"Bad dreams?" Elizabeth sighed when Anne nodded, and reached up to cup her cheek a moment. "Which ones?"
"The Black Prince and the Ogre." A snort escaped her. "I must drive all of you nuts sometimes, how I put everything into faerie-tale terms."
"It's how you cope."
"Shouldn't I be healed enough by now that I don't need to cope?"
"Is that what bothers you, more than the dreams?"
"Maybe." Anne shrugged and picked up the drizzled biscotti. She put it across the mug and studied her fingertips where a little chocolate had smeared off. "I really need to know about the Black Prince. Maybe you can tell me, so I don't have to bother Uncle Harrison?"
"Tell you what?" Elizabeth didn't react in any way Anne could interpret -- didn't look away, didn't make herself busy fussing with selecting a cookie or swirling the teapot to test the darkness of the steeping tea. She just sat still, looking relaxed, a little rumpled, waiting. "What did he do differently in the dream?"
"Nothing. I just -- why did he bring me here, to you, when he rescued me the second time? Why was he watching me, so he knew I was in trouble and nobody wanted to help?" A sob caught in her throat, startling her. "How come both times I really needed help, it was like people were so willing to blame me, and not what happened to me?"