Page 22 of Barbie: Dreamscape

I’ve always been cautious.

I’ve always been careful.

I’ve always tried my best to be perfect.

Just like Robin.

But this is my life. My future.

I draw in a deep breath and walk around the side of her desk again. I pull the drawer open.

Sitting there, atop a pile of papers, is a necklace just like the one around my neck.

Instead of a “B” at its center, it has a letter “R.”

The moment I lift the new necklace, my fingers grazing the chain, my own begins floating off my chest again. The two necklaces are like magnets, drawn toward each other, the pull between them so strong I can’t stop their coming together even if I wanted to.

Finally, with a click, the charms join and a bright pink light shines out from them both, like the glow from the map in the library glimmering out of Dreamland. I don’t breathe.

The pink shimmer reminds me of the light from Robin’s staff. Maybe whatever magic Robin keeps in there is infused in the necklaces, too.

Did Robin make them both? Why doesn’t she wear hers? Why wouldn’t she tell me she has a necklace that exactly matches my mother’s?

What else has she been keeping from me?

I think back to her reaction when I asked about Dreamland, her almost visceral response. I’ve never questioned anything she told me—I’ve followed every rule, every tradition. Now, that firm conviction is starting to crack.

That knowing feeling I had in the library washes over me again, like I’m just a few questions away from discovering something big.

Robin won’t talk about Dreamland. She won’t tell me if the Fates are there—and whether they can be persuaded to change my lack of one.

So I’ll just have to find those answers myself.

I search the drawer, riffling through a stack of documents to see if there are any other hidden pieces of information.

Nestled at the bottom of the drawer is a photograph.

I flip it over and—

Oh.

That ever-present tear in my heart is bleeding again. Because this photo is of Robin… and my mother. They must have been around my age. They’re both beaming, the happiness spilling out of them through time and space. The image is in black and white, but the joy in their expressions is nearly its own vibrant splash of color.

And they’re wearing the necklaces.

The photo looks vaguely familiar, like something Robin might have shown me when I was younger. But Robin doesn’t talk about my mother as much as I wish she would. I used to ask her all the time, but all it would do was create more quiet. I get the sense that she locks her feelings and heart away, just as she did this photograph. And the necklace.

Maybe it helps her keep focused on her important role. Maybe she doesn’t want to fall into an endless pit of despair, like the one I’ve found myself in for the last few days.

Carefully, I press my finger against my mother’s hand in the picture, as if I could reach her somehow. What would she say if she saw me now?

Would she tell me to go find answers?

Yes. She would.

I know that like a message scrawled across my soul. My mother took risks. She fought for what she believed in. She didn’t hide inside thick walls… she went out and confronted dangers head-on.

And she must have believed in me. She wouldn’t have made so many outfits, for so many roles, if she didn’t.