Thursday, October 26, 1893

Robert's eyes closed again over the same paragraph that he'd read three times. He had gone through the tear specifically to retrieve this paper, which expanded in several important ways upon his work-their work-and now he couldn't keep his eyes open long enough to get through even a single sentence without nodding off.

It was, he finally admitted to himself, that he was not getting enough sleep. At first, their shared sleeping arrangements had been practical. He needed constant care when he first came into this world and Rosalind had been there to provide it for him, waking up at all hours of the night to rinse off the blood and give him sips of broth and the infusions that she'd made for him. She even, he'd learned, transfused her own blood into him, as he had lost so much so quickly. He did remember, though, when she had discovered that music soothed him, and she sang to him until she fell asleep.

He had recovered faster after she had stumbled on music as a treatment for him. She made his favorite food (reveling, he thought, in the favorites they shared and the variables), went through tears to find his favorite music. His progress was slow, but every day he was able to do a bit more and stay on his feet a bit more.

With his recovery, though, certain feelings were starting to assert themselves, and for the last few nights he'd woken up aroused and had to go down into the living room and bring himself relief. He was not sure if Rosalind was aware of his journeys, but she was a light sleeper and was probably awoken at least a little by his getting out of bed. She gave no sign, though, when he came back.

He set the book down. She referred to him as brother, though it was true that there was no actual word in the language for what he really was, and brother was the easiest way to explain his presence to the citizens of Columbia. He had never been particularly interested in a relationship, preferring to focus on his work and relieve his occasional desires with women who were paid for the task.

He realized, though, that it was that he had never met such a woman, who shared his passions and interests. Egotistical, probably, but he loved her. And wanted her. His only thought when he glimpsed her for the first time through the tear was that she was the most beautiful woman that he'd ever seen. Sleeping next to her, while comforting when he was weaker, had become a trial of will that he was unprepared to face.

He had no idea, though, if she felt the same way, or would be disgusted by the very thought. He was not entirely comfortable with the idea himself, and in his hours away from her he would think that he had been able to set it aside. Then he would see her again, spend an afternoon talking with her and at the end his heart would be aching and head spinning with love.

Rosalind's voice broke through his reverie. "Brother, you seem to be falling asleep. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm all right. Is there any tea left?"

"Just cold, I'm afraid. Would you like me to make some fresh?"

"No, cold is fine. Thank you." He poured himself a cup and took a sip. The bitterness seared down to his stomach, and helped to focus him. He took up the paper again for another try.