Hatter lay rigid, unmoving on the canopied bed. It wasn't that his every move caused him to sink into the soft mattress and suffocate – which it did – but that he was used to sleeping that way from his time on Talon's Point. For an instant he considered leaving the splendor and sleeping on the floor, but he checked himself; it was bound to offend someone, and besides, even the floor was plush carpet.

But no matter how hard Hatter told himself otherwise, the unfamiliar comfort wasn't the real reason that midnight had just trailed by, enveloping the palace in the silence of sleep, but leaving him as wakeful as ever. Carefully, so as to avoid the crushing embrace of his many pillows, he turned his head to look at the door in the side of the spacious room. No, it was foolish to think... the adjoining room had always been empty, its intended occupant never making it home. And yet – he could have sworn he heard the slightest noise behind the door.

Ridiculous as it was, Hatter was afraid of what he might find in the room. He took a moment to review the irony of the situation – that he, Hatter Madigan, who balked at nothing, defeated by no known enemy, was unable to face the ghosts of his past. To his bitter resentment, his Millinery training kicked in even in his deserted bedchamber and, fighting the gaping jaws of his bed, he stood up and walked cautiously to the door. Fear was for weaklings. Hatter, the Millinery's top fighter, was above fear. He reached up and fingered the doorknob. What did he expect to find in the room beyond anyway? Only an empty bed. Hatter pushed away his misplaced apprehension and opened the door.

Soft light filtered through the thin curtains. He had expected that – the woman this room was meant for hadn't liked the dark. Hatter wasn't a man given to double takes but he came very close as his gaze swept over the bed without stopping. He didn't want to look at it, thinking its emptiness would remind him of what he had lost. But the bed wasn't empty. She was there – she was – her open eyes bright as they fixed on the intruder.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered, and her voice rang like the sweetest bell in his sharp ears.

"I couldn't sleep," he replied. She sat up, her knees drawing up to her chest, her long hair falling over her beloved face. "Is this a dream?" He took a step closer, afraid to blink in case she disappeared.

"Dreams, Hatter," she said softly, her eyes concerned, "are for those who sleep."

He offered her one of his rare smiles, disbelieving. She was right, he had not slept. As she smiled back, he tentatively approached her. She didn't send him away, instead, she moved over to make room for him on the bed.

As he gazed at her, unable and unwilling to take his eyes off her, she reached up a hand to stroke his face. He shied away from the touch, feeling his frigid self-control waver. She dropped her delicate fingers. "What is it?" she was frowning. Hatter could hardly bear to cause her even momentary pain.

"I don't understand. You can't be real." As he said it, he knew it was true; the memory of the day she left his solitary life was sharp as ever in his mind.

"If I wasn't real, I couldn't do this," she said, pressing her soft lips to his. Hatter couldn't help it; he surrendered. Every fragment of self-control gone, he let her tiny weight push him down and released himself into her tender embrace. With the sweet smell of her surrounding him, enveloping him, he let go.

Hatter awoke suddenly, his senses alert. He allowed himself to relax slightly before he opened his eyes, but he didn't need sight to confirm what every fiber of his body was screaming out to him: Weaver was gone.

He opened his eyes. He was in the room next door to his own, sunlight streaming through the flimsy net curtains. It was late, but he knew no-one would miss him. His daughter (Daughter! The word still sounded strange to him) would be adequate protection for the Queen in this time of peace.

In the solitude of her room, Hatter surrendered to the emotion pushing at his shell of stoicism and started to cry. How had he believed so easily that she was really there? What a fool he was. He had fallen asleep with Weaver in his arms, but the illusion of his lover had faded with the last shred of moonlight through the crystal windows. He sat up, rising from the unsteady haze of unconscious longings into the clear air of wakefulness.

Dreams are for those who sleep. She had said it herself. Tears welled up again in Hatter's bleary eyes.

It must have been a dream after all.