The Art of Effective Dreaming by Gillian Polack

The Art of Effective Dreaming by Gillian Polack

Author:Gillian Polack [Polack, Gillian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Next Chapter


I need some rules. I must dream effectively this time. If Belle is wrong and it doesn’t rest me, then we will find another way. We must. I must.

Babbling scared me. It was like hyperdrive Fay. Fay on fast forward. I bet I could use it to stun Gilbert sometime, though. In fact, I could use it to stun anyone. Superfast nonsense Fay—lethal weapon. Babble people to death.

I have never in my life imagined a bed like this. It is so strange to be in my imaginary world with unexpected things popping out of the woodwork. And this woodwork most certainly should not be here. It isn’t a four-poster bed. I could have imagined one of them. Four-poster beds are romantic, and this world is supposed to be full of romance.

Not much of the romantic at all in this world, right now. In fact, despite Belle saying that he loves me (he must talk about me more than he talks to me—what a cheering thought), the really romantic thing here right now is busy treating me diffidently. He is really beginning to annoy me. I might change my name to Kate and sing, “I hate men.”

The bed is a two-poster. And the mattress is on a kind of leather sling thing. Belle called it a demountable. Said it was the prince’s bed. She says that was the best she could do in terms of protections. I guess princes need protection. This prince is going to need protection from me. He leaves his bed in a spare room of Belle’s and goes off swanning around the country with his knights. I know that is what he is doing because that is what Belle said he was doing.

Belle tells me things, at least. Unlike some people.

I can’t see anything magical about the bed. I am not sure I can see magic anyway—that is part of the problem. I need to see it, like an aura or a halo or something. Because otherwise it does not quite exist.

Unlike this bed. This bed definitely exists. It lives in its own world of extreme gaud. The carvings are gilded, for God’s sake. And everything is embroidered. Except the sheets. Only bits of them are embroidered. The bits that touch my skin are very soft. So that’s something. The prince must have delicate skin. Poor fragile soul, I bet he only wears silk. I bet he has a harem too. Anyone who carries a bed like this around needs a harem, otherwise they would feel very small, hidden in amongst the embroideries.

Which is where I am, now, hidden amongst lots of green leaves and autumnal fruits. Strange theme for a bed—the dying time of year. Seasons of mists, mud, murk and mellow fruitfulness.

Focus, Fay! You are supposed to be dreaming, not wittering. I am good at wittering; I do it supremely well. So it is quite natural for me to witter. I am also supremely tired. Strange that.

If I weren’t so super-tired then Belle would have hung off on her suggestion, I fear.



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