Wilson fell asleep and – as he did every night – dreamed. New Edgewood was... faded. Still full of magic and wonderment, but without the fever-bright burn it once had. Windowpanes and stones alike were cracked and slipping. The sky was a murky gray-green, lousy with the smoke of a thousand trundling thought-barges.
The Dreamcar hovered where he'd left it. Ropson sat within, looking more doglike than ever.
"How much longer can we keep at it?" Wilson asked, dropping into the pilot's seat.
"How long can Dreamland last without us?" Ropson returned.
They sat for a time, alone with their unspoken answers.
Tools of the Trade: The Perpetua Pencil
14 hours ago