My boy has learned what that look means, and he measures the elfbark carefully to deaden me. Carry me he adds that I may sleep, and ginger to mask the elfbark’s bitterness. Then he brings me paper and quill and ink and leaves me to my writing. He knows that when morning comes, he will find me, head on my desk, sleeping amidst my scattered papers, Nighteyes sprawled at my feet. We dream of carving our dragon.
