#and would marry the princess while remaining friends with alessia

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Daughter of the House of Dreams: A Fragment

Author's Note: This is the opening to a long-abandoned "Sleeping Beauty" retelling that I no longer plan to write, but I still like it as a piece of prose, and it sparked my enduring interest in second-person narration, so it feels relevant, and why should long-dead authors be the only ones who get to have their unfinished fragments published?

If you ever travel to Monetta City, be sure to visit Faraway Lane. Walk past the glittering new shops, and the shoppers in their bright silk dresses and top hats, and you'll find a cozy stone shop at the end of the street. This shop isn't grand and mighty like the other shops. It won't sniff and turn you away if your clothes aren't the latest fashion. It's a grandmotherly old shop that shakes its head at the prancing and preening of the younger shops, and invites you in instead. It holds no wares in its windows; it hardly has windows at all. But it has a warm and wide wooden door, with a shingle hanging above—Alessia Day, maker of dreams.

Don't ponder the sign's message too long—it means exactly what it says. Just slip inside, shut the door behind you, and look. Don't breathe too deeply, unless you want a week of crazy dreams, but allow yourself one gasp of astonishment. You won't be able to stop yourself. No living person has failed to feel awe toward the rows and rows of shelves, longer than streets and taller than palaces, filled to bursting with glass bottles in such bright colors that the dresses in the other shops' windows would weep in envy. Some bottles are the size of thumbnails. Most fit comfortably in the palm. Some are as large as breadboxes or steamer trunks or carriage horses, but the shelves manage to fit them all. And each bottle is filled to the brim with dreams.

If you don't understand, ask Alessia Day. You'll find her at a counter half a mile from the door, polishing bottles and humming a song you've heard but can't remember. She's an old woman now, and proud of it, but squint your eyes and start to daydream, and you'll see her as I remember her—a willow-wand girl with shining brown hair and eyes that sparkle with half-formed jokes.

Tell this girl how pretty she is (she'll laugh and call you crazy) and ask about her dreams. She'll tell you of her stock and sell you any dream you ask for—daydreams and pipe dreams, dreams of love, dreams of adventure, dreams of loved ones lost and loved ones found and people you've never met but wish you had. She'll show you dreams of lush and perfect islands, dreams where fishes fly through the air, and dreams where people swim the seas with fishes' tails. She'll pull down dreams that last a second but linger a lifetime, dreams that fill a month of stormy nights, dreams that fade on waking and dreams that drown out memories. If you let her, she'll talk of dreams until you drift off, and she'll bottle up your dream while you doze.

But if you're smart (I know you are) you'll step to the counter with a clear glass bottle, empty of everything but air, and ask for her story instead. She'd distill it in a dream for you, and be glad to do it—I once saw her whip it up in half a minute, and I'll bet she's even faster now. Buy the dream, but don't drink it right away. You won't be ready for it. Linger in the shop a while. Hear the story first from Alessia Day's lips, in that voice of hers that's sweeter than singing.

You won't believe half of it, but when you stagger from the shop and wander the empty, starlit streets, you'll ponder over passages until you stumble into bed at sunrise. And when you wake, the world will be different—you'll see tiny footprints on the windowsills, know things about the shadows on the walls, tip your hat to creatures in the corner of your eye, and realize there is another color no one else can see. You'll laugh and call it your imagination, but every second Tuesday, you'll start to wonder if the old woman was right, if the things she told you were true.

If you drink the dream she made, you'll know. I'll understand if you don't—some things are easier not to know. But if you do, and dream through her story, come to my house and ring the bell. My man will let you in—he'll know you by the wonder on your face. He'll bring you to my study, set you in my oldest, softest chair, and get us both settled with a steaming pot of tea. Then, once you've finished babbling, I'll close my eyes and tell you my part in the tale.

[blue-aconite]

LAST LINE TAG

RULES—share the last line you wrote for your WIP, and then tag as many people as there are words you want.

Thank you for the tag @ereardon ✨ i'm looking forward to catching up on his best friend's wedding ♥️

from my new royal!au with the working title 'swords and smoke', coming to a theatre to you soon-ish. feel free to ask me anything about it, my dm's and inbox is always open!

“Why would I take a mistress?” Jake snapped, interrupting the conversation around the table. The laughter dies down as Jake repeats his question. “Easy, brother. It was just a joke.” Bradley tried to ease the tension, clearing his throat. “I don’t see how it is.” Jake said, putting aside his cup. Bradley sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. “Jake, I’m truly grateful for what you’ve done for me. I will never forget the sacrifices you've made on my behalf. But we all know this marriage is just a way to placate father and Athos. You can screw whoever you want behind closed doors as long as you and the Princess appear to be happy in love at social events. We all know how it is.” Jake states in disbelief, trying to wrap his head around his brother’s words. Javy and Reuben has the decency to at least look ashamed, while Bob and Mickey both sinks lower into their seats. “So if you ever marry Natasha, would you take a mistress?” Jake asks, staring down his brother. “Of course not!” Bradley exclaims. “I love her, are you out of your mind?!” “Well, you clearly expect me to, why shouldn’t I assume the same about you, brother?” Jake sneers the last part, anger boiling underneath his skin. “Because what Natasha and I have is real? You don’t even know Alessia.” Bradley spits. Jake shoves away from the table, leaning over his brother. “I will remain faithful to my wife. My vows are not to be taken lightly. I thought you had higher thoughts about me, brother. I guess not.” He stands up to his full height. “Good night, gentlemen. I trust you’ll find your way back to your quarters.” The dismissal is hard to miss and their friends scramble to leave the room, bowing hastily as the depart.

no pressure tags: @a-reader-and-a-writer @hangmanssunnies @honkytonk-hangman @bobfloydsbabe @seresinsbrat @sailor-aviator @demxters @seresinsweetie @mothdruid @withahappyrefrain @roosterbruiser @roosterforme and anyone who wants to do this