An Artificial Night

I OPENED MY EYES TO A WORLD MADE entirely of flowers. Entirely of white flowers, no less, morning glories and white roses and the delicate brocade of Queen Anne’s Lace. I blinked. The flowers remained.

“Okay, this is officially weird,” I murmured. A faint breeze stirred the flowers overhead, sending loose petals showering down over me. There was no perfume. Even when the wind was blowing, there was no perfume. I relaxed, suddenly understanding the reason for the bizarre change of scene. “Right. I’m dreaming.”

“That was fast, Auntie Birdie,” said an approving voice to my left.

I sat up, shaking petals out of my hair as I turned. “Given how often you people throw me into whacked-out dream sequences these days, it’s becoming a survival skill. Why are you in my dreams tonight, Karen? I’m assuming it’s not just boredom.”

My adopted niece looked at me gravely. She was kneeling in the grass, petals speckling her white-blonde hair and sticking to her cheeks. Her blue flannel pajamas made her look out of place, like she’d been dropped into the wrong movie. Karen is the second daughter of my best friend, Stacy Brown, and oh, right—she’s an oneiromancer, an unexpected talent that decided to manifest itself when she was captured by Blind Michael. She sees the future in dreams. She can also use dreams to tell people things she thinks they need to know. Lucky me, I’m a common target.

Good thing I like the kid, or I might get cranky about having my dreams invaded by a twelve-year-old on a semi-regular basis.

“There’s something you need to see,” she said, and stood, walking away into the flowers. Lacking any other real options, I stood, brushed the flower petals off my jeans, and followed.

She had an easier time making it out of the impromptu bower than I did; she was lower to the ground, and could duck under branches that slapped me straight across the face. Finally, swearing under my breath, I pushed the last spray of gauzy white irises aside and stepped into the open. My breath caught as I saw where we were, and I froze, wondering abstractly if I could actually pass out in a dream.

Amandine’s tower stood tall and proud in the dim Summerlands twilight, the stone it was made from seeming to glow faintly from within, like a lighthouse that never needed to be lit. Low stone walls circled the manicured gardens, providing a delineation of the borders without doing a thing to defend the place. Amandine never seemed to feel she needed defending, and when I was living with her, I was still too young to realize what a strange attitude this was in Faerie.

“Karen,” I said, slowly, forcing myself to breathe, “what are we doing here?”

“Just watch,” she said.

So I watched.

Dream time isn’t like real time; I don’t know how long we stood there, looking at my mother’s garden. Being there, even in a dream, made my chest ache. I spent half my childhood in that garden, trying to be something I wasn’t. It’s grown wild since Amandine abandoned her tower, and I’m glad. It’s the only reason I can bear to go there.

“There,” Karen whispered, taking my hand. “Look.”

Someone was approaching via the eastern gate. I narrowed my eyes, squinting in that direction, and went cold as I realized that I knew the woman starting down the garden path. Black hair, golden skin, pointed ears, and eyes the bruised-black of the sky between stars. Oleander de Merelands. I automatically tried to push Karen behind me. “Ash and elm,” I hissed. “Karen, get down.”

“Dream, Auntie Birdie,” she said calmly. “Just watch.”