She did not, in fact, dream; she couldn't fall deep asleep enough to let her mind get the distance from her body that dreams, even visions of the archdemon and impending doom and destruction, required. She lay, fitful, barely asleep, on the stone for several minutes before stirring, and glancing over at Conlan. "I'm sorry, I was just saying something."
Her hand went to her forehead; when had a rag gotten there? She hadn't put it there, had she...? She furrowed her brow, and prodded at the rag gently, feeling cold water seeping, slowly and gently, onto her brow. Either she or this man—who was he, anyway? besides a fellow Warden—had put it there and Signy could not recall it now. It was an experience unpleasantly like being very drunk.
"You know, I should remember your name, but I don't."