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My consciousness transported to a world of inverse colors and flying horses, each detail as vivid as if I were experiencing it for myself—the warmth of the horse’s body pulsing beneath mine, the wind tousling my hair as it carried me through a cloud-filled sky, the glimmer of sunbeams caressing my face, and the scent of rosebuds tickling my nose from the wreath crowning the horse’s neck.

I suddenly jerked from the dream and found myself back outside the village gate as if nothing had happened, my memory the only evidence of the experience that had danced across my senses, as if I’d just stumbled inside a storybook. I eagerly concentrated on one floating light after another, each a fantastic vision as unique as a painting done by a different artist. Up until then I’d never experienced these adventures on my own, but after much reading I’d discovered these imaginative journeys—which seemed to be viewed by people of all ages while they slept—were called dreams.

And I’d been watching and recording them ever since.

I lifted a loose floorboard beneath my bed of pillows, where I kept all of my dream journals safely tucked away. I pulled one out, already filled with dozens of dreams jotted in my untidy scrawl, and curled in bed to record Alice’s dream in every detail I could remember—the mysterious tree with its labyrinth of rooms, the gentle caress of each leaf dipped in surreal colors, the kiss of the sun and sea breeze, the smell of the surrounding ocean…

“Eden?” Mother’s shrill voice echoed off the beams of the ceiling. “Get down here this instant. I’m waiting.”

“Coming.” Yet I didn’t move, torn between pleasing Mother and incurring more of her disapproval. After a moment of internal struggle, I settled more comfortably against my pillows to reread the dream, a more pleasant alternative to whatever awaited me downstairs.

It almost felt as if I were re-experiencing it myself. I thumbed through previous entries, revisiting each like an old friend. So many different varieties, each with a unique flavor. What I wouldn’t give to have a dream of my very own, just one, but my nights were long and empty.

My heart jolted as Mother’s footsteps pounded up the ladder. I scrambled to lift the floorboard and shoved the journal inside just as Mother appeared, hands pressed against her hips.

“What are you doing? I told you we need to bake bread.” She frowned at my opened bottle of ink and my smudged fingertips. Her forehead puckered. “Writing again? What is it you’re always writing?”

My heartbeat escalated. I recognized the suspicious glint in Mother’s eyes, the look she got when her motherly instinct suspected I was up to something.

Please don’t find my journals, I silently prayed. She couldn’t discover the secrets I’d so carefully kept hidden over the years out of fear that if she knew them, she’d despise me like the rest of the villagers. Her eyes narrowed at my silence, and I braced myself for the inevitable confrontation.

But to my surprise, Mother dropped the issue without argument. That was unusual. She glanced out the window, brow furrowed. “Come downstairs.” Her tone warned me against disobeying again.

Five minutes later we stood together in the kitchen, our fingers burrowed in the soft loaves. Normally, Mother pounded the dough into submission with an aggressive fervor, but today that intensity was missing, her mouth tight as her gaze repeatedly drifted to the misty garden outside. Distraction replaced her usual mechanical movements, normally as precise as clockwork—she’d almost added an extra cup of flour and nearly forgot the yeast altogether.

“Are you waiting for someone?” I asked the fifth time she paused in her kneading to once more search outside.

“Hmm?” She brushed some of her aquamarine hair out of her eyes, leaving a trail of flour along her brow. “Of course not. You know I never entertain visitors.” Even as she said it, she startled beside me, knocking over a container and sending a cloud of flour over us.

I coughed and rubbed the stinging powder from my eyes. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer, her gaze riveted to the window. I glanced out, too. No one was there.

The tight lines creasing her forehead finally settled. She offered a thin-lipped smile. “How about rosemary bread? I know it’s your favorite. I’ll go fetch the herbs from the garden. You stay here.”

I glanced at the bread, already formed into loaves and ready to be put into the pans. “But—”

But she’d already wiped her hands on her apron and bustled to the front garden. Muffled murmurs drifted from outside. Strange; we never got visitors. Where had they come from?

I squinted through the window just in time to see two strangers slink into Mother’s garden. I barely caught a glimpse of black hair streaked with orange before the gate closed behind them. My stomach lurched. They had colored hair, just like Mother and me. Whoever these strangers were, they weren’t from the village.

I slipped outside and crept to the gate to lean against the keyhole. “You’re two hours late,” Mother hissed. “You were supposed to come at dawn, when my daughter was out. Where were you?”

“We had a few…distractions,” a smooth female voice said. “But everything has been taken care of.”

“Never mind that, we need to hurry; my daughter is in the kitchen.”

“Do you have it ready?”

“Naturally.”

There was a pause, the only sounds being the shuffle of Mother opening her bag and a gasp of awe.

“It’s more spectacular than I’d imagined,” the stranger breathed. “Ebony, you’re a genius.”

“I’m pleased you’re satisfied,” Mother said. “When are you going to use it?”

“Immediately, of course,” a new voice replied, this one deep and husky. “There isn’t any time to waste. We’ve already begun setting everything into motion. If all goes well, you’ll be able to join us shortly.”