And then Colin’s arms were firm around me, his voice calm and soothing as he covered my face with gentle kisses.

“It’s all right, my love. You’re awake now,” he said.

“It’s more than a dream,” I said, tilting my head back and feeling for what I was certain was an actual wound. I took his hand and placed it on the torn skin.

“That’s no small scratch,” he said, lighting the lamp on our bedside table. “What have you done to yourself?”

I reached for the floor to collect a pillow I must have flung from the bed while I was dreaming, but instead of picking it up I gasped, my heart pounding and my eyes throbbing as I looked at something just out of my reach: a single rose with a small piece of paper wrapped around its stem. I touched the scrape on my neck and knew the instrument of the injury was a thorn. Colin, reaching from behind me, scooped up the offending flower.

“This best not be from your admirer.”

“Sebastian? Who else do you suspect would creep into my bedroom? He does have a history of doing just that.”

“Our bedroom.” He handed me the paper without looking at it. “What does it say?”

I read aloud:

5