more handsome than ever. He twirled me around, speeding up the pace as I learned the steps. It was a realistic dream, frighteningly so. My fingertips perceived the softness of the cashmere of his sweater, and under that, the strength of his muscles. At some point I heard a noise, like a pendulum clock striking the hours. I laughed. “Also in my dream!”
The sound of the pendulum was not particularly pleasing to me; it was a shrill sound, distressing and old.
Sebastian pulled away from me and he frowned. “I have to go.”
I jumped, as if struck by a bullet. “Do you really have to?”
“I must, Melisande. Dreams also end.” His quiet words were sad, and they sounded like a farewell.
“Will you come back?” I couldn’t let him leave like that, without putting up a fight.
He studied me carefully, as he always did during the day, in reality. “How could I not come back now that you've learned to dream?”
That poetic promise calmed my heartbeat, already uneven at the idea of not seeing him anymore. Not like this, at least.
The dream dimmed, like a candle flame. And so did the night.
The first thing I saw, opening my eyes, was the ceiling with the exposed beams. Then the window, half closed because of the heat.
I had dreamt for the first time.
Millicent Mc Millian gave me a kind smile when she saw me appear in the kitchen. “Good morning dear. Did you sleep well?”
“Like never before in my whole life,” I said laconically. My heart felt like it would burst out of my chest, when I remembered the star of my dream.
“I'm happy for you,” said the housekeeper, without knowing what I was referring to. She went into a detailed account of the day she spent in town. She told me of the mass and of her meeting with people whose names didn’t mean anything to me. As always I allowed her to speak, but my mind was occupied by much more enjoyable fantasies; my eye always fixed on the watch, in the feverish anticipation of seeing him again.
It was childish to think that this day would be different, that he would behave differently. It had been a dream, nothing else. But inexperienced as I was on the subject, I was under the illusion that it might reflect onto my real life.
When I entered the office he was opening some letters with a silver paper knife. He hardly looked up at my entrance.
“Another letter by my publisher. I turned off my cell phone so I wouldn’t have to talk to him! I hate people with no imagination... They have no idea of an artist's needs, of his timing, or his spaces...” His bitter tone brought me back to earth. No greeting, no special recognition, no sweet glance. Welcome to reality, I said to myself. How stupid of me to think the opposite! That's why I had never dreamt before. Because I had no beliefs, no hope; I didn’t dare to hope. I had to go back to being the same Melisande I was before I came to that house, before that meeting, before that illusion.
But maybe I'll dream about him again. That thought warmed me more than Mrs Mc Mililani’s tea, or than the blinding sun beyond the window.
“Well? What are you doing, standing there like a statue? Sit down, for crying out loud.”
I obediently sat down in front of him, his reproach still stinging.
He passed me the letter with a serious expression. “Write to him. Tell him he’ll have his manuscript on the due date.”
“Are you sure you’ll be able to finish it by then? I mean... You’re rewriting everything...”
He reacted angrily to what he thought was a criticism. “My legs are paralyzed, not my brain. I had a moment of crisis. It’s over. Definitely.”
I prudently stayed silent all morning, as I watched him press the computer keys with unusual energy. Sebastian Mc Laine got annoyed easily, he was moody and quick-tempered. It was easy to hate him, I considered, studying him secretly. And he was also gorgeous. Too much so, and he was aware of it. This made him doubly detestable. A non-existent person had appeared in my dream, the projection of my desires, not a real man, in the flesh. The dream had been a lie, a wonderful fairy-tale.
At a certain point he referred to the roses. “Change them, please. I hate to watch them wilt. I want them to be fresh at all times.”
I found my voice. “I’ll do it right away.”
“And be careful not to hurt yourself this time.” The harshness of his voice astonished me. I hadn’t prepared myself adequately for his repeated outbursts, loaded with spite.
I picked up the vase and brought it downstairs. Halfway down I met the housekeeper who rushed to help me. “What happened?”
“He wants new roses,” I explained breathlessly. “He says he hates to watch them wilt.”
The woman looked upwards. “He finds a new complaint every day.”
We brought the vase into the kitchen, and then she went to pick fresh roses, strictly red. I dropped to a chair, as if I had been contaminated by the mood of the house. I couldn’t stop thinking of that night’s dream, partly because it was the first of my life, and I could still feel the thrill of that discovery, and partly because it was so vivid, painfully so. The sound of the pendulum made me jump. It was so frightening that I had heard it in my dream too. Perhaps it was this detail that made it seem so real.
Tears flooded my eyes, unstoppable and useless. A sob escaped my throat, stronger than my notorious self-control. The house keeper found me in that state when she returned to the kitchen. “Here are the fresh roses for our lord and master,” she said cheerfully. Then she noticed my tears and brought her hands to her chest. “Miss Bruno! What happened? Are you ill? You’re not crying for Mr Mc Laine's reprimand, are you? He's a tease, as moody as a bear, and adorable when he remembers to be nice... Don’t worry about whatever he told you, he's already forgotten about it.”
“That's the problem,” I said with a tearful voice, but she didn’t hear me, already lost in one of her dialogues.
“Let me make you some tea; it’ll make you feel better. I remember that once, in the house where I worked before...”
I silently put up with her endless chatter, appreciating her failed attempt to distract me. I drank the hot drink, pretending to feel better, and I didn’t accept her offer to help me. I would carry the roses up. The woman insisted on accompanying me at least to the landing, and seeing her gentle determination, I couldn’t refuse. When I returned to the office I was the usual Melisande, my eyes dry, my heart in hibernation and my soul compliant.
The hours passed, as heavy as concrete, in a silence as dark as my mood. Mr Mc Laine ignored me for the whole time, speaking to me only when he couldn’t avoid it. The spasmodic desire for that day to end as soon as possible was the same as the one I had that morning to see him again. Could it have been only a few hours earlier?
“You may go Miss Bruno,” he dismissed me, without looking into my eyes.
I wished him a good evening, as polite and cold as he had been.
I was looking for Kyle, at his request, when I heard a sob coming from under the stairs. My eyes opened wide and I was uncertain about what to do. I hesitated, but then I came to the source of that noise, and what I saw was astounding.
Kyle was weeping with his face in the shadows, his shape indefinable. The man had a paper tissue, and was just a pale copy of the seducer I had met previously. I stared at him in amazement.
He noticed my presence, and stepped forward. “Do you feel sorry for me? Or are you having fun?”
I felt that I had been caught in the act of spying on him, like an indiscreet busybody. I resisted the temptation to justify myself.
“Mr Mc Laine is looking for you. He’d like to retire to his room for dinner. But... Are you okay? Is there anything I can do for you?”
His