January

Issue 40

    The dream woman who called Shari from behind the blue mist had a child in the crook of her arms. Shari ran towards her, her eyes fixed on the familiar face of the woman—oval, large brown eyes, golden hair. Her mother! But she seemed so different from the stiff, formal Queen Geraldine in the royal portrait.

    A quivering voice came again. "Shari!"

    The next moment, Shari lay awake in bed, shaking helplessly, wishing her dream had continued. There was so much she wanted to know about Mother, but no one ever answered her questions. Whenever she asked her maid Martha about Mother, Martha tried to distract her with a toy nightingale or marzipan, as though she were a child. Her tutors did that, too. The arts tutor would suggest painting sunsets, while the astronomy tutor would launch into explanations like the one about how an angry god of war became a red planet, or he would bend over her and say, "Shari, I've taught many children of nobles and kings. You are the sharpest, the best."

    I'll tell Father about this dream and ask him about Mother, Shari thought. Of course, he'll say he needs to confer with a general or meet a trader delegation, but I'll insist this time, remind him that it's my twelfth birthday today and...

    And Mother has been dead twelve years today. She never even saw me before she died.