"No," she breathed, but was unclear whether she meant she wasn't alone or that no one else might see her. Her mind was consumed by arms around her, so comforting, so wonderfully there, so present. But there was a closed door where there hadn't been one before. It was quite out of place even in the strange dream room, lacking a handle or any way to open it from this side.
But Sadie could only think of the embrace, of the vicar pressed to the shape of her, so gentle and warm and not at all lonely, nor even embarrassing despite her nudity. There was nothing sexual in the blissful warmth in her chest, nor in her silent request to stay touching like that for eternity. It was incredibly, unbelievably pleasant -- enough so that the room shifted, no longer framing her as a captive animal to be viewed by the masses.
They were in some overly comfortable room of her mind's creation. A crackling fire in a pristine fireplace; red wine glittering in two glasses; luxurious pillows piled on the rug by the fire; and that same, strange, inaccessible door sticking out like a sore thumb.
Her clothing had returned. A forgettable dress, buttoned up to her neck, sleeves past her wrists, hem down to her ankles. The dream mirrored the exquisitely calm feeling that had settled in her.
"God is dead," she murmured, no less distracted by his arms around her. It was still the vicar when she turned in his hold, only enough to properly hug the man who might only be lean but seemed as sturdy as an ox in her arms. With eyes closed, Sadie breathed him in. "If you must worship, doctor, worship me." 'Doctor,' not 'father.'