A/N: I find that people either love Lost and Delirious, or hate it. It's one of those. I lurve it with all of what's left of my soul. But then, I'm odd.

The pottery is To Althea, From Prison, by Richard Lovelace. There is absolutely nothing wrong with Shakespeare, but I just thought there's other English poets who deserve a little exposure. Paulie, being a poetry hound, would be into it.

Addendum: Sorry it took so long to post this update. I've spent most of this week fighting a whole pile of Trojans that snuck onto my computer. Not sure who won.

The top of the world. That's the name Paulie settles on for her new home. Not too original, she has to admit. But it fits.

The place suits her, to a point. For one thing, it's as isolated as any spot on the campus.

She can see how Tori might have found it a bit lonely. As for Paulie, sometimes, when she's looking out the window, she feels like she's floating free, far above it all. It's almost enough to make her forget herself, her situation. Almost.

Still, other times she feels confined, spastic, unable to stand it. The attic room presses in on her, and Tori's constant presence becomes unbearable.

Early on, the girl tried to feel Paulie out, get her talking. Always with that same practiced charm, that false friendliness. She has learned, the hard way, to leave Paulie alone on her side of the room. They talk only when necessary now. Which is exactly what Paulie wants.

By herself, Tori is tolerable, in small doses. Only just. But factor in the gaggle of her annoying, giggly friends, and it's a different matter altogether.

There seems to be an endless succession of them. She recognizes one or two. There is Lauren, the Asian girl. Nice enough, but dense and oblivious. And Cordelia, a short little know-it-all whose phlegmy voice grates on Paulie with every word. That one is at least smarter than a bedpost, if nothing else. As for the rest, Paulie doesn't even bother to learn their names. She's not sure she could tell them apart if she had to.

Thankfully, none of them ever manage the climb up the long, winding staircase. Which still leaves Tori. Paulie tries not to spend much time in the room with her if she doesn't have to. She doesn't always succeed.

She spends her days exploring the campus. It's nice, even nicer than Whitman's, and, even with all the things she'd hated about her former school, she had loved the grounds. But Perkins is grander, somehow. More stately. Carefully laid out, and lovingly maintained.

As near as she can tell, there is only the one groundskeeper, a quiet old man with more than a tinge of Indian red in his skin. But he seems to be everywhere.

She finds the places no one else seems to go, little pockets of solitude hidden away in the alleys and corners. She catalogues them carefully. Stakes them out.

The roof of the neighboring building is protected by a chained access door. It takes only a few deft twists of a paper clip to undo the lock. It offers a nice view, especially around sunset. The dorms edge the campus, and on clear evenings she finds the whole tableau of Perkins laid out before her. It's breathtaking.

And, she marks her space. One afternoon, about three nights into their cohabitation, Tori finds her writing, carefully, on a section of the wall behind her bed, large block letters, in black magic marker. She says nothing for long moments. Paulie can feel her standing there, behind her left shoulder. She catches her reflection in the window, her face scrunched up, watching Paulie write.

"What?" she asks, finally, without looking up. Tori's teeth dig into her lower lip.

"You're… really not supposed to do stuff like that." she begins, carefully.

Paulie twists her head, looks up at her sharply.

"It's… against the rules…" Tori trails off.

"You going to report me?" asks Paulie. She almost adds 'princess', but checks herself.

"No way." Tori shakes her head, a little too quickly. "I mean, I don't care. I'm just saying. If Vaughn comes up here and sees this, she'll have a fit."

Paulie snorts.

"You really think," she says, derisively, "Vaughn could make it all the way up those stairs without having a heart attack?"

Tori shrugs.

"Any admin people ever make it up here since you've been here?" prods Paulie.

"No." admits Tori, lowering her eyes.

"Then we don't have a problem." Paulie turns back to her writing. "Do we?"

Tori leaves the question hanging, squints at the letters.

"Is that marker… permanent?" she asks.

"I sure hope so." replies Paulie, without enthusiasm.

"Ummm…" Tori considers. "So what happens if you change your mind? Decide you like something else better?"

"That's why I got this." Paulie taps the paint can sitting next to the bed with her left foot. She had spent an hour at the hardware store in town, matching the exact shade of the wall's hospital blue hue.

"Oh." Tori moves closer to the wall.

"Stone walls do not a prison make/" she reads, haltingly. "Nor iron bars a cage. Minds innocent and quiet take that for an hermitage."

"If I have freedom in my love, and in my soul am free." Paulie speaks the unwritten words without looking at the book, open to her right. "Angels alone that soar above enjoy such liberty."

"That's lovely." says Tori, with genuine appreciation. "What is it?"

"If you paid more attention in lit class, you'd know." Paulie replies, cuttingly.

Tori bites her lip again, says nothing. She watches Paulie write for another couple of seconds, then her eyes fall on the other wall, to her right. She traces Che Guevara's face stenciled over the map of South America.

"Who's that?" she asks. "He looks familiar."

"No one you'd care about." replies Paulie, dismissively.

"Then why do you have his picture up there?"

"Cause maybe I think he's cute."

Tori's face lights up.

"Really?!"

"Sure." says Paulie, deadpan. "Why not."

Tori's face freezes in mid smile. She looks at Paulie, uncertainly, for a few seconds, then quietly walks over to her side of the room.

Paulie chances a glance at her from the corner of her eye. Tori sits sideways on her bed, her head against the headboard. Her nose is buried in a garishly bright magazine, the type that offers teen girls makeup tips and hair advice. She reads with her face close to the page, sounding out the words with her lips. The afternoon light slants across the room, putting her half in shadow, accentuating her creamy complexion.

She really is beautiful, thinks Paulie. It's too bad she's so vapid.