It is warm. The sun is out. I stand on a cobblestone road in front of a townhouse. Clean red brick free of creepers and clean unbroken windows make it clear this a far cry from the cottage. Instinctively, I go up the steps and enter.

Inside, it is spacious and beautiful. It is fully furnished with chairs filled with bright pillows. The scent of strong perfume hangs in the air.

I walk into the kitchen. There are three people at the table. I instantly recognize them: Mother, Connie, and August. They’re dressed in fine clothes. They’re eating with polished silverware. The food is fresh and smells delicious. It’s almost as good as what I eat every night at the manor.

I watch them eat for a while. They say nothing. Their expressions remain downcast and glum.

I call to them, “Hey! I’m right here! I’m okay!”

They don’t respond.

I try to move a fork or flip over a plate to get their attention. My hand passes through everything like vapor.

“Hey!” I shout in August’s ear, in Connie’s, in Mother’s. “Hey! I’m here! I’m here!”

But they can’t hear me. They don’t even know I’m here. And there’s nothing I can do to make myself known.

Something was different between us. I could feel it.

After finishing breakfast, we decided to walk in the garden. As we strode among the hedges, Faustine turned to me. “Marius.” She said. “I have a small request.”

“Anything.”

“May we hold hands?” She presented her hand.

“Of course.” I took her hand. It was rough and bumpy like an iguana’s back. It closed around mine so gently.

She nodded and we continued walking.

Every walk after that, we did so hand in hand. A prickling feeling like electricity coursed through me from our hands. I couldn’t explain it, but I loved it.

When I sat with her in the library, we opted to sit together by the fire. I read alongside Faustine, leaning against her as she turned the pages. We shared a blanket while we read together. The manor could be very chilly even by the fire.

“Faustine,” I said while we walked together in the garden. “I want to show you a magic trick.”

Faustine turned to me. “And what exactly would that be?”

At her question, I blew powdery snow in her face. I swiped a handful as we were walking a bush.

“Ack!” She squawked in surprise and jumped back, stumbling against a statue.

“See? I know magic too.” I laughed.

Faustine didn’t answer. She stood holding herself against the statue with her back to me.

“Faustine?” I asked. “Are you alright?” I approached her, concern gracing my features.

A sheet of snow flew in my face, sending me back. I sputtered and brushed the snow out of my face.

When my vision cleared, I saw Faustine standing confidently before me. Her cane was planted firmly in the ground. She possessed the unmistakable look of self-satisfaction in her glowing eyes.

I quirked my eyebrow.

I threw another handful at her. She returned fire. Soon we were lost in a flurry of white, just throwing powder at each other and laughing the whole time. Our great battle in the garden was short-lived, but delightful.

When I was in the studio, I felt eyes on me. I turned around to see Faustine sitting in the corner. She had a look of utter entrancement on her face. I said nothing, merely smiled, and returned to my painting. I could feel her watching me while my back was turned. I didn’t mind.

“Have you ever tried painting?” I asked her one night.

“Once or twice. I was never very good at it.” Faustine replied.

“Have you thought about trying it again?”

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“I haven’t touched this room since my family left. I feel like my presence sullied this place, so I don’t enter.”

“Yet you’re here watching me.” I turned around and set down my brush and palette.

Faustine’s feathers stood up. “Well… yes—” she stammered, then brushed down her errant plumage. “When I was young, I tried to paint alongside my sister. Our parents were trying to find out where our talents lay. She excelled, but I did not. I was always fascinated by it, but I felt myself too… deficient.”

“You were judged harshly, weren’t you?”

Faustine nodded sadly.

“Would you feel better if you painted with me?”

Faustine nibbled a talon. “I can’t paint like you.”

“You don’t have to.” I found a few clean brushes and a fresh canvas. “Paint whatever you want.”

“And if I can’t think of anything to paint?”

“You’re welcome to try that.” I motioned to the bowl of fruit arranged in front of me.

“I will.” Faustine pulled her chair and spare easel beside me.

We painted together in silence. I kept my vision trained on the shapes of light and shadow that fell on the fruit. Figuring out the colors was a challenge considering most of the light was blue or green. A painting is a series of decisions, I remembered one of my teachers saying. I always kept that in mind when working.

I set down my brush and strolled over to Faustine. She was also painting the bowl of fruit. Her work was that of a beginner: the proportions were all off, the colors not even close, and the object that I thought to be a banana looked like something else entirely. And yet, there was an undeniable enthusiasm to it. The painting was the best version of what its artist could do. That simple fact gave it so much more life in my eyes than anything completely true to life.

“Good job,” I said, rubbing her shoulder.

“It’s awful,” Faustine said glumly.

“How many paintings have you done?”

“I think this is my third.”

“That’s not fair to you then, is it? I’m a lot better than I was when I first started. That’s all that matters.” I looked over the painting one more time. “There’s always the next one.”

Faustine looked at me, then at her painting. “I suppose.”

And just like that, painting became another activity we did together. Faustine was still wary of her abilities, but she improved with each new piece. My skill was considerably higher, but I never made it a contest. This was all just pretense to spend time together and that’s all that mattered.

Sometimes I brought Doux with me into the studio. He sat on my shoulder or scampered around a corner of the room. Etienne sometimes appeared with a tray of little treats for my friend. She was quite fond of the little thing and had been feeding him when I was away. I wondered how Doux had gotten fat so quickly. When Faustine was present, she eyed Doux warily while the rat stared back with pleading eyes. Other than that, she didn’t complain or demand that Doux be taken away. That was progress, at least.

I had not seen the Maer for a long while now. It was a comfort not seeing it when I shut my eyes. In its place, though was the dream of my family together, without me. That held its own dread.

“How do dreams work, Faustine?” I asked as we walked in the garden one night.

“That’s a difficult question to answer, even for someone like me.” She answered.

“You said your family had the ability to make them influence the world. But where do dreams come from? Are they like birds or plants or something like that? Do they naturally occur?”

“Yes and no.” Faustine said. She tapped her beak. “I remember being told they were something like pollen carried by the winds. They drift until they land in the pastures of our minds. Then they take root and grow. My family just knew how to use them to a certain advantage. Like how a perfume maker would take certain plants for the purpose of making their mixtures. We take the essential elements and turn it into sweet perfumes using our art.” She turned to me with an apologetic expression. “I’m not sure if I’m making sense.”

“I follow.” I said. I meant that, if only slightly. “Dreams are like plants, then?”

“Yes.” Faustine nodded. “The nascent dream floats freely around until it finds a fresh mind to set down roots and grow. Then that dream, fed by the memories or experiences of the dreamer, grows from one mind to spread to another and another. That’s how inspiration is born.”

“Our minds are all just flower beds.”

“In a sense.” Faustine conceded. “The human capacity to dream is as old as humanity itself. It’s a power that even my family didn’t fully understand. We could use its ever-changing nature to influence the waking world.” Faustine motioned to the moon hanging in the sky. “The Moon is the mistress of dreams. My family’s power comes from her and her alone. She gave humanity the ability to do so. It was a human’s dream that made her shed her tears, after all.”

“And what are dreams made of?”

“Essential stuff that can’t be fathomed by normal sciences. But they’re fed by emotions. Dreams are neutral things until they take root in a mind. But like a flower needs water and earth, emotions are what truly bring dreams to life, Marius.” Faustine drew a hand against a dangling branch. “It’s the deepest ones that make them grow the largest: Sadness, anger, love. They grow on what you feel in your deepest heart and manifest before your eyes as you sleep.” Faustine sighed, her breath turning to mist in the cold air. “They are beautiful and terrible things.”

My family eating in silence flashed in my mind. “Can they come true?”

“Sometimes.” Faustine plucked a leaf from a hedge. “Most of the time they are just visions. Glimpses of what could be and what is desired. My family line knew of those who could make those visions come true. They were far and few between, thankfully.”

What could be instead of what is, I repeated her words silently. “I dreamt of my family. They were taken care of, as you promised.” My eyes fell. “I wish I could see them again.”

“Then you miss them.” Faustine said. “That’s a terrible feeling, especially knowing you can never see them again.”

“It is.”

We walked in silence for a time.

“What do you dream about?” I asked.

“Truthfully?” Faustine answered.

I nodded.

“I dream about the sun. It’s so clear in my mind’s eye.” She reached into the air and closed her hand around the moon. “I wish that I could feel its warmth again.” She opened her scaly palm and stared into it with sad eyes. “But I cannot.”

“You must miss it.”

“I do. Terribly.”