If she’s dreaming, she’s having the dream of a lifetime, because there’s no
telling truth from fantasy. She pauses at the edge of the landing, looking up, 
stretching her neck to meet the illusion eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose, as if she 
might uncover the truth, discover the flaw in the disguise, sniff him out. The 
male... what? Tiger...? Weretiger! He seems to have healed most
of his wounds, just like her, faster than any human. She sniffs at his face, not 
quite incredulous, but seeking some clue, some scent, that will make rational 
sense of all this.