“Of course I do.” He’s Thorne Blackwood, a man I’ve never met in real life, only seen from afar.
“And…you dream of me often?”
“I didn’t mean to—you know what? I don’t need to explain myself to you. You aren’t real.”
His smirk widens. “Because this is just a dream?”
“Exactly.” Thank the All of All the real Thorne Blackwood doesn’t know I dream of him like this. It truly was an accident that I ever did so in the first place.
Blackwood Bakery is one of the convent’s most loyal patrons. They’ve been sourcing Starcane sugar from our fields for as long as I’ve lived at the convent school. While the bakery normally sends their buyer to fetch the sugar and load the wagon, one day Mr. Blackwood himself came to do the job. I just so happened to be taking lunch with a few of my peers in the fields when we spotted the handsome human from a distance.
This was about two years ago, before I’d ever left the convent for my weeklong stay in the city of Lumenas. Back then, my experience with gorgeous strangers revolved around a few stolen trysts with the occasional delivery boy. I’d yet to set eyes on a male creature so devastatingly beautiful as Mr. Blackwood. He wore spectacles then, his overlong hair swept off his forehead to reveal a widow’s peak. That gave him a severe look that contrasted his open waistcoat and rolled-up shirtsleeves. I could have simply admired him from afar and left it at that, but he just had to take that moment to bend over and heft one of the heavy sacks of sugar like it weighed nothing. The most delicious thought occurred to me then: could he lift me over his shoulder as easily?
I was so entranced by his masculine beauty—the way his veins went taut in his forearms, the sheen of sweat that coated his brow—that I wasn’t in my right mind. He released his burden onto the wagon and turned, giving me the perfect view of him in all his glory. That’s when I lifted my hands andframedhim. He glanced my way then, a furrow of confusion drawn on his forehead. I dropped my hands, breaking the rectangular gesture I’d made around his figure, but it was too late. I’d captured his likeness to dream of later. My very first solitary subject I’d ever framed. And the last.
“I was just starting to realize I had dream magic in the first place,” I say, despite my earlier insistence that I didn’t have to explain myself. It’s not like I haven’t already told him all this before, either. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I hardly understand my abilities now. All I know is when I capture scenes or images with multiple people, the memories replay exactly as I recall them. I can watch these memories like backdrops, but I can’t change them or speak to the figures. Conversely, if I create a frame around a single person as my focus, I can dream of and interact with them in an entirely personal way.”
Sometimes too personal, I add to myself.
Out loud, I say, “At least, that’s what happened with you, so I can only assume it would be the same with anyone else. I was so horrified when you started showing up in my dreams that I never dared frame an individual subject again.”
I remember the first time he appeared before me. It was in this very glade, during a similar daydream. I was dancing the gallopade with one of my shadowed partners when suddenly Thorne Blackwood took their place. He stumbled and fell, blinking up at me in terror. I was so startled, my dreamscape disappeared at once, ending my daydream and all signs of Mr. Blackwood. The second time occurred a week later, in much the same way. I dipped into a curtsy in preparation for a daydream dance, but when I rose, he was there.
“This again?” he grumbled under his breath, and that was when I discovered we could speak with each other. Once more, my mortification was strong enough to dissolve my daydream. By the fourth time, however, neither of us were surprised by his appearance, and he even humored me with a full dance. From then on, he became a recurring dance partner of mine. A friend, almost, if you don’t count the fact that he isn’t real.
“I truly had no intention of dreaming of you,” I say, “but fret not, because I won’t do so as often from now on.”
In a sudden move, he turns me toward him, placing his free hand at my waist. My shadowed dancers disappear as he leads me out of the quadrille and into a waltz. My make-believe music shifts to accommodate our new dance. “If I’m just a figment of your imagination,” he says, “why would I fret about whether you dream of me?”
I’m unsettled by the unexpected direction my daydream has taken. This wouldn’t be the first time a dream has veered off my chosen path, but rarely does one feel this real. The warmth of his palm seeps into my own, even through the thick leather gloves he wears. The hand at my waist rustles the wool fabric of my dress. I blink a few times, willing the dream to shift, but Thorne Blackwood remains as he is, devoid of his usual spectacles but with those strange horns and wings. Again, I’m perplexed that I’d dream of him with fae features. My eyes fall on his rounded ears. Could he be half fae, perhaps? While full fae have pointed ears, those with a mixture of human and fae blood have rounded ones. But no, that can’t be true. Thorne Blackwood is a public figure, famous for Blackwood Bakery. Everyone knows he’s the son of two humans—Edwyn and Alina Blackwood—a baker and a wealthy heiress, respectively.
Then again…what the hell am I thinking? This is adream. The man before me isn’t the real Thorne Blackwood, so what does it matter if I’m dreaming of him with wings and horns? I dreamed of him naked once, so this is hardly the strangest thing.
I shake the thoughts from my head, recalling the question I left hanging between us. “You may be a construct of my magic, but it still feels wrong to dream of a real person. To…make you do these things with me.” I nod between us, at the sparse inches of space separating our chests.
He tilts his head. “What other things have you made me do with you?”
I scoff but the sudden rise of heat in my cheeks betrays my secrets. “You’re not normally this crass,” I rush to say. “Besides, most of the time we simply dance. For some reason, you show up most when I dream of dancing.”
“Why is that?”
I shrug a shoulder as he turns me into a spin. “I suppose I crave a partner. One whose eyes I can hold while I dance.” I do so now, catching his gaze. There’s more depth in his dark irises than ever before. They seem to be brimming with questions, curiosity. And if I’m reading my own dream correctly, a dash of cruel amusement as well. I avert my gaze over his shoulder. “But like I said, I won’t be dreaming of you as often anymore because this is my last dance.”
He arches a brow. “That’s a touch melodramatic.”
I lift my chin. “It’s true though. I leave the convent school tomorrow.”
“Because…your parents have contacted you?” He states it like a question, but there’s a wary note to his tone that I can’t quite place.
Maybe he’s merely reflecting my own emotions, the grief I’ve kept locked away after accepting that my parents were never going to come for me. It sparks now, a spear of pain and longing for the family I’ll never have.
I bury my grief behind a contrived smile. “That’s not it. I turn twenty today, which means the convent is required to turn me out. Unless I stay and take my vows as a sister, I must leave. So I’ve chosen the sensible route. I’m going to be a governess.”
My heart falls. Becoming a governess will seal the coffin on all my dreams once and for all. Dreams that my parents might come back for me. That they might welcome me with open arms. That I might have the chance to enjoy at least one social season like women years younger than me already have.
But no. With neither parents nor a patron, I cannot enter society. The best thing a woman who’s been abandoned at the convent can do is to leave as a governess. The school has plenty of connections for employment where that vocation is concerned.
“The life of a sister isn’t for you?” he asks.
