Another night in the capital passed swiftly like any other day. Faustina wasn't able to sleep properly because of her never-ending train of thought. She wasn't sure how it came to that, but she was certain the thoughts kept on coming one after another. The whole night the festivities were interminable. The sounds of pipes, the sound of laughter, clinking beers, and dancers and cheers. Orwell didn't cast a magic to null the noises for precautionary measures—which kept Faustina wide awake.
Anxiously thinking about Orwell's words.
Her master may be alive.
She couldn't put a stop to her questions, but she was able to drift off to sleep, even though she forgot how. It was a vividly blurry dream with soft music she distantly heard before. It was lovely as well as warm. Something she might have heard in her sleep—like a lullaby.
