lives her entire life? Locked away with a nursemaid, forbidden from ever being seen on her mother’s arm? My heart aches for this little girl, even as I tangle up her spidersilk thoughts for my own nefarious purposes.
Lady Twyne ushers me into her grand suites on the mansion’s top floor and closes Vera and Brandt out in the hallway. Her sitting room is lined in the same exposed alabaster as the exterior, emitting a sun-kissed, pale glow. Ferns soften the harsh cut-stone edges, and gauzes in a variety of dyes crest the slender floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Come, darling. Sit in Mummy’s lap.” She nestles on a divan and billows her skirt around her. I toddle forward, still unsteady on such tiny legs, but the uncertainty feels appropriate for this delicate child. Lady Twyne throws her arms wide and hoists me into her lap.
“Maman. I had bad dreams.” I burrow my face into her bosom, trying to recall how I behaved with my own mother in the tunnels. But my mother was more like a ghost or a shadow to me than any solid figure.
Lady Twyne ruffles Martine’s thick bird’s nest of black hair. “Nonsense, dearie. Remember what we always say? The Dreamer is just a fairy tale; we can control our own dreams. Our destiny. Nightmare gives us the power to make it so.”
I suppress the shudder that wriggles into Martine’s delicate bones. Words of a traitor, indeed. How can she say such heresy? “But Maman, this dream was different. It was about … Daddy.” I’m flailing here, completely fabricating this tale, not looking into Martine’s thoughts at all. I’m afraid of pushing too hard against her delicate young mind. Better to make a mistake. As little time as I suspect the lady spends with her daughter, she surely won’t know the difference.
Lady Twyne’s face hardens, like a great iron portcullis has been lowered between us. “Now, my little dove. I’ve asked you never to speak of him.”
I’ve struck a nerve, then. Perfect. “But Daddy talks to me in my dreams. He says he’s the ocean and he’s going to flood Barstadt.” The tremble in Martine’s voice isn’t faked. “It’s scary, Maman. I don’t want Daddy to drown us.”
Lady Twyne’s gaze pierces me for a moment, then she glances toward the door.
“Maman?” I ask. “Is it real?” I’m pressing her hard, I know, but if I remember my half-siblings correctly, one can never overestimate the persistence of children.
Her expression is difficult to read. When she furrows her brow, the furrows only change the whorls of gemstones nestled in her skin; their twinkling masks her true intent. In her eyes, though, something dark smolders. Like she’s seeing straight through the disguise I’ve donned of her daughter to who I really am: small, clueless, and terrified.
“Soon, you won’t have to worry about what happens to Barstadt,” is all she says. She hoists me out of her lap and pushes me toward the door.
I cringe. No. We can’t have put in all this effort for nothing more than that cryptic hint. I must push harder. I cannot be afraid.
The spiderweb thoughts of Martine glisten in the moonlight. The tidbit I need to trip up Lady Twyne clings to them somewhere—it must. But where? How can I skim it off of the surface?
And then it hits me—every spiderweb has a spider.
I flutter against the web like the tiniest gnat, too small to tear apart the strands. Martine’s thoughts and dreams drip past me like dewdrops: her mother’s face; playing in her room with only her nursemaid to keep her company. She dreams of soaring, arms spread high above the Barstadt harbor, weaving through the towers of Banhopf University and the Dreamer’s temple spires. She dreams of a true family.
And this dream lures out just the thought I need—the tempestuous, unmeditated, unfiltered reaction that only children can call forth. Martine blurts it out with no need for my help:
“You’re a liar! A filthy liar, and I wish you were dead!”
Lady Twyne rears back
Lady Twyne ushers me into her grand suites on the mansion’s top floor and closes Vera and Brandt out in the hallway. Her sitting room is lined in the same exposed alabaster as the exterior, emitting a sun-kissed, pale glow. Ferns soften the harsh cut-stone edges, and gauzes in a variety of dyes crest the slender floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Come, darling. Sit in Mummy’s lap.” She nestles on a divan and billows her skirt around her. I toddle forward, still unsteady on such tiny legs, but the uncertainty feels appropriate for this delicate child. Lady Twyne throws her arms wide and hoists me into her lap.
“Maman. I had bad dreams.” I burrow my face into her bosom, trying to recall how I behaved with my own mother in the tunnels. But my mother was more like a ghost or a shadow to me than any solid figure.
Lady Twyne ruffles Martine’s thick bird’s nest of black hair. “Nonsense, dearie. Remember what we always say? The Dreamer is just a fairy tale; we can control our own dreams. Our destiny. Nightmare gives us the power to make it so.”
I suppress the shudder that wriggles into Martine’s delicate bones. Words of a traitor, indeed. How can she say such heresy? “But Maman, this dream was different. It was about … Daddy.” I’m flailing here, completely fabricating this tale, not looking into Martine’s thoughts at all. I’m afraid of pushing too hard against her delicate young mind. Better to make a mistake. As little time as I suspect the lady spends with her daughter, she surely won’t know the difference.
Lady Twyne’s face hardens, like a great iron portcullis has been lowered between us. “Now, my little dove. I’ve asked you never to speak of him.”
I’ve struck a nerve, then. Perfect. “But Daddy talks to me in my dreams. He says he’s the ocean and he’s going to flood Barstadt.” The tremble in Martine’s voice isn’t faked. “It’s scary, Maman. I don’t want Daddy to drown us.”
Lady Twyne’s gaze pierces me for a moment, then she glances toward the door.
“Maman?” I ask. “Is it real?” I’m pressing her hard, I know, but if I remember my half-siblings correctly, one can never overestimate the persistence of children.
Her expression is difficult to read. When she furrows her brow, the furrows only change the whorls of gemstones nestled in her skin; their twinkling masks her true intent. In her eyes, though, something dark smolders. Like she’s seeing straight through the disguise I’ve donned of her daughter to who I really am: small, clueless, and terrified.
“Soon, you won’t have to worry about what happens to Barstadt,” is all she says. She hoists me out of her lap and pushes me toward the door.
I cringe. No. We can’t have put in all this effort for nothing more than that cryptic hint. I must push harder. I cannot be afraid.
The spiderweb thoughts of Martine glisten in the moonlight. The tidbit I need to trip up Lady Twyne clings to them somewhere—it must. But where? How can I skim it off of the surface?
And then it hits me—every spiderweb has a spider.
I flutter against the web like the tiniest gnat, too small to tear apart the strands. Martine’s thoughts and dreams drip past me like dewdrops: her mother’s face; playing in her room with only her nursemaid to keep her company. She dreams of soaring, arms spread high above the Barstadt harbor, weaving through the towers of Banhopf University and the Dreamer’s temple spires. She dreams of a true family.
And this dream lures out just the thought I need—the tempestuous, unmeditated, unfiltered reaction that only children can call forth. Martine blurts it out with no need for my help:
“You’re a liar! A filthy liar, and I wish you were dead!”
Lady Twyne rears back
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