He felt oddly inverted. During his time at the Havens, he had come to fear the descent into the abyss of sleep. Now it was a refuge from what seemed like years of torture at Leicester's hands. But hands plucked at him and voices nagged at him relentlessly. “Joseph.” He gave up, opened his eyes, and looked into Martin Hall's worried face. “What do you want?” he meant to say, but it emerged as a painful croak. He'd been screaming, as if in a nightmare. But it wasn't a dream. It was real. The thought amused him, and he laughed. Unsuccessfully. More of a wheeze. “Come on, Joseph,” Martin said. “You have to eat something. You've been sleeping for three days.” He picked up a sweet roll and waved it enticingly under Seph's nose. The mingled scents of yeast and sugar turned his stomach. “Go away, Martin. I mean it.” Seph tried to organize his face into a scowl, but his body wouldn't obey his commands.
