It wasn't<em>just</em>a dream, then, Aurora mused as her maidens brushed out and braided that luxurious hair of silver and gold, fastening it in place with shell and bone combs and pins.  There were two possibilities, she concluded as her gown, the split legged riding damask of forest green.  She was going mad.  That was the first.  Or. . .<br/><br/>. . .or it was real.  That Balthazar the Black, disgraced patriarch of her line, lived still in some blasphemous fashion within the bloodstone pendant, that he spoke to her and pulled her into his realm.  That she. . .and he. . .and she'd. . .she blushed to recall it.  And that he spoke to her now, she shared his thoughts like they were drinking from the same cup.  And she blushed all the fiercer at what he proposed to do to her maids.<br/><br/>But then, her maids finished, and Aurora left her tent, to share breakfast with the Old Wolf before they broke camp.