Page 59 of Barbie: Dreamscape

Well, don’t just stand there, a voice sounds in my mind, just like with the spiders. The pegasus’s voice is a deep, ancient baritone. The masquerade is about to begin.

And just like that, golden magic twirls around me, lifting me off my feet and onto the pegasus’s back. His own magic.

The gold brushes my cheeks as something forms around my eyes. A mask. I reach up and trace its shape. It seems to mimic his wings.

He looks over his shoulder at me, wearing a matching mask. Say. Do you think you could decorate my horn? I quite liked your work on your dress.

“Of—of course.” I reach over with a gloved hand, brow furrowed… and the paint spills from my fingertips as I illustrate festive bells and ornaments, right on his horn.

Perfect, the pegasus says, as if he can somehow see it through my own eyes.

I grimace. It’s not. I smudged a few places. The color isn’t quite right.

Perfectly imperfect, he corrects, and I didn’t know there was such a thing. I like the sound of it, though.

With a nod of thanks, he takes us a step forward. The guard’s eyes pass over us both. For a simmering second, I wait in trepidation.

But then he turns and nods at the other guard.

And we’re through the gates, into the courtyard.

“I’ve never been to a masquerade before,” I tell the pegasus as he leads us through the interior courtyard and toward the towering front doors of the manor. The closer we get, the more I can hear the party within—violins stringing elegant music, conversation reaching a fever pitch, glasses clinking.

Through the large arched windows, I see shadows of guests, all in magnificent suits and dresses and masks, each enchanted with magic from creatures who stand beside them.

Pity, the pegasus says. But you’re in good company—I haven’t been to one of these in centuries.

I blink. No—I must have heard that wrong.

I’m hundreds of years old. I know. I don’t look a day over a century.

I look down at the pegasus with newfound curiosity. “Hundreds? Really?”

He scoffs. We live to be thousands of years old. I’m still young.

Wow. I can’t imagine living such a long life. Having time to do everything. But after hundreds of years, this pegasus still seems excited by the idea of attending this celebration. I can almost feel it radiating off him.

He hasn’t attended a masquerade in hundreds of years. Why now? Why… did he choose me?

He can hear my thoughts, and he responds. When you were painting… your eyes closed, your heart open… it reminded me of when I used to play the harp.

I wonder how that’s possible.

My hooves are very skilled, he snaps, hearing the surprise in my mind.

I offer up a wistful smile, even though he can’t see it. “Well, I haven’t painted in years, if that makes you feel better.”

I can hear his shock in my head. You painted like you do it every day. Like it comes as natural to you as breathing.

Sometimes, I get so caught up in my head that even breathing doesn’t feel natural. But I don’t tell him that.

“Thank you.”

He nods. Ready?

“As I’ll ever be.”

He steps toward the doors, and the guards at the entrance do a double take. They look at each other, seemingly in shock to see the pegasus. “Bartholomew,” they say, bowing their heads.