Chapter 7
The light around me shifted, dimming softly. I woke with a start, breath catching as though I’d broken the surface of water. The dream had slipped away, but its weight lingered, heavy in my chest. A trace of rose still clung faintly to my skin, too real to be imagined.
When I opened my eyes, the surreal garden was gone. I lay beneath the canopy of my bed, the first pale rays of approaching dawn peeking through the drapes—a far gentler light than the strange, uncanny sunlight I had just wandered beneath in the dream realm.
I remained still, trying to recall the dream before it vanished.
Normally, they faded in uneven fragments, disjointed details dissolving like waves retreating into the sea.
This time was different—I remembered everything with startling clarity, as if the entire sequence had been etched into my mind like a painting.
Yet unlike a painting displayed behind glass, this one felt touchable.
I could reach into it at will and relive it: the perfume of roses thick in the air, the warmth of sunlight caressing my cheek, the velvet petals beneath my fingers, the sharp sting of a thorn.
I could still sense every detail of the ivy-strangled hedges, the dreamscape painted in a palette just slightly off from reality—and most of all, the nameless stranger who hadn’t quite believed we were dreaming.
I allowed myself to bask a moment longer in the vivid sea of memory until the pressing circumstances that had consumed me before tugged my wayward attention back to the present.
I had guards and royals to evade, a palace to escape…
and if I was fortunate, perhaps a few intriguing trinkets to pocket along the way.
I sat up and stretched, frowning at the ache in my limbs.
I pushed the covers aside, wondering why they felt so heavy.
It was almost as though I were in another dream and my body was weak and slow to respond.
I glanced down at my hand gliding absently over the duvet and wondered if it were merely a trick of the light or if my skin had grown paler since I fell asleep.
My fingers picked uncertainly at the quilted fabric…
before stilling as my mind finally registered the fabric beneath my fingers. Satin?
The haze of sleep began to lift, the lingering cobwebs clearing just enough for recollection to take hold. Hadn’t I fallen asleep in the velvet upholstered chair by the hearth, not in the bed? I blinked, clearing away the last of the drowsiness clouding my senses enough to look around.
Though the dream garden had vanished, these chambers weren’t the ones I remembered. At first glance, everything appeared as it had been: the ornate furnishings, the worn stone walls, the stained glass window opening to the faint, pre-morning light.
Yet something felt…off. The room I’d slept in had been decorated in sterile elegance, its cool tones exuding a subtle sense of confinement. This room, by contrast, shimmered with quiet opulence, its hues warmer, softer, almost comforting. Not at all like the refined prison cell I’d drifted off in.
Or at least I didn’t think it was the same. My memories felt dim, like inked words splashed with water until they began to blur. I had the strong impression that I was trapped here, but couldn’t at first remember why, or who my enemies were.
I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and closed my eyes, concentrating.
After a few moments, bits of memory began to filter into my mind.
The guards seizing me. The dungeon and the unexpected meeting with the royal family.
And most of all, my visits to the dream world and the man I’d met in that strange garden… the man I felt I should know somehow.
Still, I felt like I was missing pieces, possibly something very important, though I wasn’t sure what that could be.
I slipped from the bed, swaying slightly under my own weight, the chill of the stone floor biting even through the satin slippers I didn’t recall putting on.
My steps slowed as I looked down, a frown pulling at my brow.
Gone was my usual thief’s garb of dark tones and worn leather, replaced by an opulent gown spun of moonlight and silk, delicate embroidery trailing down the sleeves like threads of starlight.
I had never owned anything so fine or luxurious, let alone stolen something so breathtaking.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its flames already lit as though expecting me. Its warmth wrapped around the room in a gentle embrace, a stark contrast to the disquiet curling in my chest.
My hands fisted in an effort to ground myself, and something crumpled in my left fist—a delicate resistance I hadn’t noticed until now.
Slowly, I uncurled my fingers to reveal a blood-red rose, its petals full and lush.
I stared at it in disbelief. I knew this rose—the exact bloom I’d stolen from the garden hedge just before waking.
That couldn’t be. How could a flower from a dream be here, tangible and unblemished in the waking world? My skill as a thief didn’t extend to obtaining the impossible.
Yet I cradled the impossible in my hand, its soft, velvety petals warm with life, its scent rich and unmistakable, far too vivid to be imagined. I traced the petals with a trembling fingertip, much too real to have followed me from a dream.
Unless it had been real all along.
Desperate for answers, I tried to summon my magic, reaching with my powers to read the secrets nestled in its bloom. But the familiar rush of vision never came, only a flickering wall of red…and silence.
I faltered, stunned. My powers had never failed before, not even once. It felt as if a part of me had vanished—like I’d reached for my reflection and found only fog. What was this rose, and what had it done to me?
My mind scrambled for an explanation. Being from a dream shouldn’t have acted as an obstacle—I’d read objects from dreams before, though never while awake.
Since they came from my mind, they simply echoed what I already knew.
Nor did I have a limit for how many times I could use my powers on objects I’d already explored, each repeated reading peeling back new layers to reveal additional secrets.
It was as if the rose had no memory at all.
A sudden, irrational panic rose in my throat.
I dropped the rose with a gasp, watching as it tumbled in slow motion to the floor, landing with the softness of a whisper.
It lay there innocently, yet something about it felt sinister—almost as if it were mocking me, taunting me with mysteries, daring me to believe in its impossible existence.
I drew a steadying breath. Focus, Mirelle. Panic clouded judgement, made hands clumsy and minds reckless…and recklessness led to capture. Such a dangerous emotion was for amateurs; as an expert thief, I was above that.
My fingers twitched restlessly. In the past I’d calmed myself when anxiety rose by practicing my lock-picking skills.
I had no desire for another burn, but I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, allowing my hands to twist and move reflexively, replaying old memories.
I saw myself, crouched in a dim room, dexterously slipping a hairpin into a door lock and applying just the right amount of pressure.
“Is that all there is to it?” a teasing voice asked from behind me.
I laughed. “If you think it’s so simple, why don’t you give it a try?”
I opened my eyes, replaying that dear voice, though even now it sounded muffled, like I couldn’t quite get the timbre right. A stab of longing went through me as I remembered that I hadn’t always been alone. I squared my shoulders, renewing my determination to solve this mystery.
I glanced at the rose, still lying on the floor with deceptive innocence, looking almost expectant, as if waiting for me to try again.
To anyone else, it might have presented an unsolvable riddle—but not to me.
When objects whispered their stories with a single touch, their secrets never stayed hidden for long.
Though it had been silent the first time, I wouldn’t be so easily defeated.
I crouched down and slowly extended a hand to brush the tip of my finger across a single velvet petal. Familiar warmth rose through me, the first stirrings of magic responding to my will. Yet as before, I detected no flickers of memory, no images form a story waiting to be seen. Just silence.
I tried again, this time pressing my palm against the bloom.
The warmth of my magic flowed outward but met no response.
My suppressed panic rose, an emotion sheer willpower wasn’t enough to suppress.
My powers couldn’t be gone. Even when I’d lost everything else, they had always remained—silent companions when I had none, threads of meaning when the world made no sense.
Desperate to test them, I scanned the room for another object.
A golden candlestick rested on the mantle, gleaming faintly in the shifting light.
Hardly the most promising artifact, but even the mundane offered welcome reprieve amid my current worry.
I rushed to it, plucked it from its perch, and pressed my hand to the base.
Relief bloomed as a story trickled into my mind—not the usual flood, but a gentle, steady stream.
A flicker of a servant polishing it, the idle musings of someone setting it down, the faint echo of laughter from a conversation barely remembered.
Ordinary fragments, but real, evidence my magic was still a part of me.
Some of the tension cinching my chest loosened as I exhaled.
Yet my anxiety hadn’t fully subsided. Desperate for reassurance, I moved methodically around the room, touching everything in sight—the velvet drapes framing the windows, the polished bedposts, the fireplace poker, even the thick rug beneath my feet.
One by one, the objects surrendered their stories to me.