Dylan had brought Hawthorne back to the apartment when Maelor had told them the building was secure, but Hawthorne had still been mulling over what she might know that had caused Jackson Hamilton to pursue her. Dylan had tried to be helpful, but he had absolutely no ideas to give her, merely acting as her notetaker in writing ideas down as she thought of them. But it seemed hopeless to him. If she didn’t know what she knew, how could she figure it out? It was all impossibly circular and there was no guarantee she even did know anything. The trouble might have been brought about her having seen the wolf. Which was something else he wrote down. Perhaps they could ask Cadfael how that search was progressing as well. Waking up tangled around Hawthorne’s body was the best thing ever. Maelor was sprawled on his back, one leg hanging off the edge of the bed. Dylan himself was on his side tucked against Hawthorne, and she was curled into a ball, her knees up near her chest and her chin resting on a hand.
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