Harold Finch was dreaming. He knew the moment he took his first step that he was dreaming. There was no pain in his hip, and he walked without a limp. Sometimes in his dreams his wounds were fresh and agonizing. Sometimes he was still stuck in a damned wheelchair. But not this time. This dream was pleasant.

He was in a formal garden. The sky was clear, the air comfortably warm. Birds sang all around him.

"M'sieur Harold?" A small female voice, with a heavy French accent.

He turned. A girl about ten years old regarded him seriously. She had big blue eyes, bright in the sunshine. Her blonde hair was pulled back from her face, but fell in carefully-tended curls down her back. She wore an elaborately-tailored dresses that flared stiffly over white petticoats and ended below her knees, at the top of her high laced boots.

Except for the clothes, she looked precisely like Grace's new step-daughter, Elizabeth Everett.

"Mademoiselle Adele?" Finch guessed.

The girl giggled. "I'm Laura."

"Oh, of course." Because he had overheard John and Christine promise each other that the first girl born to either of them would be named Laura in honor of John's mother, and therefore every small girl that Harold would ever dream of in the future would be named Laura – even if she was really Elizabeth Everett. Dream logic. He offered his hand, and when she took it, he bent very low to kiss her hand lightly. "I am pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Laura."

She giggled again. "My governess sent me to fetch you for tea." She stopped, her eyes wide at her own minor rudeness. "Forgive me." She dropped a small curtsey. "Miss Eyre asks if you will please join her for tea."

"I would be delighted." Harold straightened and offered his arm. The young lady placed her hand on his forearm and they walked toward the mansion.

He looked up at the gray stone tower. It was whole and unscarred; the fire hadn't happened yet.

"Why do you call yourself after birds?" Laura asked bluntly.

"I suppose because I am fond of birds."

"We saw a very big bird yesterday. There by the pond." She pointed. "It had long legs, as long as mine but thin as twigs, and it stood in the water, and every so often it would duck its beak. It had a very long beak, and very sharp, I thought. We went and looked closer. But not too close, because I was afraid."

"It must have been a heron, or a stork of some kind."

"Miss Eyre said it was eating tadpoles. And when it flew away we went and looked at the shore, and there were still tadpoles there. They are big and fat." She held up her thumb. "This big, and black all over, and with tails."

"I see."

"I wanted to catch one, but Miss Eyre said we should leave them where they are and we can visit every day when the weather is fair and watch them grow legs and turn into frogs. And I can make pictures in my sketch book of how they change every day."

Harold was charmed by the child's chatter – though he recognized that it would lose its charm rather quickly if he actually lived in this world. "That will be very interesting, I'm sure."

"Maybe," Laura agreed. "But I think the big bird will come back and eat them all up before they grow their legs."

"Well, they do sound rather delicious."

She looked up at him quizzically, trying to decide if he was joking. Then she smiled tentatively. "Here we are."

On a wide terrace at the base of the tower, Christine sat at a low wood table, set with a silver tea service. She was in black again, a severe long dress with a high collar and narrow sleeves, her hair caught in a tight bun at the base of her neck. A massively large dog sat beside her, a hunting hound of some variety.

Laura released his arm and ran to throw her arms around the dog's neck. "Pilot!' she squealed in delight. The dog bore the affection with great patience. The child straightened and looked to Christine. "Can I take him for a walk?"

"If you stay in the gardens."

The girl took hold of the dog's collar – he was taller than her waist, so she did not have to bend to reach it – and started off confidently. The dog looked back wistfully at the plate of little sandwiches on the table, then let Laura lead him away.

Christine gestured for him to join her. Harold eased into a cushioned chair next to his hostess. "Last night I dreamed I went to Mandalay again," he quoted.

"And yet you ended up at Thornfield Hall." She reached for the silver pot and poured tea. She filled her cup first, and Finch picked up the distinct scent of bergamot. Lady Gray was her favorite. But when she poured from the same pot into his cup, the tea as much paler and smelled of Sencha green. He raised an eyebrow. "It's your dream," Christine told him. "Of course it's your tea." She dropped in a single sugar cube.

"Of course." He picked up the cup and sipped. It was perfect. Of course. "I suppose it's got to do with the Machine. It created an identity for itself. Ernest Thornhill. I imagine I've conflated them."

"Maybe," she agreed. "But it's more likely the fires."

Harold looked up at the tower again. It was damaged now, part of it broken away, the stones black with soot. Yet it stood calmly against the brilliant blue sky.

There were two fires in the book, he remembered. The second fire destroyed a whole wing of the mansion, but the first was confined to Rochester's bedroom due to Jane's quick action. "I knew you would do me good in some way, at some time," he quoted softly. "I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their expression and smile did not – did not strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing. People talk of natural sympathies: I have heard of good genii: – there are grains of truth in the wildest fable."

Christine smiled over her tea cup. "Someone's been brushing up."

"I miss you," he admitted simply.

"I miss you," she returned.

"Will you come home soon?"

She looked up at the ruined top of the tower. The fire. She was right, it all came back to the fire. "It hurts," she said quietly.

She had said the same thing to him years and years ago, in the same quiet, broken voice. "I know," he answered. He desperately wished he could say something more. Something that would ease her pain. Something that would convince her that she was not alone. Something – anything. Anything. "I know," he repeated.

The fine china tea cup trembled in her hand, and Christine put it down carefully. "If I do come home," she asked, "are you ready for me to know?"

"To know what?"

Her eyes met his. "Everything," she answered simply.

Harold sat straight up in bed. Pain shot up his spine and into the base of his brain. For a moment he could only see orange, and then yellow and blue, the colors of flame. He panted deliberately. In a moment the pain diminished. A bit.

He raised his hands to cover the old scars, willing their heat to ease the morning ache. When he could bear it, he turned his head slightly to the left and then to the right. Looked up, then down. Slowly, slowly, his pain faded and his mobility, such as it was, returned.

He glanced at his cell phone. It was not quite five in the morning. He'd slept for nearly six hours.

There were, blessedly, no new notifications. Yet.

Finch carefully put his feet on the floor. He knew from experience that there was no point in trying to get back to sleep. He might as well take advantage of the certainly-temporary lull to take care of personal hygiene and then, if it held, to catch up on some of his neglected identities.

He tried very hard not to think about the dream.

It had been ninety-five the day before, and only dropped to eighty overnight. By eight the next morning the thermometer was headed up again.

Carter and Fusco looked at the body on the floor. She had been twenty-something, and was wearing a short skirt and a gauzy top over a colored bra. She wore way too much blue eye shadow. It was impossible to tell if she'd been a prostitute or just a party girl.

The side of her head had been bashed in with a metal baseball bat. The bat was on the floor beside her.

"Prints?" Fusco asked.

"Lots of them," the lab tech said. He gestured to the white powder on the handle of the bat.

"Sexual assault?" Carter mused.

"Nothing obvious."

"Time of death?"

"Ehhh. Hard to tell for sure, with the heat. Call it two to five a.m."

"How about the canvas?"

"Neighbors on the right didn't hear anything. Neighbor on the left isn't home."

"Upstairs? Downstairs?"

"Haven't got to them yet."

Fusco looked at the door frame. "Lock's not broke. Looks like she let him in."

There was a tiny purse on the table beside the door. Carter put on her gloves and opened it. "ID, thirty-two bucks, credit card. Not a robbery."

Fusco leaned over the body. "Club stamp," he said, pointing to the back of her hand.

"They won't be open yet," Carter sighed. She looked around the apartment, but there was nothing much to see. In the window, a portable air conditioner fought against the hot humid air outside and failed utterly. "Let's go talk to the neighbors."

The downstairs neighbors were gone, probably already left for work.

The upstairs neighbor answered their knock. His t-shirt had big wet stains under both arms; his A/C wasn't cutting it either.

They flashed their badges. "I'm Detective Carter, Homicide. I wanted to ask you about your neighbor downstairs …"

"I just got to sleep," the man said.

"Pardon?"

"Last night. I just got to sleep. Finally. It was so damn hot. I just laid there, soaking in my own sweat. I just got to sleep. And she came in and turned on her damn hip-hop music full blast. Stupid bitch."

Carter looked at her partner uneasily. "So," Fusco asked, "you went downstairs and asked her to turn it off?"

"She said she couldn't hear it over her air conditioner if she turned it down."

"So you picked up the bat?" Carter guessed.

"I just got to sleep," the man repeated. "It was so damn hot."

He let them cuff him without complaint. On the way out to the squad car, he said, "Your jail. It got central air?"

"Yeah," Carter told him. "It's got air."

"Okay."

"Okay."

John Reese slept for ten hours. He woke and checked his phone. There were no messages. He used the bathroom, then went back to bed and slept four more hours.

There were still no messages when he woke up the second time.

He called Finch. "Nothing?" he asked, without greeting.

"Nothing for us," Finch answered.

"Good. Call me if you need me."

He showered and shaved. Then he headed out for a jog. But the minute he hit the hot, humid outside air he changed his mind. He went back inside and checked the class schedule, then grabbed his car keys and went to a hot yoga session instead.

Reese was genuinely surprised when he got through the entire class without interruption. Pushing his luck, he went to a diner and ordered breakfast. Then he went home, showered again, and put on his suit.

The minute he left his apartment, he shrugged out of his jacket.

The library was dim and quiet, and even the thick stone walls could not keep out the sweltering heat. Reese tapped his earpiece. "Finch?"

"Mr. Reese?"

"Where are you?"

"At home," Finch answered. "Why?"

"Thought you'd be at the library." Reese moved to the back room and checked that there was food for the cat. There was, of course. No sign of Smokey herself; she was likely down on the ground floor on a cool bit of tile. No sign of Bear, either, though his water dish was full.

"It's much too hot there," Finch answered. "We have no new Number. You should be resting."

"Huh."

"I'll call you if anything comes up," Harold assured him.

"Bear's with you?"

"Yes."

"Maybe I should stop over and take him for a walk."

Finch snorted at John's transparent attempt to find out where he actually lived. "I took him out earlier. After half a block, he had no interest in going any further."

Reese grinned. "Let me know if you change your mind."

"Good day, Mr. Reese." The link went dead.

Root guessed that it was hot outside by the pitch of the air handlers. She walked to the wall beneath the window and touched the concrete. It was definitely warmer than usual. Her guards seemed a little lethargic, and her morning milk had not been as cold as usual.

She'd already done her exercises. It was at least an hour until lunch. She paced in a slow circle around her cell until she began to feel dizzy. Then she turned and paced the other way.

One fingernail felt rough at its tip. She had trimmed her nails the day before, under the watchful eyes on one of her keepers. Of course he took the trimmer back the minute she was finished. This nail was just a little uneven. She paused and bit it, then spit the tiny bit on the floor.

She examined her nails, then bit another one, and then another.

She paced a few more circles.

She examined her other hand, and bit two more nails.

More circles. Circles the other direction.

Root sat down on her bunk, took off her socks, and examined her toenails.

The nail on the middle toe of her right foot was too long and slightly jagged. She tried to pick the loose bit off, but it would not come. She considered, then bent down and bit it, too.

By the time her lunch came, Root was sore from bending in half to bite her toenails, but she was satisfied with the results.

Before they got the paperwork done on the first murder, Carter and Fusco got called out to a second case.

This time both potential victims were still alive. Both were on their way to the hospital, one in critical condition. Their vehicles were both double-parked in the street next to a single empty parking space. The front bumper of one had clearly come in contact with the back of the other, though neither car was badly damaged.

The minor wreck had traffic backed up for ten blocks. There was an unusual amount of horn-blowing and cursing from the waiting cars, even for New York.

"Talk to me," Fusco said to the uniform on the scene.

The cop gestured to the back car. "This guy was waiting for the spot." He gestured to the front one. "This guy tried to jump it. He rammed him. This guy got out and hit the other guy with a tire iron. So he backed up and rammed him with the car. Broke his leg."

Carter wiped her forehead. "Why'd you call in Homicide Task Force?"

"I just called for a detective. The one that got hit with the iron might not make it."

The driver of a car behind them, passing in the single open lane, leaned on his horn and screamed, "Get that pile of shit out of the way!"

"Hey!" Fusco shouted back. "Watch your mouth!"

The driver flipped him off and sped off.

"It's gonna be one of those days," Carter groaned. She pulled out her notebook.

Reese sat in his car with the A/C blasting and tried to decide what to do. The Machine had had him and Harold jumping for so long that he'd forgotten what to do with downtime.

He'd covered the basics: Sleep, eat, hygiene. He supposed that for Finch would also include system maintenance on that list. He should include weapons maintenance to his, but he had enough overstock that he could swap out used weapons until he had time to clean them. It could wait.

On the secondary needs list, he'd gotten in a workout. He hadn't been in his apartment enough to get it dirty. He should turn the Roomba loose to sweep, maybe dust. He'd dropped off his laundry; he needed to pick it up. And he should get some groceries. But aside from that, his day was free.

Movie, he mused idly. Maybe later.

Zoe Morgan? Too hot to even think about it. Although there was air conditioning to be found …

He pulled out his cell phone and called Carter.

"What?" she snapped in greeting.

Reese blinked. "Just calling to see how your day was going, Detective."

"It's a hundred degrees out here," she snarled. "How do you think my day is going?"

"Not well, apparently."

"What do you want, John?"

"I was going to ask if you wanted to grab some lunch. My treat."

Carter laughed sharply. "Lunch, right. Like that's going to happen today. Just tell me what you need so I can get back to my bodies."

Reese frowned. "I really don't need anything, Joss. I was just checking in."

"You don't need anything."

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Good. Call me when you do." Her phone clicked dead.

Reese looked at the silent device in his hand. Well, he supposed that just since the Machine had quieted down, it didn't mean the whole city had. Carter was short-tempered, but she didn't seem to be mad specifically at him. She would have let him know, specifically.

The very best thing about Joss Carter was that she always made sure he knew where he stood with her.

He put his phone away and started the car.

The man who called himself Black scowled when his phone rang. He was holding an oversized cheeseburger with both hands and for once they'd gotten it right; the inside was deep pink, rare and barely warm. In this overly air-conditioned room it would go cold in a few minutes. He shrugged and ignored the phone.

Less than two minutes later it rang again.

The dark man growled under his breath, but he put his sandwich down, wiped his hands carefully, and pulled out his phone. "Yes?"

"We followed that guy," Gusev said without greeting. "He led us to a girl. But it's not the right one."

"How would you know?"

"You said a grown woman. This is a girl. Take a look."

Black's mouth grew tight. He fumbled with his phone until he managed to find the picture the mobster sent. The figure was very small, photographed from a distance in what looked like a park. The man poked around again until he managed to zoom in on the woman.

The teenager looked familiar, somehow, but she was definitely not the woman he wanted to kill.

"Follow her," he ordered. "See where she goes."

Gusev huffed. "Excuse me?"

"You are capable of tailing a teenage girl, aren't you?"

"I don't think you got this right in your head, buddy. I don't take orders from you."

"No," Black answered, "you take orders from your people in Moscow. And they told you to cooperate with me, did they not?"

There was a long pause. Black poked at his cheeseburger with his fingertip. It was already too cold to be palatable.

"Yeah," the man finally answered. "Fine. But these file you promised? She better have them, and they better be as good as you say. Otherwise you're gonna be in a world of hurt, brother."

Black snarled to himself. "Find out where the girl lives," he said. "If Kostmayer led you to her, she'll lead you where we want to go."

"She better."

"But if your people can't keep up with her …"

The phone went dead.

Black pushed his plate away.