PERKINS 010: A Stitch In Time

It had failed, the whole thing had failed. All of their plans, all of their hopes and dreams gone.

It was all her fault. On the night that they were supposed to make the journey to New Jersey, she had made a simple request. It was small, but she had said the wrong thing.

PERKINS

TAKE MY HAND.

DON’T BE AFRAID.

IT’S ALL GOING TO BE ALRIGHT.

And he had said nothing, simply put his trust in her. She was supposed to protect him, to keep him safe. But she’d been careless. Her last words to him rang in her head, taunting her. That nagging resentment–this was all so unfair! They’d just been married! They were going to spend eternity together! They hadn’t had enough time to develop their potions, no, they’d been focused on other things.

And it was as if all his worst fears had come true. Fears she’d chided him about, even belittled him. How she regretted that cavalier attitude now!

Who was there to blame? Only herself. But as she reflected, what could she really have done? She could have been more careful, but no guarantee that would have changed anything. So was the capricious nature of magic. Magic giveth, magic taketh.

It galled her that they’d not had the chance to have children. She wasn’t sure if she’d wanted them, but now the choice was taken from her, made for her. She would never have children by Bronald. She mourned for the emptiness, mourned the void. Here she was, in his house, surrounded by his things, and where was he? Lost in the nothingness of space and time.

Trente Gagarin had been little help.

PERKINS

YOUR MAJESTY, I’M AFRAID TO REPORT THAT BRONALD IS…

HE’S…

GONE.

TRENTE

GONE WHERE?

PERKINS

I THOUGHT…

I THOUGHT WE WOULD PRACTICE ASSISTED TRANSPORTALATION IN PREPARATION FOR THE RELOCATION.

IT WAS A STUPID IDEA.

I SHOULD HAVE WAITED FOR YOU.

I MUST HAVE MADE A MISCALCULATION AND HE FELL THROUGH A RIFT.

TRENTE

ARE YOU SURE THAT IS WHAT HAPPENED?

PERKINS

IT ALL HAPPENED SO SUDDENLY…

BUT YES, I AM SURE THAT IS WHAT HAPPENED.

I SAW IT WITH MY OWN EYES.

TRENTE

SOMETIMES WE CANNOT TRUST OUR SENSES.

PERKINS

IT WAS MY ERROR.

I THOUGHT IF WE JUST, WELL, PRACTICED, IT WOULD PUT HIM AT EASE WHEN WE WOULD FINALLY MOVE HIS HOME.

I SHOULD HAVE–

TRENTE

YOU DID WHAT YOU COULD, I AM SURE.

HIS LOSS IS A TRAGEDY.

WHAT DO YOU NEED FROM ME?

I paused, unprepared for the question.

PERKINS

ARE YOU STILL MOVING OUR HOME TONIGHT?

TRENTE

I DO NOT KNOW.

I DO THINK IT WOULD BENEFIT YOU TO BE NEAR YOUR PEOPLE IN THIS TIME.

IT IS NOT GOOD FOR YOU TO BE ALONE.

BUT TO MOVE YOU NOW WILL REQUIRE A MORE CAREFUL HAND AND I AM NOT INCLINED TO RUSH THINGS IF YOU ARE NOT PREPARED.

WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO?

Again she made a request of me and again my thoughts stumbled through the dark.

I said the first thing that came to mind.

PERKINS

I…

I DO NOT WANT TO BE ALONE.

TRENTE

THEN I WILL BRING YOU HERE.

GO TO SLEEP, STAY IN THE HOUSE, AND WHEN YOU WAKE, YOU WILL BE SOMEWHERE SAFE.

PERKINS

THANK YOU, YOUR MAJESTY.

How could I sleep at a time like this? I could still feel adrenaline rushing through my veins. I had just lost my husband! How could I ever possibly hope to rest?

But now she was all I had. There would be no funeral, there would be no ritual of the rites, no, life would simply go on without him.

But he had been the one who had saved her! On his mechanical steed, he’d whisked her off her feet and delivered her from the jaws of the monster. Isn’t that how it had happened? Her head was fuzzy, her thoughts swirled, but it felt good to remember him in the best possible light: her savior.

She had just become comfortable with her life. For the first time ever? Something about Myrtle rang in her head.

And something about someone else. But who was it?

Grief had a funny way of scrambling thoughts.

She hadn’t been grateful for him when he’d been alive. Tears welled up in her eyes, but no release came. And after all, it was pity for herself. She’d so often treated him poorly, taken him for granted. Thinking she always had tomorrow to make amends.

But now there was no tomorrow.

She tried to sleep, tried to console herself that when she woke, she’d be near the Queen and life would go on.

Change. Perhaps she had desired it. Her life had always been constant change, hadn’t it? Had the universe done this to her because she’d wanted it? She had never felt right simply sitting anywhere. There was always something she needed to be doing.

The Queen would save her. The Queen would reassure her. The Queen would assert that she’d done nothing wrong.

All she needed to do was fall asleep.

Her bed felt like stone. It was that now - “her” bed. Only hers. Isn’t that what she’d always wanted? Hadn’t she felt flashes of hatred and resentment when her husband was asleep inside of ten minutes? Hadn’t she wished him gone instead of listening to his breathing as he’d slept?

And had she not also hated his choice in television? Yes, she’d wished for silence many a night. She had thought his taste vapid, dull, and even used it as evidence to question his intellect. Her interests were worthy of attention, and his were not. But by what merit? Because they were different? Maybe, she feared, because they touched upon joy.

She had spent her life running from joy. It was not for her to touch. Perhaps some of that fear was unjustly thrust upon her when she’d been left in the care of her grandmother, but even later in life, when it came into her proximity, she’d dismissed it as a sin. But she’d wanted joy, hadn’t she? Somewhere deep inside of her, she had hoped in vain that it would come to her, if only she’d let herself embrace it.

Perhaps that is why she’d married him.

She lifted her blankets and turned onto her other side. Sleep was still a ways off.

There had been no grand proposal, no moment for the storybooks. No, marriage just seemed like something they should do, something that should be done, something overdue.

And she had thought it would make her happy. She supposed that part of her was like any other little girl, that making him happy would in turn grant her happiness as well. He had wanted it, she reflected, probably more than she, herself.

But something had held her back. No, and she stirred in heart, body, and mind with these uncomfortable thoughts, she had not loved him with her entire heart. Her husband had been completely loyal to her. Perhaps that had paradoxically frightened her. Who was he if he could love someone like her? Yes, it had scared her and beckoned her to remain at arm’s length. But something else had kept her reserved as well.

It was not simply that she did not love him, no, that was not the case. She had loved him. But that love was not the right color, was it? She had wanted to love him because he’d saved her. Because it seemed right to repay love with love.

But there had been something in the way. What it was eluded her, but she had a certainty that it was there.

But what was it? She fumbled to grasp at her emotions. She hated emotions, so immobile, so monolithic. They got in the way of progress and reason.

They’d gotten in the way of her loving her husband.

Because that is what she should have done. After he’d risked his life to liberate her, and after he’d given true love’s first kiss, she should have repaid him in kind. A life for a life.

But again, her emotions got in the way of duty. She had not wanted this life. She had wanted something else.

She waded through murky memories. Long ago, she’d spent years somewhere, looking for something. She’d been alone in that time, near destitute, penniless, hungry. That emotion had been easier to tolerate, hadn’t it? She had felt more comfortable driven by whip than spoiled upon cushions. That need, want, requirement. It felt deserved, justified. It felt like there was reason for her to be in that place. But was that just window-dressing on yet another emotion?

She had always taken her magical Talent as a sort of a given. Like her husband, this was just a fact of life. But back then, there was something she had wanted more.

She thought of the Matron. So frail she had seemed, without her magic. The few times conversation had stumbled upon the Elixir of Life, it seemed evident that such mysteries still eluded the Great Matron. Something vindictive stirred as she wandered over these memories. In her jealousy, perhaps she’d been happy that the Matron would vanish from the world. That still left her something she could have as an advantage over the old woman. Yes, the old Crone would disappear, but she would not. She would live forever.

That would be how she’d get back at those who’d been responsible for setting her back. Her mother, father, grandmother, even Myrtle in her infirmity. She would dance upon their graves. And perhaps she’d wanted Bronald there too, playing the trumpet. She’d raise him to surpass what he thought he was capable of, and someday they’d be worthy.

She winced. That thought wasn’t right, was it? Shouldn’t it be that he was already worthy?

She had a habit of placing herself above all the others. Perhaps that is why she so valued her association with the NSR. They gave her something to aspire to.

She continued to toss and turn. If she could not fall asleep, then she could not wake and find herself in the Queen’s realm. She had finally cast off her yoke–

No!

She winced and buried her face in her hands. She could not think this way! She had loved Bronald, hadn’t she? She felt at peace when they ate dinner together. She had blushed at his praise and let it absorb into her flesh. She had made plans to develop his magic and she had wanted to do it, wanted to be there. She had wanted to banish his cynicism and soothe away his fears. But maybe she hadn’t done it for him and his sake. Maybe she’d wanted to reshape him in her image.

Something told her that wasn’t what Love was supposed to be about. But then, what was it? Everyone, everything that she’d ever loved had become a dictator, something that commanded her every thought and she hated it. But that love, no, that obsession, gave her a constant companion when she could not stand to look herself in the mirror.

Mirror? A memory flooded her mind and she allowed herself to indulge as she tossed her pillow aside in an attempt to find comfort laying flat on her stomach.

Yes, the Matron had said something of mirrors once, a very long time ago. It was stupid, she’d thought. Just one of the myths the Matron had perpetuated in the interest of giving the Orphans some kind of cultural background.

The old hag had said that a mirror was not a reflector as it appeared. She claimed it was actually a window into an alternate reality that lay very close to the one we found ourselves in. How did one know it was a window?

The Matron claimed things were different on the other side. No two universes could ever be exactly the same (for then they’d be but one universe) and if you stilled your mind and looked very carefully, you would see the differences between that world and our own.

In her shame, she recalled spending an inordinate amount of time staring at herself in these so-called windows. Somewhere, she concluded, was another Friday Perkins desperate to disprove the mortals’ science. Or maybe it was the Matron she wanted to catch in a falsehood. At any rate, someone was wrong and she wanted to be the one who found the evidence.

So she stared. And stared. And stared. But nothing ever came.

…Or did it?

She wracked her brain searching for some kind of clue to what she thought she remembered.

Hadn’t the Queen said that she and Bronald were victims of a memory charm? But if she could not trust her own mind, what could she trust?

She wanted to reach out to her husband for solace, but he was not here. Tomorrow she would have to meet the Queen by herself. She felt partial, incomplete.

Sleep would never find her if she wallowed in guilt. The gears in her mind would keep turning, churning out fuel for the fire.

Suddenly she realized how very alone she was. There was not another being in the house but her. What if someone attacked? Could she call on her Talent in this emotional state?

Of course she could! Hadn’t she been one of the most talented Orphans at the Magicademy? Yes, she had. Maybe she hadn’t the raw ability of Tzu or Larry, but she’d more than made up for it by studying and working hard. And that would carry her far. She’d never been the Matron’s favorite but who gave a damn? She hadn’t been there to make friends or impress anyone but herself. She wasn’t like them. They were soft, sentimental, weak. Always looking for validation from the Matron. But if life had taught her anything, it was that most things but especially one’s acquaintances, were impermanent. The only constant on which one could rely was the self. Everyone else would be gone when she needed them.

Even Bronald.

The flare of anger disappointed her. Why should she be angry with him? This wasn’t his fault. He didn’t ask to die. And even if he had, death so rarely comes to those who crave its silence. No, this was her fault. It was her miscalculation that left this realm without her husband. Her careless hand had allowed him to fall into nothingness.

He did not leave her. She had left him.

And still the tears did not flow. Perhaps she was still in a state of shock and she could not expect to cry until some time had passed. But she feared that she would never cry. She so rarely did.

Except, of course, when she felt frustrated. It had been a while since she’d found herself in that vulnerable emotional state, but that was the place where she was most likely to fall into a show of waterworks.

If only she could break her own rules, she thought, and shed a tear for her husband. Wasn’t this supposed to be an event in one’s life that was more tragic than any other? Some people were so affected by the loss of their spouse that they vowed to never take another lover so long as they live. Was she that kind of woman?

There was something beautiful in it, the affirmation of the belief that you had already found your soulmate and that no one else could ever replace them. She wanted that love. She wanted to be a party to that kind of devotion.

And after all, she could not even think about another man. The very consideration of sexual relations was anethema to her right now.

She remembered when she had first heard the term “widow’s fire”. It had been raised to her attention by one of the more contemptable Orphans. This particular individual asked whether she thought the Matron suffered such a malady.

Friday was disgusted. She did not want to soil her mind imagining that the Matron bared her skin to anyone. It suited her that the Matron was entirely asexual: now, then, and into perpetuity. Her sex drive could not increase because it had been nonexistant to begin with.

But, that couldn’t be true, could it?

She felt sleep begin to crowd at the edges of her consciousness but it was still a ways off.

Wasn’t it true that the Matron had a singular son by her deceased husband? But she couldn’t conjure a picture of his face, nor could she remember the sound of his voice. Was he real? Had she simply imagined him?

No. No, she insisted to herself. It was true that she could not completely trust her own memory - she had been victim of a memory charm after all - but this was something she had not made up. The Matron did have a son, even if she could not remember him. Maybe he was old. At least, older than her. The Matron was, what, eighty? Ninety? She had no idea.

Sometimes she wondered what had kept the Magicademy running as a well-oiled machine. Though there had been many Orphans, she could not recall a time when they took advantage of the Matron by virtue of their superior numbers. Rather, they were all quite well-behaved, perhaps eager to extract wisdom from the old woman on the nature of magic. Maybe some of them were grateful that their lot had improved. Friday herself had never known the walls of an orphanage but she knew that some of the children had. The Magicademy was certainly formed in the image of a group home, but it offered an education that could liberate the otherwise damned. Only a fool, child or not, would refuse that offer.

Bronald, on the other hand, had never received such an education on magic. Yes, he had a mother, and she had to admit she had no small amount of jealousy over that fact, but she had learned that the simple existence of biological parents was not enough to cure all the ills a child might face. Certainly Bronald’s mother had instilled in him a number of fears she did not war with.

And though she had once thought her Magicademy education to be in the lower percentile, as she went forward in her experience, she suspected this was not the case.

When she’d been on the run - but why had she been on the run?

She had been looking for something. But what?

Maybe one of the reasons she’d resented Bronald is that she felt she had nothing she could learn from him. He’d always looked up to her, envied her. Though she’d always regarded herself as part of the underclass, it was he who’d suffered the indignity of ignorance.

Maybe that was part of the difficulty of it all. Being with Bronald meant accepting nuance, which she did not like. It was easier when the world was painted in black and white. Rich and poor. Magical and Mortal. Immortal–

What was the path to eternal life? Yes, she concluded - that must have been what she had been searching for. The secret to avoiding death. She knew that a great many mages never discovered the path to immortality. It was different for every individual so it was not simply something one could look up in a book. Rather, the path to eternal life consisted of developing your own particular cure for the curse of mortality. She had to eventually conclude that the influence of a biological mother or father made this task no more straight forward. Of course she had the tendency to add qualifiers - perhaps a mother or father would not make the journey easier but wasn’t it true that those without stable formative years were more likely to struggle with basic issues like finding enough food or sustaining healthy relationships? And if one could not satisfy the basic needs, like building the base of a pyramid, the very foundation of the structure would collapse?

She concocted a myriad of reasons to excuse herself from accountability concerning her failure to develop her potion of immortality. Not the least of which was that by virtue of comparison, if Myrtle had not done it, why should she be expected to have done any better?

Of course, this was faulty as well. Because in all other cases, she regarded herself as better, superior, even, to the Matron Marscapone. But if she could not complete her life’s work, then her feelings were upon a bed of sand.

So, she must have left, then. After the Magicademy. Yes, that narrative seemed right. She left the city to pursue her potion. For she had not come from that place, so could she very well hope to glean the ultimate truths in its shadows? But that didn’t seem quite right as well. Though she had not been born in the city, was this not where she came of age, and truly, as the Mortals say, found herself?

Yes, she owed a debt to this place, as she owed a debt to Myrtle, as she owed a debt to Bronald. Was that the key error, that she’d gone to the forests to seek truth when it had been in the libraries all along?

She felt something familiar in this revelation, as if she had been here before. She had gone to remote locations, thinking the secrets lay in plain sight but the reality was that they lay in even plainer sight.

She’d returned to the Magicademy.

And what she had found was even more terrifying. The Matron had been seeming to be approaching the realm of death. And if the Matron could die, she could too.

But the Matron wouldn’t die because she had begat a son.

That was what she was looking for, wasn’t it? The secrets behind her fertility at such an advanced age? But the very question disgusted her. Surely there was more to it than that. Magic worked in mysterious ways. Many a man’s life was lost trying to ascribe law to the inexplicable.

There must have been something else. She could not believe herself so stupid to chase after the incorporeal.

Incorporeal. That without a body. The things one could not see.

The Matron’s son. Christopher? Clark?

She had only seen him a handful of times. So few, in fact, she suspected he was what he appeared to be, a ghost, a spectre. There had been many a room in the house that had been kept locked and forbidden, and one in particular she suspected was the boy’s bedroom. And one night, she’d been out of bed, traipsing about, and she’d sworn she’d seen someone she didn’t recognize. She’d done a double-take and he’d vanished. Or had she imagined him to begin with?

No, this was reality. But why was the boy such a recluse? Did he consider himself too good to associate with the likes of them? When did Myrtle find time to teach him magic when it seemed she spent all day with the Orphans?

It all seemed so inconsequential but it was a respite from her grief. She needed to get to sleep and she feared it would never come if she were mired in her regrets.

It was more comfortable to instead think of the things she disliked. That anger was like an old pair of jeans, it was worn in just to her liking. It was a comfortable scapegoat when she was feeling resentful.

Considering how many years of her life she’d spent there, she had few contacts from that time. The only person she could even call a friend was Larry. But something kept her from getting close to him. Perhaps it was that he seemed to idolize the Matron. Her complaints about the holes in their education fell on deaf ears. He would defend Myrtle to his dying breath. But I knew better. There was no such thing as a wholly altruistic act. Rather, she believed that every act done by a human benefitted the actor in some way. Myrtle would be no exception to this rule. There was a reason she started the Magicademy, and that reason was not simply due to the goodness of her heart. The most obvious seemed to be that she wanted to secure a faction of mages loyal to her. But so many of the children had gone their own ways after graduation - if that were her aim, it did not seem she was being very successful.

Some old wizard’s tales told of a chosen one. And wouldn’t any old witch of middling talent be glad to find herself as their adoptive mother? This “Chosen One” was a mage fabled to bring about the end of the Enchanted living in the shadows. They would be able to show their faces and work their craft without fear. For a long time, Friday hoped that she were the Chosen One. She wanted to be famous and be recognized as special. Her hard work would not be in vain and her struggles would be validated because she had a destiny to fulfill.

But as she had become older, the dream had fallen to the wayside, the prospect of supporting the world upon her shoulders seeming daunting. Many aspire to greatness, especially the young, before the monotony of life wears them down. Being recruited by the Doctor Trelaine and the NSR had tempted to revive that dream. Only this time, the dream was in color because it seemed more plausible than ever before. Yes, it felt like maybe she could be great because this time she wasn’t alone - she had help. Maybe she wasn’t the Chosen One - and that suspicion stung a little - but maybe she could come close by being allied with greatness. It did not scintillate quite as brightly as her vain childish hopes, but maybe this one, unlike the rest, would come true.

Finally, her face seized with the threat of tears. They did not fall but her eyes were wet with anguish. It was true, wasn’t it? So many times life had let her down. And today was another disappointment to add to the pile. Her husband was gone and to make matters worse, it was due to her own carelessness. Maybe life kept kicking her in the shins, but maybe she was bringing it upon herself. She was alone again. She had tasted the joy of companionship only to lose it just a moment after she’d grasped it.

Men always leave, she reflected. Just like -

And her tears stopped. Like who? The name, the face, the sense-memory fluttered away like a dream fades in the morning’s coffee. Her father? She’d never known him and she rarely thought of him. Her grandmother, too, had been made a widow, though it had been long ago. No, this had felt as a flash of anger very different than the quiet, resentment she felt for the absent father figures.

She could not deny that she was forgetting something important. Something very close to her heart had become obscured by mist. Was this the memory charm? Who had done this to her, and why? Why had they wanted her to forget?

But she would not let go. No, this thought, this feeling, it was hers. She would not let go. Like a dog with a bone–

Dog. A dog.

She hated dogs, she thought. Always slobbering, always in a state of thoughtless need. I want walks, I want food, I want play, I want–

Her heart dropped.

I want to live forever.

That was what she had wanted. Yes, her potion could offer such a boon, but it was contingent on so many conditions. She would live forever if she could discover her recipe, if she could find the ingredients, if she could continue to source them from an ever-changing world.

But there was one creature that did not fear the Reaper’s scythe.

It was the Vampire.

Her mind was flooded with satisfaction as the puzzle snapped into focus.

She had realized that the Matron’s son was not simply agoraphobic, as was her earliest hypothesis. He was afflicted with the curse of vampirism. That was why he did not associate with the Orphans and that was why she’d only seen him outside his room at night. And that was why she’d left the Magicademy and that was why she’d returned.

But when she’d returned, she’d not found Kevin. No, she had found something better. She had found someone vulnerable, someone who did not wear the walls of the Magicademy like a shield.

She had found Mandarc.

How could she forget the first time they had met? She had been shocked by the degree of his simpering demeanor. He cowered in the shadow of the old man, and for what? What did one of the fabled nightfolk have to fear? She would come to find that he was trying to hide his terror, but even from the start, she could see through it. He possessed a number of weaknesses she associated with mortals - distractability, emotionality, jealousy. He was a manchild in a body that did not suit him. A quiet schadenfreude filled her as she recalled his arithmomania. And how he had stooped to his knees, practically on her beck and call in order to please her! For a while, it had seemed like it was going to be all too easy to take his power for her own. She had started out slow, trying to gain his trust. But maybe her overconfidence had done her in.

He had refused to grant her eternal life. Just the recollection galled her! He gave some song and dance about how it was a curse and that being a mage was better. Would it be better if she were dead?! Giving her the gift of eternal life would cost him nothing, and yet he’d refused to give. That was when she knew their relationship was over. He did not love her enough, and after all they’d been through! She had dared stand against the Doctor Trelaine by curing one of his agents - and that memory made her uncomfortable. She was grateful that the Doctor had seen to grant her mercy. Certainly he did not have to, but he’d done it anyway.

And Mandarc had deserved her betrayal. He had never even tried to give himself to their bond, always reserving his loyalties for his friends. His - male - friends.

Cedric. Damn him! He had been like her once, one of the Enchanted. But he had been changed. Mageblood had not made him immune to the Curse as so many liked to repeat. That smarmy asshole had done it so why couldn’t she?

He had always been everyone’s favorite. The Orphans, in their pathetic habit of fawning over their seniors, had kept him in their idle gossip long after he’d left the Magicademy. Tzu idolized him, putting him on a pedastal she might have reserved for an older brother. But she was deluded. They had no siblings. The world had left them Orphans. The wise would see the truth - it was every man for himself.

In the end, she’d realized that the Matron must have been in collusion with the Vampire. She had gone so far away only to learn that the secret had been right under her nose the entire time. Her heart burned in rage and she knew none of them could ever be trusted.

That was why she’d gone to Bronald. She needed to free herself from anything to do with the Magicademy. After discovering that her life was a lie, she swore to rebuild it. She was worth more than being a pawn in someone else’s elaborate game of deception. She had Talent, she had work ethic, she had moxie. She had the will to survive.

Maybe she would never be a vampire. Maybe she wouldn’t live forever. She may be destined to fade into dust and be scattered to the wind. It was difficult to even approach these possibilities but she vowed to keep going with the same determination that had gotten her this far. For once, she had been nothing but starstuff floating in an uncaring universe, not yet possessed of a soul nor even belonging to a planet. And yet, somehow she’d made it here and collected into one being and born. Yes, she’d been unloved and unwanted, but she had transcended all of that. Considering how the odds had been in the house’s favor, she’d florished, and triumphed, even.

No, she reasoned. Let’s not put the cart before the horse. She had not yet won because the game was still being played. And it had not been too many moons since she left black and started playing for white. Once she had believed man to be her salvation, but she had been mistaken. The age of Men and Mortals was drawing to a close. Soon would rise the era of Magic and Mystery. She was the Flower and the Soil, the feminine, the Mother, the Divine. Life began with her. In her grief, a grief began long before her mind had been given Word, she’d assumed she was missing something essential. She’d gone to the ends of the Earth to find it, but her hands remained empty because there was nothing to be found. She was the Goddess. They wanted her because of what she had but could not see. So it remained for her to turn her gaze inward, where it belonged, and recognize her own fullness. Anything she could want, she already had. She had the blueprint for her own utopia.

In the morning, she would wake and find herself at the side of the Great Queen. The Great Queen would wipe away her tears and tell her that everything was going to be okay. And finally, she would believe her. The doubt that had clouded her mind would vanish, replaced by hope and faith, a flame fueled by dedication and diligence. The voice rang clear and beautiful in her mind because it was one she knew so intimately but had never dared to trust:

Her own.