“Fresh
Dreamers!” The dock worker shouts again, then glances at Fiona.
“What about you luv, a fresh dreamer or two for your pleasure this
evening?”
“What
use do you think I'd have for a dreamer?” Fiona asks, “I wouldn't
know what do do with it.”
The
worker leans forward, peering at her curiosity. Something clicks in
his mind, a flicker of recognition maybe, and panic fills his face.
“I'm sorry,” he gasps, “I didn't realise, wasn't paying
attention, sorry. I'll put them all back.”
“Whatever,”
Fiona says, “Do as you please. But don't be offering me things I
don't need.”
“O'
course, your ladyship,” the worker says, “Stupid of me to ask.
Fine lady like yerself, probably had more than plenty of dreams of
your own.”
“I'm
sorry,” Fiona retorts, “What do you mean by that?”
The
worker catches a frown from Strauss. “Nothing,” he declares,
“Nothing at all. I've never seen you before in my life, I'm just a
lowly sandman.”
