Bonnie was surprised into trying to stop her sobbing, although she couldn’t really, not on full flow like that. Hearing Elena say that she, Bonnie, was scared to death, made Bonnie feel even more frightened. Having Elena ask her a question with no sensible answer was even worse, because Bonnie knew Elena and Elena was in earnest.
“I didn’t mean it,” Bonnie said feebly, still crying.
“Of course you meant it. But why?” Elena’s hand beat on the air, softly impatient.
“Yes,” Damon said suddenly, his voice grim. “Look at me, Bonnie. Can I make it snow? Look hard.”
Something deep inside Bonnie unfurled and looked. It stared at Damon and all around him and came back with a shocking report.
“No,” Bonnie said, surprised that she was shocked. “You’re totally . . . you don’t even have any . . .”
“Can you make it snow?” Damon persisted, still grim, watching her narrowly.
“Me? Of course not.”
“All right, then. Did I have anything to do with the attack on Elena? I mean, that’s what Elena really wants to know. Isn’t it, princess?”
Bonnie hiccupped. She was too shocked now to keep crying. “Of course you didn’t! You . . . no! Anyone could tell that.”
Elena nodded at Bonnie and then turned to Damon. “Okay. Fine. I’m still going to hit you, though, because I dreamed that you did it.”
“You dreamed that I did it,” Damon echoed, sounding as if nothing would surprise him anymore. “Bonnie sleepwalks and you dream that . . . I mean, how? With a giant straw? No, on second thought, don’t answer that.”
“Can everybody just stop being so . . . bizarre? Just for a few minutes?” Meredith pleaded.
“Some of us are crazy,” Bonnie said darkly.
“And some us are dreamers,” Elena said, at her most mysterious and deliberately obstinate.
“Yeah, and some of us are a purple duck, or a mountainside, or a quarter after three,” Matt contributed, brightening suddenly.
“Is it that late?” Caroline asked, frowning.
“It’s Hans Christian Andersen.”
“I thought it was an ugly duckling,” Damon muttered. “Purple—wouldn’t it end up a slightly effeminate lavender swan?”
“Why is it that saying a woman is like a man is usually positive, while calling anything masculine feminine is the kiss of death?” Elena burst out.
“Just . . . just could everybody stop before someone starts asking
why a raven is like a writing desk, and I have a complete nervous breakdown,” Meredith said, with an intensity that was unlike her.
“Oh!” Elena said. “A raven—not a raven! No, no, no, no—”
“I believe you mean ‘nevermore,’” Damon said, distantly polite now, watching something that no one else could see the way lions in the savanna watch waterholes.
“No, I didn’t mean ‘nevermore.’ I meant—”
“Well, why is a raven like a—” Caroline began simultaneously.
“Because Poe wrote on both,” Meredith said, dangerously quietly. “Or maybe because the notes for which they are noted are not noted for being musical notes. That’s not the question. The question is why everybody has freaking lost their minds.”
“Elena and I aren’t big enough to be everybody,” Bonnie offered absently, thinking about the white dog whimpering as he slept on a glacier.
“Who is big enough to be everybody?” Caroline demanded, stiffening. “Are you implying—”
“You know, raven is ‘nevar’ backwards,” Matt interrupted.