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"This storm is real, and our fear is real," said the horse. "But our love is also real and in the end, love wins"
The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse, Charlie Mackesy
~The Boy~
It was the whistle that did it. What pushed him over the edge.
Of course, he knew he’d made a mistake the moment he’d sat down. Wedged between the two sisters, impossibly close, pressed in at both sides by them. Beside Edwina, the girl he was courting, or at least trying to, he felt the gentle warmth of another human form. Reassuring. Calming even. But then there was her, on his other side. Next to her his skin crackled and burned as though she were molten lava against him. Yet still, inexplicably, he finds himself leaning in just that bit closer. Wanting to feel the heat of her just that little bit more. Wanting it to sear his skin, leave a permanent mark, a wretched scar so she would be a part of him forever.
He is jostled from his thoughts as anticipation rumbles through the crowd as the horses make their way to the starting line. It startles him back to his purpose. He is here for the diamond, not for the crushing, relentless pressure that had formed it. That pressure though, it seems, is rather difficult to ignore when it is pressed up against your thigh and jabbering on in your ear in that condescending tone which makes your blood simmer.
How is a man supposed to focus on the task at hand?
She was entirely too distracting and just so damned present. It was if she was everywhere all at once. How could one person consume his every single thought and sense, she was without doubt the most aggravating woman he had ever met.
There was nothing for it though, he must not let her distract him. Instead, he will focus on her obstinate nature. Reminding himself of her flaws will help him concentrate on the more important things, he thinks. Her stubborn refusal to listen to his good common sense, for example. Her smug insistence that she always knew best, regardless of the topic of conversation.
Though it was not enough. Not nearly enough.
Every time she flicks her chin up to show how disappointed she is in him, his chest tightens until it is almost painful. And then, there is the moment when she closes her eyes softly because she thinks nobody is watching, and she tips her face up to be warmed by the subtle English sun. The light bounces gently across the sharp angle of her cheeks and casts deep shadows where her long thick eyelashes flutter gently against her skin, and he completely loses the ability to breathe at all.
Distracting. She is distracting. Flaws, he reminds himself. Obstinate and stubborn and...what was the other one....beautiful? No, it was smug. That was it. Smug.
Then there is how she’d spoken to him. So rude, so belittling, so damned insightful and eloquent that it made him want to listen to her all day long. Why would he want to torture himself so? He is still grappling desperately at that question when the starting pistol interrupts his thoughts, and he jumps rather embarrassingly at the sudden sound.
See, distracting.
By the time he manages to control his pounding heart and actually look at the track, the race is very much underway. Far too quickly, any attempts to distract himself from her become a distant memory. As her horse begins to edge forward to take the lead, she becomes a woman possessed. Leaping into the air repeatedly, her entire being taut with her determination to best him. Did she have no decorum? Thrusting herself about so in front of the whole Ton. It is so brazen, so obscene, so damnably attractive. Good god, he can barely take his eyes off her. He, in fact, cannot take his eyes off her at all.
Unaware of his study, she continues to flail her body around wildly and she teeters dangerously close to the edge of the stands. She is oblivious to the risk, lost in her fervour, so he is forced to place a hand at the small of her back just to keep her steady. The startling warmth of her beneath his palm reassures him that she will not do herself any harm, but at the contact it is suddenly his own safety he is concerned for. He decides it’s best to keep his hand there to avoid any future risk. Just for now. Just to be safe.
As the race wears on, so too does her effect on him. Her cheeks become flushed with her passion; eyes widened in her excitement. At the sight he is most overcome. All his impure mind can conjure is flashing images of all the other ways he might bring that delightful pink flush to her cheeks. How else he may make her eyes widen with delight and pleasure. What was she doing to him, this woman was a menace.
And then there was the whistle. That god damned whistle finishes him.
He almost can’t believe his eyes as she squeezes her long fingers between her perfectly pink lips. Pushing them obscenely wide. Her red tongue darting out just slightly, wetting the tips of her fingers as they curl inside her mouth.
At the sight his breeches strain so dangerously tightly he fears he might just spend right there and then like some green boy.
He isn’t even aware of which horse crosses the line first, only realising that he has lost once he sees the delighted curl of her lips as she turns to him. Though as he melts under the intensity of her stare, her golden brown eyes fixing him to the spot, he is not entirely sure that he can consider the race a loss at all.
“I must say, I have never bested a Viscount before. Beating you feels the same as any other win yet somehow smells sweeter.” she is saying haughtily as she begins to pull on her thin blue gloves, the gauzy material taut across against her fingers. Fingers still glistening with the memory of her lips, her mouth, her tongue. He swallows heavily.
Miss Edwina is saying something then, her soft voice barely making its way to him over the roaring crowd and heady, distracting presence of her sister. The pregnant pause that follows should make him realise it is his turn to respond, that he is in polite society and should be a gentleman. But his eyes have locked with hers. Just for a moment. And as she holds his gaze, he sees it. The same fire he knows is reflecting in his. The same maddening want. It is only there a moment, before she swings her eyes back to the safety of her sister, who is now bouncing on her toes beside him eagerly. He realises Miss Edwina is still awaiting something from him, though he hasn’t a clue what it is.
He thinks he makes some sort of excuse then. Certainly, words come out of his mouth, and everyone looks at him rather strangely, so perhaps they aren’t the wisest of words, but it does not matter, he just has to get away.
Away from her. Away from what the look in her eyes promised. Or threatened. He does not know anymore. All those strongly held beliefs that drove his every step forward for the last ten grief-stricken years suddenly wavers. His whole body shakes with the realisation of it, and he cannot let anyone see. Especially not her. She would see through it all immediately.
He almost makes to his carriage. Almost.
It is the memory of her smile that makes him stop. How wide and bright and genuinely joyful it was as she had watched the horses thunder down the track. In that moment, in that memory that would be seared forever now in his mind, she was just a girl. Young. Free. Hopeful. And that’s what he had felt like too, as he watched her. He was not the tired, serious, exacting viscount burdened by his duty and his responsibility, and his grief. He was just a boy again. A boy with a whole long life ahead of him. And he could not quite let go of that feeling, not yet.
~The Mole~
It was not the first time Tom had been lured into some hair-brained scheme by Anthony Bridgerton.
There was something about the man that was impossibly difficult to say no to. Something about the way he held himself, with such a steady confidence. The there was that quirk to his smile that aways compelled you to feel as if you were part of the gang, along for the ride, even if you decidedly were not.
There was that time back he’d visited Aubrey Hall one summer whilst they were at Eton together. Anthony had convinced Tom to don one of the servants' dresses to infiltrate a secret meeting Daphne and her sisters were holding. Anthony had convinced himself they were up to no good, so he’d employed a young Tom as his mole, plopping one of Lady Bridgerton’s wigs upon his head and sending him in to spy as an unassuming maid. He did not make a convincing woman, possibly to do with the fact he’d been trying to grow a moustache that summer, and he was uncovered before he even made it passed the threshold. Being chased down the hallway but a gaggle of pre-teen girls soon became a recurring nightmare of his.
Then there was the time Anthony has begged Tom to distract the Headmaster with a fraudulent claim of a dead great-uncle so the man sat up all night mopping up Tom’s tears, all so Anthony could tup the old man’s daughter in the library.
Not that Anthony wasn’t always grateful. That was the thing about Anthony Bridgerton, he was the kind of man that once he had decided you were a friend, you were that to the end. Loyal as they come. A good man when push came to shove, but one that you just had to keep your wits about you whenever he was around.
So, it was no great surprise that after Anthony’s initial excitement at seeing Dorset freshly returned from the continent, it did not take long for Tom to find himself being embroiled in some elaborate scheme to distract a spinster sister and win Anthony a bride.
Only, this scheme revealed something most unexpected.
Anthony Bridgerton, the man always in control, always with the upper hand, always with that smug smile, totally floored by a young woman. Just not the woman he had expected.
The task was simple enough. Just escort the spinster sister for the day, make small talk, be a gentleman. And to be honest, Thomas was rather happy to do so. Even a few moments in Miss Sharma’s company revealed her to be a remarkably accomplished young woman, and the fact that she was exceptionally beautiful was really the cherry on top of the cake. Not at all what he had expected, in all very wonderful ways.
Sadly, it all went awry once the man in question arrived. Considering Tom’s mission had been to distract Miss Sharma, it become quickly apparently that in fact it was Anthony who was perpetually distracted by her.
The viscount rose to each one of her taunts with relish, needling her further whenever there was a lull in conversation, seemingly desperate for her attention however he could get it. It was so obvious even the sister, the apparent object of Bridgerton’s affection, asked if they should be separated just to keep the peace.
Then there was the way he was looking at her. Once the race started, Tom could not help but notice that Bridgerton barely watched the horses for a second. There was a look in his eye that Tom had never seen before, not in all the many years he had known him. It was the look of wanting something that you knew you could never have. A desire never to be fulfilled. It was a look that didn’t suit the viscount, not one little bit.
Tom reasoned he would need to have a little sit down with Anthony after all of this. See if he could help him see the wood through the trees, the foolish man that he was. Though he never got the chance. The race finished and after one rather cutting remark from Miss Sharma, Anthony just stood there senselessly staring at her. Even for an observer it felt a little like the world had stopped spinning for a moment, as the tension grew until it was almost unbearable.
Then the viscount was off. Some mumbled words about needing to meet with his solicitor, on a Saturday, absurdly, and off he went into the crowds, leaving Dorset with the two rather confused Sharma sisters.
Who would have thought it. The unflappable Viscount Anthony Bridgerton the ninth, cowed so easily by a charming young lady from Bombay. Well, now Dorset really had seen it all.
~The Vixen~
“How much clearer must I be?” She calls indignantly, gravel crunching loudly beneath her feet as she hurriedly crosses the courtyard. His head snaps to the side at the sound of her voice.
Kate has never seen anything so preposterous in her life. Not just the extravagantly large bow decorating that poor horse, but the amount of pride in the viscount’s stance as he holds onto the reigns, as though he has solved some great puzzle and must be applauded for it.
At the sight of her, a small smile curls at the edges of his lips, but it does not last long under her blazing scowl. How can he stand there so serenely, so unaffected, after all the animosity that had passed between them this morning at the races. She could have murdered the man when she found out his scheme with the Dorset fellow, thank goodness the viscount had already disappeared by that point or she could have been facing the gallows about now.
And the look on his face. It is enough to make her blood boil. So smug. And worse still he has no right to look quite so handsome with it. The way his deep, brown eyes dance with his mischief as they study her. It is distractingly irritating.
“I brought a gift.” he says pridefully. Honestly, who buys a horse as a gift for a girl he barely knows. The man is a complete fool. The epitome of money cannot buy wisdom.
“Take your Trojan Horse elsewhere.” She is satisfied that her voice carries enough anger and does not betray her sharp intake of breath as his eyes fully settle on her. It is what she has begun to hate most about him. How her skin crawls under his gaze. Not unpleasantly, that she could manage, but as though he has lit a fire beneath her. Like her skin is burning and smouldering beneath his eyes in its desperation to be under his touch. The memory of his palm resting against her spine hits her so forcefully her knees buckle beneath her. The light pressure, the warmth radiating through her dress as though he was touching her bare skin. Hours later, she is sure she can still feel the lingering heat of him there. Damn this man.
“I assure you, this is a very real horse. I'd not recommend trying to climb inside.” He smirks.
“Truly, this is all a game to you.”
“I'm not here to play games.” The sincerity in his eyes causes her to falter, just for a little.
“Then what was Mr. Dorset, if not some deceitful prank?”
“The business with Mr. Dorset was not so great a deceit as you imply.”
“And now you question my judgment?” she scoffs.
“Only because you questioned mine.” he snaps back, his easy countenance disappearing for a moment as his eyes narrow and cloud darkly. Taking advantage of his moment of weakness she takes a step towards him, and she watches his gaze drop in deference. As he brings his eyes back up to her in the quiet moment that follows, they are languid in their ascent. She can feel them trail each and every inch of her body and she shivers against it. Straightens her shoulders she finds a slither of resolve, she cannot let this man know how much he affects her.
“I have never met a man as brazenly presumptuous as you, my Lord. What makes you think Miss Edwina even has need for a horse? She hates to ride.”
“Miss Edwina?” His eyes crease in confusion.
“Yes. Remember her? My sister, the one you are courting.” Honestly, this man is a cretin and a fool.
“You think after your display this morning I would still be courting your sister?” He says it so incredulously that she takes a step back in surprise.
This was the outcome she wished for, was it not, to keep her safe from this troublesome and dishonest man? Yet still, the accusation stings. Her intention had been to convince her sister that he was not suitable, not the other way. Though she may find him insufferable, she cannot deny that Lord Bridgerton is a man of influence. One word from him, one report of her Kate’s prickly countenance, could have severe implication for Edwina’s eligibility. How could Kate have been so foolish. She had been so lost in her infatuation with besting this man that she may have ruined Edwina’s chances. Fear trickles through her as she realises the errors of her ways.
When she looks back up at him though, she cannot read his expression. It is not the angry scowl, nor the smug smile she has become used to, though she has seen that face before. That night of the conservatory ball, the first moment he had seen her again. Hope. Anticipation. As if he had been waiting for her as long as she had been waiting for him.
“Please, my Lord. Do not let my thorny nature cloud your view of Edwina.” She knows she must appeal to his sensibilities, though it pains her to do so. “My objection to your courtship is based purely on my need to protect my sister. I am just trying to find her a match that makes her happy. It is my duty as her older sister, surely you must understand that?”
“More than you know. You and I are not so different, Miss Sharma.” His voice has dropped down to a pitch that rumbles tempestuously through her. But more than that, it is the way he looks at her. No, not at her, through her. Right down into the very heart of her. It is not possible, she did not think, for her to feel so very understood by a man that she barely knew. Had exchanged only a handful of conversations with, and most of those were rather argumentative. And yet that is how she feels. Seen. Appreciated. Revered.
His eyes drop momentarily down to her lips and something sparks sharply in the pit of her stomach as she notices it. “I am not here about your sister. The horse is for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“A gift” he says it quietly, almost nervously, but she scoffs a laugh. She is not so easily fooled.
“Another prank? You intend to mock me.” Her expression hardens as she studies him, desperately trying to work out what deception is now afoot.
“What? No, I...” he fumbles his words as the leather reigns squeak beneath his unsteady grip, the horse pulling away from him agitatedly. “It is a gift, I thought you would like it.”
“You think you can bribe me with extravagant presents, is that it? As if you could outfox me so easily.”
“Outfox you?” His eyes darken then, a little of the smug viscount returning as his lip curls very slightly. “I doubt there is any man in England who could outfox such a vixen as you, Miss Sharma.”
There it is again, that look. Making promises he cannot keep. She has to look away, suddenly intent to study the gravel at her feet, swirling her toe into the small stones to distract her from the heat of his gaze, which does not drop from her for a moment. A silence invades the space between them, but even its emptiness something grows.
Finally, he clears his throat, breaking from his study of her to run his hand along the horse's nose, who huffs and stomps his feet in reply. Lord Bridgerton’s voice is quiet again when he speaks.
“It is just a gift…I thought…” he huffs in disappointment, echoing the horse. “You’re right, it is ostentatious and too much. I just…I know you like to ride and thought perhaps you would like a horse of your own. He is a fine animal; I could not face seeing him sent to the knacker’s yard.” There is such a softness in his tone, an uncertainty. The glossy veneer of the Viscount scrubbed away to reveal a vulnerable young boy.
Averting her eyes from the disarming sight before her, for the first time, Kate properly looks at the horse. “He is a beauty indeed.” At her words, Anthony’s eye search for hers again. Indeed, he is a fine beast, in fact the most beautiful she has seen. A golden chestnut coat, powerful muscles and lean legs promising speed and agility. For a moment, Kate imagines how it may feel to ride such an impressive animal and without realising it she is smiling. She has moved forward to run an appreciative hand through the horse’s coat, her fingers leaving a darkened trail as she moves her hands along the length of his back. The viscount is watching each movement carefully, a warped fascination etched across his face. They are close now, and with one more step forward her arm brushes against his, the soft velvet of his jacket gentle against her bare skin. She feels, as much as hears, his sharp intake of breath.
“Yes, beautiful.” his whisper creeps across her skin like a soft breeze. She feels his eyes dancing across her face but cannot turn to look at him, unsure how she would survive it with him so close. Where she cannot hide. Where he would see all of her, all of what she is hiding from him.
Instead, she moves to stand in front of the animal before her, forcing Lord Bridgerton to step back. He holds the reigns out to her, his fingertips brushing against hers as he releases the leather into the palm.
To allow herself a moment to recover her breath Kate runs her fingers down the length of the horse’s nose, giving him a soft tickle beneath the chin. The horse watches her back, his big brown eyes filled with compassion. Kate cannot explain it, but it feels like a moment of understanding passes between them. A kinship forming between two souls that have faced down an unthinkable fate, only to have a new path forged from the most unexpected of places.
“I rather hoped that we could ride together again.” The viscount says softly, just beyond her shoulder, still watching her avidly. “That is if you would allow it. I have asked my sister Daphne if she would chaperone us.”
“Chaperone?”
“Yes, I know in the past I was a little less decorous, but going forward I rather thought it best if we have a chaperone.” he speaks assuredly now, a little of the older brother’s practicality coming out, but Kate is still trying to comprehend his words.
“Going forward?”
“Yes, if I am to court you, I should think we must be a little more careful.”
“Court me?” In her surprise she spins around sharply to look directly at him. His brow is knitted, a deep crease forms as he looks at her in some confusion, as though she is the one making no sense.
“Yes, court you.” he reaffirms. Their eyes are locked together now, and she is desperate to look away so she can gather herself but somehow cannot, she is rooted to the spot beneath his gaze. “You do not wish me to court you?”
“No, it’s not that.” She snaps back quickly in panic. Her mind whirrs wildly, trying to keep up with this change of course. He watches her a while longer, carefully, greedily, and as each second passes his frown softens and a little smile begins at the corner of his mouth.
“So, you do wish for me to court you.” She feels it then, her own lips quirking into a smile, and the moment he sees it his face breaks into a grin. The first genuine smile she has seen on him since their first ride in the park and it is totally irresistible. All teeth and dimples and boyish charm.
“I…I suppose. I...I do not know.” Now she is the unsure one.
“Well perhaps you could have a think about it and let me know.” He has grown a little more serious, stepping ever so slightly closer to her, his eyes never dropping from hers and she feels as if the air is being sucked from her lungs. “I would very much like to court you, Miss Sharma. I find you most intriguing indeed.”
“Intriguing?” Her eyebrows shoot up and he smiles brightly again.
“Yes, intriguing. Vexing, obstinate, wilful.” He pauses as he takes another step closer to her. Barely a breath between them now. “Intelligent. Wise. Brave. Beautiful.” She looks up at him at those last few words. And she blooms. It is the only way she can think to describe it. As if until that moment she had been a tiny seed in the dark, but the way he is looking at her, those endlessly dark eyes studying each and every inch of her being, and seeing her, really seeing her and still wanting more, she comes alive. The verve of her soul unfurling like eager tendrils of promise, weaving themselves intricately through every part of her.
“Oh.” It is the only sound she is capable of making at that moment. Every other logical thought smothered by the revelation of him. “And my sister?”
“Miss Edwina sparkles like the star you have made her, but you,” he lifts a hand to rest softly beneath her chin, his thumb delicately tracing circles on her cheek, “you are the whole night’s sky and the daybreak that follows, Miss Sharma. You give me hope for a future that I did not believe possible.” He leans forwards, a little tentative at first but then places an achingly soft kiss upon her lips. It is barely even a touch and yet she lights up like a thousand candles. When he pulls back, his eyes flicker towards the windows where a curtain twitches slightly. He bites the corner of his lip, eyes lingering once more at her mouth and the fire in her belly threatens to consume her whole.
“Yes.” she whispers, breathless but not even slightly embarrassed by it now. “I have thought about it and yes, you may court me, Lord Bridgerton.”
“That is very good news indeed, Miss Sharma.” And when he laughs, a light little chuckle that makes his eyes shine, she can’t help but laugh along with him.
~The Horse~
Life. It’s a funny old thing. Don’t you think?
One day you’re in your prime, peak physical condition, crossing that line first each and every time, the envy of your peers and the pride of the paddock.
Then, before you know it, it’s all over.
It’s a tough game this racing, it only takes one misstep, one fall too hard, one jump too high, and you’re done for. And that’s what Nectar is finding out right now. A morning which started with such promise ends with him back in his stable, a line of men shaking their heads at him, everyone’s eyes filled with pity and disappointment. His jockey is nowhere to be seen, no doubt already negotiating for some young gun coming through the ranks behind him.
The Knacker’s Yard. Every horse’s worst nightmare. He realises that it’s his destiny the moment he spots a morose looking fellow approaching him with heavy feet, his face drawn and dirtied. His blackened apron and long, stiff leather gloves marking him out from the other groomsmen who lightly bustle around the paddock. The moment the man grabs his reigns carelessly he knows that it’s all over. The man’s eyes meet his and there is nothing behind the watery grey irises but the chilling cold and the promise of an end.
Sometimes, though, fate intervenes.
Just as Nectar is being lead from the stables there’s a kerfuffle at the entrance. Another man dressed impeccably and with a serious look on his face is striding purposefully in his direction. There is a quick exchange between the two men and a firm handshake is shared, before this new gentleman stares rather intensely into Nectar’s eyes. They just stand there, the two of them, nose to nose, neither quite sure what to make of the other. Then, the gentleman seems to straighten his shoulders as though he’s made up his mind on something and then he’s gone, as quickly as he arrived.
Cue an hour later and Nectar is back with the serious gentleman, though now he’s dressed in some stupidly large red bow, having spent the last hour being polished and braided to within an inch of his life. As he waits, Nectar tries to work out what this man has in store for him, assuming he is about to face the only thing worse than the knacker’s yard, finding out he’s being gifted as the shiny new plaything for some precocious child. Though, once again, the man surprises him.
Because just a few moments later, Nectar meets his person.
And it is love at first sight.
It is not often something a knackered old racehorse has the blessing to have, a person. Usually, you are passed from jockey to jockey, only ever loved when you’re winning and even then, only when you’re on the track. Of course, Nectar has heard tales about having his own person, having someone you spend the days with, who takes you out on adventures and excursions. Someone to take care of you, to love you, to feed you apples and peppermints. He just never expected that it might happen for him.
But then there she was. Gentle, soft, kind. Her hands running reverently across his coat with such affection that he swears there and then he’ll do anything to protect her. When she scratches beneath his chin, Nectar’s absolute favourite, he feels he may have in fact gone straight to heaven.
As proof of just how wonderful his person is, even the serious man seems to transform at her presence. After an initial tense conversation soon he is smiling from ear to ear. Nectar sees him often over the next weeks, though only ever on slow meanders along the river or through the park. Those are pleasant enough, though personally he prefers it when his person takes him out at the earliest hours of the day. She rides hard and fast, and Nectar has never known a joy like it to be out in the fresh air of the morning, just him and his person together with the wind in their hair and the reassuring pounding of the ground beneath their feet. They become as one when they ride and for the first time in his life, Nectar feels whole.
Just when he thought life could not get any better, his person surprises him again a few months later. She takes him out of the suffocating air and hard cobbles of the city to run wild and free amongst the rolling hills of the garden of England. And what a garden it is. Endless fields, deep woods, raging rivers and hours of exploring with his person and the serious gentleman. Though he is very rarely serious anymore. In fact, the sound of their laughter accompanies them on their every ride together.
Two summers have passed now, and still every day she takes him out. Today is one of those late summer evenings, when you know autumn is rustling though the trees but has not quite yet taken her golden brush to the leaves. The gentleman and Jack are with them, as they nearly always are these days. Not that Nectar minds, it seems to make his person happy and that is all he ever really wants, to see his person smile. The four of them are meandering slowly along the edges of the river as the sun begins to dip below the horizon in the distance. They’re laughing again, always laughing.
It’s the slight lilt in her voice that makes Nectar tense. He knows what’s coming. The sharp replying tone from the gentleman confirm it. The laughing stops as they negotiate their terms. His person doesn’t need to give him a squeeze of her heels as he’s already poised, ready. It’s how they always end these evenings, the four of them cantering across the fields back to the stables and it’s such a thrill. Adrenaline screams through his veins, but unlike the crushing pressure of his old races this one just fills his heart with enough joy it feels fit to burst.
He and his person nearly always get back first, and the gentleman pretends to be annoyed which is strange because Jack usually has a little more puff left in him. Perhaps the man just likes to see his person smile and Nectar can understand that. It is quite a beautiful thing her smile.
As Nectar settles into the warmth of the stables that night, Jack snoring lightly beside him, he allows himself to drift off imaging the adventures they’ll have tomorrow. Maybe a walk into the village, a canter up the big hill or another race across the fields. These days he’s never sure of what his next day will hold, and it means he sleeps soundly, and dreamlessly. Why dream when your days are dreams themselves?