I’m standing in a meadow of grass. The Moon is the only source of light in a sea of darkness.

The Maer is nowhere to be seen. I look around, confused. I’d gotten used to his presence at this point. His absence is strange and almost unsettling.

I feel something moving in my pocket. I reach inside and produce a familiar rat. Doux sniffs me happily. “How did you get in here, boy?” I kiss him. “Let’s put you on my shoulder. You’ll like it up there.”

I start walking. There’s a quiet breeze that gently ripples the grass. I shiver slightly. Doux holds onto my shoulder, struggling not to fall.

Then on the wind, I hear music. It’s quiet, but I hear it. It penetrates my soul. I feel it in my heart.

I gaze up at the Moon. It’s bright, like a second sun.

Something grows on its bottom rim and then detaches from it. It falls through the sky, shining like a bright star.

A plume of pale light erupts from where it lands. I cover my eyes from the sudden flash. As my eyes readjust, I see a halo of light in the field. I head closer, entranced by the sight.

A patch of blue roses lies in the meadow. The light is coming from their petals. They shine with a quiet radiance like their mother's celestial body.

I instinctively pick a flower and stare into its light. I admire the swirling patterns of its petals and feel their softness. I bring the flower to my nose and sniff.

It smells of the promise of rain, dew, and sweetness.

I can only describe the scent as that of night.

I instinctively grasped the air when I woke up. I thought the rose was still in my hand. There wasn’t. I sighed. Doux was resting beside me, resembling a furry shrimp curled up on his pillow.

All things come from dreams, Faustine’s words came back to me. Without dreams, we wouldn’t exist.

And who gives us dreams? I wondered. Do we make them or does someone else tell them to us? What makes the difference between the good and bad ones?

The signal for breakfast interrupted my introspection.

We chose to walk in the garden again. After some time of walking, I asked, “What exactly are dreams made of?”

“Isn’t that the ancient question,” Faustine remarked. “If I knew, I would’ve told you. Why do you ask?”

“Ever since I’ve come here, I’ve been having these dreams. They’re so vivid I could swear that they’re real. Surely you must know what I mean?”

“I would. That is where my family drew our power from.”

“Why just last night, I dreamt that I saw the Moon cry a tear and flowers grew, just like the story you told me!” I motioned to the sky. “I was in a meadow, and I watched something fall from the sky in front of me. And the roses, the roses were unlike anything I’d ever seen. They were—”

“Beautiful?” She finished my sentence. “I believe you.”

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“I have no idea. Maybe the Moon sent you a vision. But she’s never been very direct when it comes to messages. It’s probably just the nature of this place playing tricks with you. We are in a kind of waking dream and such things could happen.”

“And one more thing,” I remembered. “I saw someone. He was a hideous thing, but he looked just like me. Like an imperfect portrait or reflection.”

“What did you say?” Faustine suddenly turned to me. Her eyes were alive with fear.

I stepped back, suddenly defensive. “I said he was like a reflection. He was very unpleasant to look at.”

“Did you tell him anything? What did he say to you?”

Faustine’s sudden change was summoning memories of my first few nights with her. “He called himself the Maer.”

Faustine struck her cane to the ground with great authority. “Listen to me closely: That is not a man, Marius. It is a thing. It is an evil, evil creature that will fill your head with poison if you let it!” She jabbed a finger in my direction. “If it appears again, do not listen to it!”

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“I didn’t say anything important to him,” I said, holding up my hands in defense. “I didn’t exactly like him.”

“That’s still too much,” Faustine gripped her cane firmly. “A Maer is not to be trusted. Do you know what Maer is short for?”

I shook my head.

“Night-Maer. They are evil creatures. They will twist your mind with their lies and treacheries. They will corrupt your mind if you let them in.”

I trembled. “Have you dealt with them before?”

“I know of them, yes.” Faustine smoothed back her feathers. “I wish to say no more on the subject. Promise that you will heed my warning.”

“I promise.”

Faustine nodded. “Good. Then let us continue walking.”

After we finished wandering the halls, I took to wandering. I was finally settling into my place here. The servants were accommodating. The house seemed less frightening than before.

And yet something’s missing, I thought.

I knew what I had to do.

I found my way to the painter’s studio and sat down in front of the easel. It was all there, just waiting for someone to use it. Faustine was vague about who this belonged to. She wasn’t forthcoming about certain things, but that was her choice. At the same time, I didn’t want to break any more rules. I was still wary of that, considering the last time that happened.

But it was all right here: the easel, the paint, the brushes. I think there was a canvas or two around here, too. All I had to do was just do something. I’m no stranger to impulsiveness, I conceded. How else did I end up here?

“Just one,” I said aloud.

I took a small canvas and set it on the easel. Then I rifled through the cabinet of paints for the simplest ones: red, yellow, blue, black, and white. I could do anything with these. I found a fresh cloth, brushes, and a palette. Then, with the blank canvas before me, I began to paint.

The painting, like all things, started with a blob. That blob then turned into streaks of color, which turned into rough suggestions of form. I had a vague idea of what I was doing: memories of an apple in one of my lessons came to mind. My teacher told me that a good painting was like building a house; and that a good foundation was essential. Large to small, Macro to micro. The basic areas first, then figuring out the proper values, then the details. It was so easy to jump the fine detail work, but that would only create more work for myself in the long term.

As I painted, emotions surfaced like flotsam. I was fourteen, on my first day with my teacher. He was an old man named Duchanne. His studio smelled like linseed, oil, and wine. He didn’t have a lesson plan so to speak. He told me to “just paint.”

Then it was a year later. I’d drawn and painted more than I’d done in that single year in my previous fifteen years on this earth. I’d produced as many bad paintings as good ones, but Duchanne told me that’s just what happened. It was all steps in the learning process. “The first step to being a master is being willing to learn.”

I wonder if there’s a sketchbook in here, I thought absently as I sharpened an edge. I really want to sketch again.

I forgot how much I enjoyed doing this. I felt like I had so much control here. Whatever I wanted, I could create. There was no limit to what I could do. It was so freeing to have that again. I wasn’t used to feeling in control of things. But when I was here, with my palette and my canvas, I could do anything.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home.” Faustine’s voice startled me from my artmaking trance.

“Oh no…” I immediately wiped off my brush. “I didn’t mean to stay, I just got distracted—”

“And you’re painting an apple, it looks like.” Faustine strode catlike into the room. “Temptation on your mind?”

“I’m sorry, truly.” I felt myself blushing. “I’ll leave immediately. I know I shouldn’t have been in here.”

“I never said you had to leave.” Faustine leaned on her cane and placed a hand on her hip, contrapposto-style. “You’re welcome to use it if you so desire.”

“I can?”

Faustine nodded.

I stood up and graciously took her hand. “Thank you.” I felt her trembling through my grasp. “What’s wrong?”

Faustine’s feathers were standing on end. “I… um, I’m not used to such closeness.”

“Oh.” I retracted my hands. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s alright.” She straightened herself out and brushed her feathers. “My family was not especially affectionate with me.”

“I couldn’t imagine why they would do that.”

“I think it was because I was born crippled.” Faustine motioned to her leg and presented her hands. “And my hands were not formed right, either. With all of this, they assumed that I had another condition that ran in our line: a sensitivity to light. My room was always kept dark, and I wore a veil when I went out. As far as I knew, there was no one else like me. So, I assumed I was uniquely broken.”

Thoughts of my feelings of inadequacy surfaced. “That sounds difficult to carry with you.”

“Indeed.” Faustine gazed around the room. “It is something of a happy coincidence that you are a painter. So was Genevive.”

“Who’s Genevive?” I asked.

“My sister. I thought she of all people would’ve cared. But she left along with my mother and father. No note, no message, nothing. I just woke one night, and they were gone.” Faustine shook her head. “I thought she of everyone, my sister, would’ve stayed. But I was wrong. So much for the closeness of blood.” She laughed bitterly.

“I know my family would do anything to protect me.” My heart sank at the thought of them. “But I don’t think I left home on the best of terms with them.”

“At least you had the privilege of leaving. To be abandoned is worse.”

I gazed down at the used brushes on the palette. “Maybe they’re more similar than you think.”

I spent the rest of the time before dinner just painting. It felt right to reacquaint myself with my art again. All the while my mind wandered to our earlier conversation. Every day I learned a little more about her and the sad life she had led. Her own family abandoning her, I thought, shaking my head. How heartless. To be all alone in this place, for who knows how long. She had her servants, sure, but they could only do so much to heal pain like that. Maybe nothing could.

I put down my paintbrush and leaned back in my chair. My painting of the apple was finished a while ago. Drying beside it was a landscape of mountains by the sea using the most vivid colors in the palette. I wanted to experiment with that one. It didn’t matter whether it turned out great or not. I thought it looked good, at least.

The one I’d just finished was unlike anything I’d done before. It was a raven, but no raven I’d ever seen. Instead of black beady eyes, this one’s eyes shined like blue stars. Its sleek head was framed by a silver moon. Its pose suggested regality, mystery, and distance.

That about sums it up, doesn’t it? I thought. Every time I learn something more about her, the mystery just deepens.