not had a new dream in over a year. Perhaps this meant something.
“Theobald?” Githa called with a soft, sleepy voice.
“Go back to sleep, darling. I’m fine.”
“You can’t sleep?”
“No. Don’t allow me to disturb you.”
“You aren’t, but I missed you.”
He turned back to her and smiled. “I’m sorry, but I doubt I shall sleep any more tonight.”
“Did you have a dream?”
“A new one. Githa, I was thinking that I should go tell Sigefrith about it.”
“Today?”
“I could leave now, since I can’t sleep, and be there in the morning.”
“Oh, Theobald! But is Sigefrith even home yet?”
“I don’t know,” Theobald frowned. He had forgotten Sigefrith was away.
“It seems a long way to ride if he might not even be there, dear. Why don’t you come back to bed? Or write him a letter?”
“No,” he said firmly. “I can see that I have made up my mind. I shall go now. I shall feel better riding than I would sitting around here. And I can always talk to Cenwulf if Sigefrith is not there.”
“Be careful, Theobald, if you have made up your mind. And kiss Edris for me, and Baldwin, and – oh, everybody. But first come here and kiss me.”