William seems to give this question the same weight he had the rest, silent for a moment, his expression distant, as if the thinking part of himself has dislocated and wandered off, leaving the talking part of him unavailable. It's a startling facsimile of real life, except that Charles can't hear the undercurrent of thoughts to it. It is, perhaps, the least realistic aspect of this subconscious simulation.

"I don't know," is the underwhelming answer that William eventually produces. He pushes himself off the railing, landing gently on the floor. His sandals whack around again, toes splaying to keep his balance. Somehow, though, he looks different than he did a few minutes ago. The clothes are darker. His trousers are cambric instead of khakis, and the birdsong has dwindled a little. In absence of Charles' attention, the voices that were climbing over each other inside the house have dissipated, off to make-believe lessons and errands. William forgets to hold the cotton skein clouds in the sky, so there aren't anymore.

"I don't think time moves the same for him. He's older than anybody else I've ever met, vampires included." William scratches his own ear, rueful. "Might of been he thought I hung up on him a bit and is busy thinking about molecular sciences. Or Zhou Dynasty poetry. Or sous-vide." A beat. "He might be dead."

His face is rather still when he says it. Composed, not happy.