LUCY
I'm dreaming again.
But this dream is different from the shadows that have haunted my sleep these past weeks. It doesn't feel like a premonition, or a hazy warning echo. It feels like a memory.
In the dream, I am small. A little girl of about six, standing on a stool in front of a medium-sized mirror, turning side to side, smoothing the skirts of my gown with the focused solemnity that only children bring to small rituals. My hair is a startling, bright goldish-red. My eyes are a soulful brown.
The room around me belongs to another century entirely. No electric lights—only the soft, flickering amber of beeswax candles in silver sconces. The walls are draped in tapestries depicting hunts and maps. The furniture is nearly black oak, carved with ivy, smelling of cedar oil and old polish.
