Chapter 2: Echoes in the Fog
The morning brought with it not only dawn, but also a ringing void. Peter woke up feeling as if he had been snatched from the embrace of something precious. The image of the girl from the dream was so vivid that it seemed she was still present in the room, her subtle scent lingering in the air. He ran his hand over the pillow where her dark hair had rested, but found only a cool cloth.
Breakfast was served in the usual silence. Mr. Fielding, hunched over his newspaper, only occasionally looked up to make sure that his ward was not losing sight of his omelet.
"You look a little pale, Peter," the tutor remarked, his voice flat and devoid of any curiosity. "Feeling unwell?"
Peter shook his head, unable to find the words to describe his condition. How do you explain to a person whose life consisted of dates and facts that he met his soul in the realm of dreams?
"No, sir. I was just... thinking."
Mr. Fielding nodded, returning to his news. For him, "lost in thought" meant that Peter was probably thinking about another Latin problem or trying to memorize the chronology of the Hundred Years' War.
After breakfast, Peter went to his library. He did not look for answers in books, rather, he hoped to find there echoes of what he had experienced. He wandered between the shelves, running his fingers over the spines of old folios, each of which contained stories, but none of them could compare to the one he saw in his dreams. He stopped in front of a portrait of his ancestor, a stern man in a wig and lace frill. The Baron de Blackwood. A title that seemed to him as distant and alien as this portrait. He had never felt like a real baron. He was Peter, the boy who now carried the image of a girl whose name he didn't even know.
In the afternoon, when the fog lifted, revealing the grey roofs of London, Peter went for a walk. He wandered through streets that had seemed familiar and predictable to him before, but now they were filled with a new meaning. Every passerby, every woman who flashed in the crowd, made his heart skip a beat in hope. He searched for her in every glance, in every movement, but found only a reflection of his own desire.
He found himself by the Thames. The river, usually noisy and lively, seemed calmer today, its waters reflecting the overcast sky. Peter stood on the bridge, watching the boats gliding through the water. Suddenly, his gaze fell on a group of people gathered on the shore. There was a girl among them.
Her hair was the color of a raven's wing, gathered in a simple braid. She was wearing a modest dress, but there was something vaguely familiar about her bearing, the way she held her head. Peter froze, his breath caught in his throat. My heart began to beat with such force that it seemed like it was about to burst out of my chest. He strained his eyes, trying to make out her face through the distance and the light haze. But she was standing with her back to him, her silhouette just a vague hint of the one that haunted his dreams.
He wanted to shout, to call her, but the words stuck in his throat. He took a step forward, then another, but the people between him and the girl were too thick a wall. When he finally managed to get closer, she had already turned around and, after saying something to her companions, walked away, disappearing into the crowd. Peter remained standing, feeling hope slipping away, leaving behind only bitter disappointment. It wasn't her. Or maybe she was, but he couldn't recognize her.
He returned home feeling drained. The image of the girl from the dream now seemed even more ghostly, even more unattainable. He knew he couldn't forget her. She became a part of him, a shadow that followed him everywhere, reminding him that there was a world beyond his usual reality, a world inhabited by dreams and, perhaps, true love.