could feel Jack’s warmth cosy against her back. From his deep languorous breathing, he appeared to be asleep. His body was hot and firm, especially one part of him. She shifted slightly so its substantial length nestled between her legs. She moved against it, feeling it against her slickness. Smiling slightly, replaying the events earlier in the evening, she went back to sleep.
Chapter Eight
The light was so bright it hurt. She squinted, shielding her eyes protectively with a hand, turning this way and that but the sun was shining from all directions. There were no shadows, only a harsh glare that created an other-worldly starkness.
Sandrine knew she was in the dream, the familiarity was such that she recognised it instantly. This time, however, she was within the photo that had sat atop her bedside table when she was young. That was the first point of difference and it unsettled her in ways she didn’t want to think about.
The air itself was filled with tiny speckles of gold floating still, suspended despite a warm breeze that ruffled the soft hairs on her arms and caressed her face with a radiant heat. She held out a hand, palm upturned, and could distinguish each tiny pulsating, glowing fragment of light. They were like embers in a dying fire.
The dry grass grew high, brushing her knees, swaying slightly in the breeze, rippling in patterns across the hill, down, across and back again. She looked around her, trying to catch sight of her parents, but she was alone. She started walking towards the crest.
There was an urgency in her stride. She had to find her parents. They were always here, waiting for her. But, this time, they were nowhere to be seen and panic started to rise.
The heat was bearable, dry with no humidity at all, pleasant like being in the desert but she grew aware that the temperature was rising. The sky, which had been porcelain blue, was gradually bleaching to white.
She wanted to run but was held back by an unseen force. It was like trying to move through treacle, trapping her limbs, preventing her making any progress. She was getting closer to the top of the hill but slowly, so very slowly, and the frustration was intense, tears spiking her eyes and running down her cheeks.
Where are they? I have to find them .
She was wearing a light cotton summer dress and espadrilles, her arms and legs bare. The temperature was edging towards the uncomfortable. Perspiration was making her clammy, prickling her scalp, and creating tiny rivulets that trickled down her back and chilled her.
As she reached the crest of the hill, the gold in the air was burnishing, getting darker. It now more closely resembled ash, like the aftermath of a volcanic eruption or a brush-fire. Her breathing was laboured and, when she tried calling out for her mother and father, there was nothing. She didn’t have a voice. Her heart was beating wildly and she was so exhausted she wanted to collapse on the ground, curl up and cry in utter desolation, but she knew she had to continue.
The grass was rustling and there was another noise, something else she couldn’t quite place. A very faint crackling. At the bottom of the slope, she noticed the grass turning black, brittle, collapsing into a fine dark dust that spiralled into the air. It was moving towards her, gaining in speed.
With great effort, she reached the top of the hill. Over the crest was the terracotta-tiled roof and brick chimney that could be briefly glimpsed in the photo. It sat atop a two-storey house, roughly built of mud-coloured bricks in a style reminiscent of the Italian countryside.
A city spread out beyond it, a maze of narrow cobble-stoned streets and old buildings with heavy wooden shutters, enormous grandly-domed churches and public buildings, and fountains with white marble statues. Everything was ablaze. Dark smoke rose into a sky thickening with ash. The air was crusting black, staining the stark white of the city, threatening to overpower it.
The
Chapter Eight
The light was so bright it hurt. She squinted, shielding her eyes protectively with a hand, turning this way and that but the sun was shining from all directions. There were no shadows, only a harsh glare that created an other-worldly starkness.
Sandrine knew she was in the dream, the familiarity was such that she recognised it instantly. This time, however, she was within the photo that had sat atop her bedside table when she was young. That was the first point of difference and it unsettled her in ways she didn’t want to think about.
The air itself was filled with tiny speckles of gold floating still, suspended despite a warm breeze that ruffled the soft hairs on her arms and caressed her face with a radiant heat. She held out a hand, palm upturned, and could distinguish each tiny pulsating, glowing fragment of light. They were like embers in a dying fire.
The dry grass grew high, brushing her knees, swaying slightly in the breeze, rippling in patterns across the hill, down, across and back again. She looked around her, trying to catch sight of her parents, but she was alone. She started walking towards the crest.
There was an urgency in her stride. She had to find her parents. They were always here, waiting for her. But, this time, they were nowhere to be seen and panic started to rise.
The heat was bearable, dry with no humidity at all, pleasant like being in the desert but she grew aware that the temperature was rising. The sky, which had been porcelain blue, was gradually bleaching to white.
She wanted to run but was held back by an unseen force. It was like trying to move through treacle, trapping her limbs, preventing her making any progress. She was getting closer to the top of the hill but slowly, so very slowly, and the frustration was intense, tears spiking her eyes and running down her cheeks.
Where are they? I have to find them .
She was wearing a light cotton summer dress and espadrilles, her arms and legs bare. The temperature was edging towards the uncomfortable. Perspiration was making her clammy, prickling her scalp, and creating tiny rivulets that trickled down her back and chilled her.
As she reached the crest of the hill, the gold in the air was burnishing, getting darker. It now more closely resembled ash, like the aftermath of a volcanic eruption or a brush-fire. Her breathing was laboured and, when she tried calling out for her mother and father, there was nothing. She didn’t have a voice. Her heart was beating wildly and she was so exhausted she wanted to collapse on the ground, curl up and cry in utter desolation, but she knew she had to continue.
The grass was rustling and there was another noise, something else she couldn’t quite place. A very faint crackling. At the bottom of the slope, she noticed the grass turning black, brittle, collapsing into a fine dark dust that spiralled into the air. It was moving towards her, gaining in speed.
With great effort, she reached the top of the hill. Over the crest was the terracotta-tiled roof and brick chimney that could be briefly glimpsed in the photo. It sat atop a two-storey house, roughly built of mud-coloured bricks in a style reminiscent of the Italian countryside.
A city spread out beyond it, a maze of narrow cobble-stoned streets and old buildings with heavy wooden shutters, enormous grandly-domed churches and public buildings, and fountains with white marble statues. Everything was ablaze. Dark smoke rose into a sky thickening with ash. The air was crusting black, staining the stark white of the city, threatening to overpower it.
The
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