"It itches," she tells him plainly, trying to ignore the fact that she was now on a three hundred year-old couch. It was almost gross if you thought about it too much. So she won't.

"I've seen your drawings, Cesare," she says, letting herself smile a little. "They're stunning." She looks at his hands and the way they trace across the page.

"Yes," she says, because dream logic insists on it. "But maybe I'll let you keep it."