Chapter 1 / Waking Beneath the Mist’s Sheets
Do you remember your childhood? I don’t. Not really. I mean… I do have a few memories, mostly from after I was seven or eight. But before that? Total blank. Thankfully, I still have a few photographs. Thanks to them, I can piece together a vague idea of that missing stretch of my life.
There are babies in them, little children playing. A red bicycle gleaming in the sun. A smiling family leaning out the window of a train carriage. There are mountain walks, a grandfather in a straw hat, a father who seems loving, a fulfilled mother, and even a little brother covered in mud. There’s also that enormous black cat we called Nounours, who looked far more like a panther than a sweet housecat.
One thing is certain: everyone looks happy. It’s funny, really. In photographs, we almost always do. And that was even truer back then, when every developed picture cost money. No fifty selfies a day, no magic filters. Just a moment. And if a moment was frozen like that, it meant it was worth existing, whether it was truly happy or not.
My therapist says I’ve repressed my memories. No kidding. And I pay him for that… what an irony. He regularly insists I should try hypnosis, figure out why. But I’d rather believe that if I don’t remember, it’s because my brain decided I was better off that way. Why would I go digging up things it saw fit to erase?
Still, according to his ever-helpful advice—billed at sixty euros an hour—my current life, which is hardly a disaster, would be the result of a difficult childhood: an absent father, an abandoned mother who did the best she could. And me, the eldest, the one who had to grow up fast in a world that, let’s be honest, has never been especially kind to children who are a little… different.
So I compensate. More specifically, I compensate for the absence of a male figure with men who become more useless one after another. I’ve had a few serious relationships. I was even in love once. But I ruined it all with my slightly too fiery personality. Well, I wasn’t the only one to blame, and I like to believe that when a couple falls apart, both people are at fault. It’s more reassuring that way.
What’s certain is that after that romantic disaster, my poor little heart turned to short-lived affairs. A little too often. And a little too intensely. You should see my therapist’s face when I tell him certain stories… He keeps his serious tone and perfectly blank expression, but the tips of his ears turn scarlet red. It’s adorable. Poor man—it gives me all kinds of inappropriate ideas.
Thankfully, with time, that need to fill the void has faded. I grew tired of easy hookups, of those apps where it’s so simple to get a free dinner and an orgasm. Always followed by a night alone, of course. There’s no way I’m sharing my intimacy, and besides, I sleep better on my own.
So I found myself a new hobby: traveling. Discovering new cultures, exploring unfamiliar landscapes, tasting every local dish I can get my hands on. My life is a little offbeat, I know that. Women my age are usually in relationships, married, mothers. No thank you.
My days are split between the business that takes up most of my time, a sport that lets me release a deep, buried anger, and a few friends who have become family. When I’m not in an airport with a backpack on, waiting for a flight, I’m in my apartment, drifting between a scalding bath and a good novel.
But for the past few days—or rather, the past few nights—my mind has found a new way to escape. I dream. You’ll say, like everyone else, that everybody dreams. I know. But these dreams are nothing like anything I’ve ever experienced in twenty-seven years. I remember them perfectly, down to the smallest detail, and while I’m in them, I know I’m dreaming. I wake up exhausted, sometimes even with marks on my body. A body that, incidentally, has begun to change in subtle ways.
It had started exactly five nights earlier. I had gone to bed early that night after an especially awful day, and when I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my bedroom. The room where I woke was steeped in a soft dimness. I wasn’t lost or afraid. On the contrary, I was certain I knew this place. It felt like a memory buried long ago…
I slowly pushed myself up. My body was stiff, my muscles sore. I was wearing a long black satin nightgown. Beside the bed, a pair of soft little slippers waited for me, carefully set in place as though I had gone to sleep here the night before. I slipped them on quickly—the stone floor was freezing—then made my way toward the light.
A small window, veiled behind smoked glass, let in a muted glow. Just enough to make out the room around me. Not enough to see what lay outside.
The bedroom, though rather small, still felt cozy despite its bare walls. Very thick rugs covered most of the floor, muffling even the faintest footsteps. The furniture, though austere and colorless, was obviously of excellent quality. The bed, on the other hand, was enormous. Big enough to host a four-person orgy without the slightest problem. The curtains draped around it added a note of sensuality and intimacy. It felt like the opening scene of an erotic film, all hazy and languid, almost unreal.
Near the bed stood a heavy dressing table topped with a vast ornate mirror, and the reflection it gave me was both familiar and… subtly different. My skin was paler, even though I love stretching out in the sun. And my tattoos? Gone. I already missed the unicorn on my arm, not to mention the black sleeve I’d only just painfully finished.
My hair was an intense raven black. Gone were the pretty golden highlights. Now it fell in natural waves, thicker, wilder, brushing just past my shoulders. My eyes, still just as black, gleamed with a new kind of mischief. The contrast was unsettling. Beneath my long, dark lashes, they looked larger, sharper… almost magnetic.
And my mouth… Wow. It looked like I’d just walked out of some luxury beauty salon: lush, almost blood-red, striking against my pale skin. Like a perverse version of Snow White. And honestly? I loved it.
My smile widened as I took in this new version of myself. I liked her. Really liked her. I took my nightgown off with real pleasure. The silk against my skin felt incredible. I really ought to buy one for myself. A real one, I mean.
My bare white skin gave me a strange feeling. It had been years since I’d last seen myself without all the ink from my tattoos. Then again, I’ve been getting more and more of them, and I’m starting to run out of empty space… This skin felt foreign. Smooth. Perfect, almost unreal, as if it didn’t entirely belong to me anymore. Maybe a little too perfect, actually. There was no trace of the many scars I’d collected thanks to my legendary clumsiness. And the fresh bruises from last week’s boxing match? Gone.
My breasts were fuller, my nipples a deep pink. My figure, once toned by boxing, had softened. I was slimmer. Too slim, if you ask me. Skinny. My legs looked fragile, as though they had never run anywhere. And between my thighs, at the curve of my pubis, was a thick patch of hair as black as the hair on my head. Apparently, the version of me in this dream had never heard of laser hair removal.
I laughed to myself and dropped into the small armchair beside the bed. Then again, the muscles in my legs had faded too, even though they’d once been beautifully defined. The scars on my knees were gone as well, little souvenirs from that famous red bicycle. And there wasn’t a trace of polish on my toenails either, even though they’re usually always painted some color or other.
To my right, an enormous wardrobe caught my eye. I got up and turned the handle. And there it was… every girl’s dream—or at least every gothic girl’s dream—made real. Clothes. So many clothes. Mostly dresses, all of them dark. Black for the most part, sometimes deep gray, but not a single hint of color.
The quality was incredible. The seams alone breathed quiet luxury, and I know what I’m talking about. I chose a long-sleeved dress and pulled it over my head. The fabric was so fluid it practically slid over my naked skin, light as air and yet instantly warm against the chill of the room. The sleeves, slightly flared at the wrists, fit perfectly. The dress fell just above my ankles, clearly tailored for me—elegant, sober… at first glance. The neckline was square across the chest, edged with a strip of sheer lace. Almost modest.
But from the back… that was another story. The entire back was bare, all the way down to the top of my ass. And on the right side, a slit ran high up my thigh, leaving very little to the imagination. And yet the dress wasn’t trying to seduce. It imposed itself, with a quiet kind of confidence. Every movement of the fabric felt calculated, as if to remind me that elegance like this comes at a price: being looked at. That was when I understood that nothing here had been left to chance.
When I opened another door, I found, on the inside panel, a row of small belts in dark leather. They fastened around the thighs, fitted with hooks. For fastening what, exactly? On the opposite panel was a lovely collection of daggers. Each one rested in a finely engraved sheath.
This dream was getting weirder by the second. And then… one detail struck me. Everything in the room was immaculate. Perfectly maintained. Everything… except the daggers. They were coated in dust. Some looked rusted, others stained—and with what, I’d rather not know. A shiver ran down my spine.
I kept searching and eventually found lingerie in a small drawer. I slipped on a genuinely sexy pair of lace panties; I’d have to remember the design for Luc. To finish the outfit, I found a pair of black stockings and knee-high boots made of a leather I didn’t recognize at all. It looked like snakeskin, with pretty metallic reflections in the muted light.
Back in front of the mirror, I looked at myself. Really looked. I was… different. Changed. I looked younger, less worn down by time, smoother, beautiful—but in another way. In any case, it wasn’t really me. Almost…
As I tamed my dark hair, I noticed thin scars running from my right ear down to my collarbone. They were almost invisible. Several of them, very fine. They must have dated back to early childhood; they were so faint I could barely feel them beneath my fingertips.
And yet… A sudden unease tightened around my throat. A dull fear swept through me—inexplicable, ancient, animal. And there, in front of the mirror, I found silent tears on my face. They appeared on their own, without warning, gathering at the corners of my eyes. I didn’t understand why I was crying.
I jumped when I heard the sound of keys. The handle turned. A young woman dressed in white came through the door, letting in a blinding flood of light. My eyes took a moment to make out her face. At first she looked surprised… then, little by little, fear appeared in her eyes as she stared into mine. Her mouth hanging open, she stammered a few incomprehensible words. She stepped back and fled down the hallway as fast as her shadow, leaving the door wide open behind her.
At least her interruption drove the strange marks on my neck from my mind. I headed toward the door, my legs still aching. No one. The light was coming from floating globes. Seriously? Floating? Where the hell had my brain dug up sci-fi elements for this dream?
They hovered gently about three feet above the ground, casting a bluish glow over the rough stone walls. The hallway ended to the right of the bedroom, but it was impossible to see what lay to the left: it seemed to stretch on forever.
A little lost, and starting to get genuinely irritated by this bizarre, nonsensical dream, I went back to sit on the bed. After all, they could come and get me. Preferably a virile man, while we’re at it, so I could make proper use of this exceptionally wide bed.
No such luck. After a while, the girl came back, out of breath, cheeks flushed, breathing hard. She looked to be around twenty. Quite short, not skinny, not curvy either. Her blonde hair was braided and draped over one shoulder. Her dress and apron, both spotless white, made her look like a maid out of a Victorian novel. She had large brown eyes and pretty freckles across her nose and cheekbones. She instantly reminded me of those secondary characters in the soft, rosy romances my friend Cléo adores.
She slowly caught her breath, then bowed her head slightly. “Good morning, my Lady.”
My Lady? Seriously?
“Forgive my astonishment… we did not expect you to wake for several more days. My name is Enyd.”
“Nice to meet you, Enyd. I’m Salomé.”
I stood to go toward her, but she suddenly took a step back, one hand pressed to her heart, as though my approach frightened her. I’m used to it, but even in a dream, that kind of reaction always stings a little.
“Where are we, Enyd? This dream is interesting, but… no disrespect intended, I would’ve preferred a sexy stable boy.”
I laughed softly and gave her a wink, trying to put her at ease.
No such luck there either.
“We are in the home of Lady Lirael, protector and regent of the Land of Mist.”
No kidding. Cléo would love this dream.
“My Lady has asked whether you are ready to join her in her sitting room.”
“With pleasure, Enyd. But please—dream or no dream—drop the formal address.”
She couldn’t possibly have looked any more frightened. So I decided to follow her and keep my sarcasm to myself.
I couldn’t wait to wake up.
