A year to the day later, I fall asleep and wake up in the majestic dark library, the only one I ever dream. Ptolemy is nodding over a book when I round a corner and scare him out of his skin.
Jesus, he says, you took your time didn't you.
I apologize but I can't stop laughing at him. He's got half a pencil in his beard.
I peer at him and say, holy shit Ptol, what did you do to your suit? Has it not been cleaned once this whole time?
He's embarrassed. He tries to straighten his tie but that doesn't help much, the whole ensemble is filthy and crumpled. He stands up very slowly, totters, and catches his balance on the table.
You got old, I see. Lazy.
I had things to think about. I was busy. Worrying about you, you know.
I know you were. We'll get it sorted out tomorrow, I don't like you all elderly and frail. Let's get you a clean suit, yes?
I let him lean on me and we make our slow way to his quarters. He still smells of rosemary. I'm as charmed as ever; it's as if no time has passed at all.
