When I roll over, Emeric is staring at me with an expression best summarized as haunted. Bizarrely, he seems to have slept under his coat, a towel, and several unbuttoned shirts. “You,” he says blearily, “are an unparalleled devil from hell in your sleep.” “What?” Emeric rubs his eyes. “You stole all the blankets. And then you rolled up in them, like a, a crêpe, so they were stuck on your side. And then, when I tried to take one off the top, you turned over, looked me straight in the eye, and said—and I quote—‘I’ll kill you.’” “I never.” “You followed it up with ‘It’ll look like an accident.’”
