The heavy revolver was in Cuthbert’s hand, hammer cocked even before he consciously registered that he was awake. If he’d been Roland, the intruder would already have a bullet hole smoking between his eyes, but as it was, he was not Roland with his freakishly good reflexes; all the better for Sheemie who was sitting on the edge of the bed, dark eyes huge and crossed as he tried to stare at the mouth of the gun pointed at his face.

“I cry your pardon, Mister Arthur Heath,” he whispered, “’twas not my intention to startle you, indeed it was notty-not.”

Cuthbert stared at him a little longer, squinting in the darkness of his room, trying to discern whether this was real or whether he had finally had snapped – as if Rhea, the old hag witch from the Cöos had managed to get him after all, and wouldn’t that have been a fine joke? Yes, it would have. A mighty fine one at that.

“Sheemie? What… did something happen?” He was struggling to scramble out of the blanket that had managed to tie itself around his legs and he would have fallen and maybe broken his neck – which also would have been hilarious, yes, yes it would have – if not for Sheemie thrusting his hands out and clasping Cuthbert’s shoulders, urging him to sit back and relax.

“No, Mister Arthur Heath. Nothing happened. ‘Tis only old Sheemie. Nothing more.”

Cuthbert sank back against the pillows and rubbed his eyes. He was debating reaching for the gas lamp and fumbling a spark into the glass, but he didn’t have the energy for it, after all. His limbs already started sinking back into sleep and he hadn’t even put his revolver away. He blinked at it with cow eyes then looked back up at Sheemie perched carefully on the corner of his bed and looking at him with a little smile on his mouth and an uncharacteristic strain around his eyes.

It was enough to distract Cuthbert from the fact that Sheemie had been addressing him with his old alias again. Since Sheemie had managed to come to Gilead a scant week before (Cuthbert’s mind was still boggling at that; at the sheer bravery and determination that must have pumped through the silly bar-boy), he’d not been able to break him off the habit.

“What are you doing here, Sheemie?”

“I know I am a bother, Mister Arthur Heath a bother and a silly boy, and for that I’m terribly sorry, that I am. Terribly, terribly sorry. It was just that…” he trailed off and looked at his knees.

Cuthbert stared at him a little longer. “Did you have a nightmare?” he asked at least, and Sheemie let out a long, slow breath. When he looked up, he smiled just like he always did – like the sun had just come up after a long night of cold storms.

“Aye,” he sighed and Cuthbert didn’t even think before he slipped to the side and lifted the corner of his blanket in invitation.

“Well then get in here.”

“Aye, Mister Arthur Heath! Mister Arthur Heath who saved my life and who is my best friend, and who I love very much.” His knees were bony and he tended to cling but Cuthbert would never have it any other way.