Lucy stumbled into the bedroom, tired from her exertions at the Inn, only to find that her bed was occupied. She counted from the wall - yes, the bony elf girl was indeed planted on hers. When a feline possessed only the spot they slept upon, they were fairly certain about it.

She was struck speechless, unsure of propriety. She recognized the other female from the market, and her dress marked her as property of the same Lord - but were they allowed to talk? She had not truly spoken to anyone but Lord Travanix since her abduction.

Finally, she sat on the bed beside the elf girl. She said softly, "This is my bed." She tried not to sound scared, but anything new could threaten the precarious contentment she had managed. She had a new theory about why Travanix had not tortured her yet: he knew she was creative and clever, and had correctly assumed that her imagination was at least as bad as the actual torments. (It was a reasonable theory, in that it didn't assume that compassion was in any way a factor.)

When the elf didn't move, Lucy was sure that this was some new trap, a new riddle she was too tired to figure out. "What do you want with me?" she asked wretchedly. "I... I'm doing my best to understand...." Her exhaustion, and the fear she had no way to release, vented all at once. Helpless, she buried her head in her hands and wept in front of the female stranger. Wept as she hadn't since the night she was stolen from the street, a week before.

She felt that whatever the challenge was, embodied in this stranger in her space, she had failed. As she was her own worst tormentor, she was always her own harshest critic.

Lucy went to bed, still puzzled but less agitated. She did not understand the Mouse, or her warning. But she had sensed the other's sympathy, had understood that the Mouse was trying to care.

She was not alone. As she slipped into sleep, she felt comforted. Having not been cuddled for more than a week, a hand through her hair was the sweetest luxury. She did not purr herself to sleep, but her rest was less troubled.

She dreamed that she was looking at herself in a mirror - a mirror in the dressing room of both the Chainned Inn and the Alley Cat Club. As she watched her reflection, she picked up a small knife from the dressing table. Slowly, backwards from the mirror's point of view, she carved the four letters of her name onto her flat stomach. Blood ran languidly down from the bold, scrolling capitals. She felt no pain.

She said to her reflection, "These scars are mine. This is me." It was a strangely satisfying dream.