Wildest Dreams
Page 4
That must be my note.
I stared at it a second thinking there didn’t look like there was much to it.
I started toward it as I could swear the pounding on the door became kicking. I looked that way but caught a flash of something in my peripheral vision, my head turned and I stopped dead.
Then I stood straight.
Then I turned to look at myself in the mirror.
Then I slowly walked to it, the pounding and begging outside the door muted as I stared with deep fascination at what I saw.
When I got to the mirror, I reached out a hand to touch the cold surface just to be certain it was real. When my fingertips brushed the glass, I changed directions and moved my hand so it lay flat to my belly and I felt it.
It was real.
I was real and I looked like that.
“Wow,” I whispered.
I was wearing ice blue too. An ice blue velvet gown that had this kick freaking ass sheen at the tip of the pile that looked iridescent white, like the shimmer on top of new snow. The neckline was square, had thick, braided embroidery around the edge and it shoved my br**sts up so I was giving some serious cle**age. The sleeves of the dress hugged my body from shoulder to wrist, a sharp point of embroidered-edged material coming down my hand that hooked at the end around my middle finger. The top of the dress, from bosoms to hips, skimmed my body to perfection. The skirt had a slight flare and when I tested it by kicking out at the back, a slight train too. The dress had a no waistline, simply flowing elegantly from bodice to hem and there was an intricate silver or… I peered closer… no, platinum chain liberally splashed with aquamarines and dusted with diamonds that hung low on my hips, a long single length of it hanging down, winking through the folds of my skirts, weighted at the hem by a large, twinkling aquamarine.
I was wearing a choker necklace that matched the belt and earrings of the same dangled from my ears. My white-blonde hair was a mass of long, thick twists that were pulled off my forehead somehow but hung down my back, chest and shoulders. I had shimmering pink on my cheeks, a gloss of pink on my lips, an iridescent blue on my eyelids, a dark blue rimming my eyes and a sparkle of pearlescent white around my temples, the same powder but applied less opaque dusted my chest.
But the best, the absolute best, was the crown.
Yes, I said… the crown!
I was wearing a crown low on my forehead and however it was fashioned it was heavy but comfortable, something soft and maybe furry protecting my skin from the metal.
And it looked like icicles shooting up and slightly out, crusted with glinting diamonds and sprinkled with glimmering aquamarines.
It was freaking phenomenal.
I lifted the heavy skirts up, up and saw a pair of winter white, low-heeled, supple suede boots that kept going to over my knees. Above that, skintight, woven stockings that were also winter white and looked (and felt) like they were made of cashmere. Up I pulled the skirt and I saw winter white satin tap pants dripping with icicle lace at the bottoms, over this were satin garters holding up the stockings but I saw the boned point of the bottom of a satin bustier at my navel and I felt more boning that I couldn’t see against my skin at my ribs.
Freaking great underwear.
“This… is… so… cool!” I whispered as I stared at myself in the mirror.
“Seeoohaahfiiiiiiiin!” I heard the frantic cry, I started, dropped my skirt and looked to the door.
Then I dashed to the bed, snatched up the paper, folded it twice so it was smaller and shoved it into my cle**age.
Then I rushed to the door and had my hand on the skeleton key in the lock when I stopped dead.
“Sjofn, open this door this instant,” a cold, imperious, achingly familiar woman’s voice demanded through the door.
I closed my eyes as warmth spread through me.
“Mom,” I whispered.
Then I opened my eyes, smiled huge and turned the lock. Now I was frantic to get the door opened but when I pulled at it, it didn’t budge. I stared at it and saw three, thick wooden planks, one on top, one on the bottom, one in the middle, all thrown to in iron latches, bolting the door shut.
How weird.
I shoved them all aside and yanked open the door.
Then I froze again, the smile fading from my face as I saw my mother’s body jolt, she blinked then she glared at me.
I stared at her.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
There she was.
My Mom.
Looking at her I thought, Absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent worth a million dollars. Absolutely.
I took her in, all of her and I felt my stomach get warm.
I got my light blue eyes from her and I was looking right into them; looking into them again for the first time in fifteen years.
I felt my eyes fill with tears. Me! Seoafin Wilde about to cry.
Impossible.
But there it was.
I was a freak of nature, where I got my unusual hair, I did not know. My mother and father were both dark and Dad had dark brown eyes. Both of them were tall, lean and straight. I was average height (a little less than that, if I had to admit it, though not short) and curvy.
And now, standing before me in a gown much like mine but a deep red with a glossy, brown fur ruff around her neck, her still dark hair (there were only intermittent shafts of gorgeous silver) pulled up in twists, curls and braids with tiny, gold clips in the shapes of butterflies everywhere, her own crown, gold with diamonds and rubies, a dripping, gold necklace scattered with rubies covering the skin that her scooped neckline exposed and long, gold and ruby earrings hanging from her ears, skimming the fur around her neck was my… freaking… Mom.
“Mom,” I whispered, blinking away the tears and even doing that, I saw her eyes narrow in annoyance over dark, elegant, arched brows that snapped together.
“I’ll countenance none of this nonsense, Sjofn,” she snapped with cold irritation. “We should have left fifteen minutes ago. The Drakkar awaits and all know he is impatient and doesn’t want to be where he’s standing right this very minute in the first place.”
She turned, lifted a hand at four young women who were hanging about, all wearing gowns made of soft wool, nowhere near as grand as Mom and mine and all in dark colors, navy, burgundy, forest green and dark gray (to be precise) and all, weirdly, staring at me intently. I didn’t get a chance to wonder about that because Mom flicked her wrist and then started down a wide, wood paneled hall with more carving and intermittent pieces of glossy, dark furniture.
She kept talking as she floated down the hall, not looking like she was walking but drifting.
But doing it quickly.
I rushed out behind her, the girls rushed behind me.
I stared at it a second thinking there didn’t look like there was much to it.
I started toward it as I could swear the pounding on the door became kicking. I looked that way but caught a flash of something in my peripheral vision, my head turned and I stopped dead.
Then I stood straight.
Then I turned to look at myself in the mirror.
Then I slowly walked to it, the pounding and begging outside the door muted as I stared with deep fascination at what I saw.
When I got to the mirror, I reached out a hand to touch the cold surface just to be certain it was real. When my fingertips brushed the glass, I changed directions and moved my hand so it lay flat to my belly and I felt it.
It was real.
I was real and I looked like that.
“Wow,” I whispered.
I was wearing ice blue too. An ice blue velvet gown that had this kick freaking ass sheen at the tip of the pile that looked iridescent white, like the shimmer on top of new snow. The neckline was square, had thick, braided embroidery around the edge and it shoved my br**sts up so I was giving some serious cle**age. The sleeves of the dress hugged my body from shoulder to wrist, a sharp point of embroidered-edged material coming down my hand that hooked at the end around my middle finger. The top of the dress, from bosoms to hips, skimmed my body to perfection. The skirt had a slight flare and when I tested it by kicking out at the back, a slight train too. The dress had a no waistline, simply flowing elegantly from bodice to hem and there was an intricate silver or… I peered closer… no, platinum chain liberally splashed with aquamarines and dusted with diamonds that hung low on my hips, a long single length of it hanging down, winking through the folds of my skirts, weighted at the hem by a large, twinkling aquamarine.
I was wearing a choker necklace that matched the belt and earrings of the same dangled from my ears. My white-blonde hair was a mass of long, thick twists that were pulled off my forehead somehow but hung down my back, chest and shoulders. I had shimmering pink on my cheeks, a gloss of pink on my lips, an iridescent blue on my eyelids, a dark blue rimming my eyes and a sparkle of pearlescent white around my temples, the same powder but applied less opaque dusted my chest.
But the best, the absolute best, was the crown.
Yes, I said… the crown!
I was wearing a crown low on my forehead and however it was fashioned it was heavy but comfortable, something soft and maybe furry protecting my skin from the metal.
And it looked like icicles shooting up and slightly out, crusted with glinting diamonds and sprinkled with glimmering aquamarines.
It was freaking phenomenal.
I lifted the heavy skirts up, up and saw a pair of winter white, low-heeled, supple suede boots that kept going to over my knees. Above that, skintight, woven stockings that were also winter white and looked (and felt) like they were made of cashmere. Up I pulled the skirt and I saw winter white satin tap pants dripping with icicle lace at the bottoms, over this were satin garters holding up the stockings but I saw the boned point of the bottom of a satin bustier at my navel and I felt more boning that I couldn’t see against my skin at my ribs.
Freaking great underwear.
“This… is… so… cool!” I whispered as I stared at myself in the mirror.
“Seeoohaahfiiiiiiiin!” I heard the frantic cry, I started, dropped my skirt and looked to the door.
Then I dashed to the bed, snatched up the paper, folded it twice so it was smaller and shoved it into my cle**age.
Then I rushed to the door and had my hand on the skeleton key in the lock when I stopped dead.
“Sjofn, open this door this instant,” a cold, imperious, achingly familiar woman’s voice demanded through the door.
I closed my eyes as warmth spread through me.
“Mom,” I whispered.
Then I opened my eyes, smiled huge and turned the lock. Now I was frantic to get the door opened but when I pulled at it, it didn’t budge. I stared at it and saw three, thick wooden planks, one on top, one on the bottom, one in the middle, all thrown to in iron latches, bolting the door shut.
How weird.
I shoved them all aside and yanked open the door.
Then I froze again, the smile fading from my face as I saw my mother’s body jolt, she blinked then she glared at me.
I stared at her.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
There she was.
My Mom.
Looking at her I thought, Absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent worth a million dollars. Absolutely.
I took her in, all of her and I felt my stomach get warm.
I got my light blue eyes from her and I was looking right into them; looking into them again for the first time in fifteen years.
I felt my eyes fill with tears. Me! Seoafin Wilde about to cry.
Impossible.
But there it was.
I was a freak of nature, where I got my unusual hair, I did not know. My mother and father were both dark and Dad had dark brown eyes. Both of them were tall, lean and straight. I was average height (a little less than that, if I had to admit it, though not short) and curvy.
And now, standing before me in a gown much like mine but a deep red with a glossy, brown fur ruff around her neck, her still dark hair (there were only intermittent shafts of gorgeous silver) pulled up in twists, curls and braids with tiny, gold clips in the shapes of butterflies everywhere, her own crown, gold with diamonds and rubies, a dripping, gold necklace scattered with rubies covering the skin that her scooped neckline exposed and long, gold and ruby earrings hanging from her ears, skimming the fur around her neck was my… freaking… Mom.
“Mom,” I whispered, blinking away the tears and even doing that, I saw her eyes narrow in annoyance over dark, elegant, arched brows that snapped together.
“I’ll countenance none of this nonsense, Sjofn,” she snapped with cold irritation. “We should have left fifteen minutes ago. The Drakkar awaits and all know he is impatient and doesn’t want to be where he’s standing right this very minute in the first place.”
She turned, lifted a hand at four young women who were hanging about, all wearing gowns made of soft wool, nowhere near as grand as Mom and mine and all in dark colors, navy, burgundy, forest green and dark gray (to be precise) and all, weirdly, staring at me intently. I didn’t get a chance to wonder about that because Mom flicked her wrist and then started down a wide, wood paneled hall with more carving and intermittent pieces of glossy, dark furniture.
She kept talking as she floated down the hall, not looking like she was walking but drifting.
But doing it quickly.
I rushed out behind her, the girls rushed behind me.
