LUCY
I'm dreaming again.
But this dream is different from the shadows that have haunted my sleep for the past few weeks.
It doesn't feel like a premonition or a hazy echo either; it rather feels like a memory…
In the dream, I'm small. I am a little girl of about six years, standing on a stool in front of a medium sized mirror.
I look at myself, turning side to side, smoothing the skirts of my gown. My hair is a startling, bright goldish-red, and my eyes are a deep, soulful brown.
The room is small, with no trace of the modern world. There are no electric lights, only the soft, flickering amber of beeswax candles held in silver sconces.
The walls are draped in tapestries depicting hunts and maps. The furniture is almost black oak, carved with ivy, smelling of cedar oil and beeswax too.
It is a room from the 1600s. And while I'm perplexed by what I see, I feel a sense of immense boredom, the restless impatience of a child waiting for a lesson to begin.
