When I return to my room, I whisk off my black cloak, the shroud billows as it is swept off my shoulders, floating upwards with the softest sigh. I peel off my blue overall, remove the layers of white cloth that shield my face. Here in my room, and in my room only, do I have the privacy. I strip off my tights and shirt, pull a white nightgown over my naked body. It drapes loosely around me, like a white cloud. Carelessly, I toss my cloak over the back of my chair, not even bothering to put it away in my wardrobe.

I move over to the cracked mirror, its dull surface, and reach out to touch it. My fingernails scrape away the dust that has masked it with the passing of time. I can see my own silver eyes.

A tiny dresser is beneath the mirror - no, not a dresser, just what seems to be a small drawer, made of decaying rosewood. My fingers latch onto the handle, I draw it open. This is a ritual that I repeat every night, away from Solum's prying eyes.

At the bottom of the drawer lies a silver ring.

For as long as I can remember, I have had this ring. I had it in that strange dream, when I was running with the unknown person behind me, away from our pursuers. I had it when Solum took me. I took it off when I arrived here, to hide it - some strange sense, a sense of foreboding, told me that it would be dangerous to reveal it. But I've always held on to it, this one little thing from my past, something that is proof that I have not always been Solum's property, that I once had a life of my own.

It lies at the bottom of the rosewood drawer. In the dim light of the single lightbulb, it seems to radiate a soft, silvery glow, eerie in the darkness, glistening gently.

I pick it up, out of the drawer, and hold it up to the light. What secrets does it hold? Who did it belong to, if not only to me? Who gave it to me, and could it possibly, just possibly, be the key to my shrouded past? The darkness engulfs me, my misted past, enshrouding me, it will choke me, suffocate me, I have no air left -

I slide the ring onto my finger. I don't know what it will do - I have no idea. It simply shines prettily, with its faint silver light, on my hand. I stare at it, hard, not letting my own eyes leave it. At some stage I must have sat down on my cot, still unable to take my gaze off the little treasure that is all I possess - and I drift off to sleep.

~

Tonight, I have a different dream.

I think I'm underwater. Schools of fishes swim past me, so close I can reach out and touch their silky fins, their smooth scales. I can breathe easily, and I wonder why.

The world is a shade of unshakeable blue. I put out my hand, watch the sapphire light dance on my pale skin. I'm rising in the water, it's becoming lighter and lighter, until my head is about to break through the surface -

Something is separating me from the water surface. It gleams, sparkling in a thousand rainbow colours, radiant in the sun, fragile in the spectrum in which it is contained, dreamy and bright, like a bubble. I reach out towards it, wondering if the bubble can be popped, wanting to escape it. I can see the world beyond.

The clear waves of the water sparkle and break the smooth surface, white foam cresting the waves, the sun shines and sends a dozen patterns of light dancing across my skin. I reach out to touch the bubble, with just one finger.

Silvery waves emanate from my finger, meet the side of the bubble, and the wall between me and the world outside blurs. I push harder with my hand, and the wall seems to enlarge, inviting me through.

I can hear singing. I can't tell if it's mine or someone else's. It fills my head, warm and gentle, a soothing lullaby, rising to the ceiling of the watery ocean world. It's hauntingly familiar, and heartbreakingly so, bypassing the heights of the deeps and the skies beyond, filled with heart-piercing beauty and blinding power. It's high and clear, and mingles with the songs of the whales, a procession of harps and flutes, a thousand interchanging melodies. The words were unclear, but with the songs I can see what I could never have seen before - lily-white boats with sails the colour of the argent moon floating in the river, flowers of ruby and gold and silver blossoming in the skies, unchanging and imperishable, pouring into a lost void and filling it with interchanging colours, emerald and sapphire and lilac, amid the innumerable stars.

It fills the void in my chest, and I find strength in my limbs, in my heart.

I wriggle through the gap in the bubble, and my head breaks the surface.

~

I gasp, sitting up in my cot, panting as if I've just run a long distance. Cold sweat runs down my face, I'm shivering in my nightclothes. I sit there for a moment, gathering my breath and then my wits; it's a while before I manage to calm down a little.

Rising, I place my bare feet on the floor and move towards the window. The curtains have been left undrawn, and gleaming white moonlight pours in, pooling on the floor. I step into it, feeling it wash over me, cool and pearly against my skin, turning me marble white.

The cool wind whispers through the window, it feels good, drying the cold sweat on my face. I shiver a little, though, in my thin garments. I walk forward, rest my elbows on the windowsill, and stare outside.

Why did that dream disarm me so badly? A dream of being underwater wasn't that scary. No, it wasn't the fact that I was underwater, I'm not afraid of the sea.

Rather, it was the haunting familiarity that gave me fear. I did not recognise my surroundings in the dream, but it was like - like peering at an old photograph of home that you lived in fifty years ago.

And the song - yes, it was the song that was most daunting to me. The undeniable power, the heartbreaking beauty with which it was sung, it was familiar to my ears in a way that can't be described, the splendour and glory of it, the surpassing loveliness. It is gentle and yet powerful, whispering to me, and something tugs at the corner of my memory.

I don't know how I wind up back in bed, but I must have stumbled back into my cot after a matter of time, because I have another dream.

~

This dream is a nightmare.

I dream of a barren field, the faded green grass wilting beneath my feet. The skies are dark, the heavy clouds showing their underbellies, with a tinge of red on the horizon, like a blood smear. I can't tell whether it's dawn or dusk.

I walk through the field, past an old weather-beaten tree, its leaves on the ground. I pass a fence, rotted away with age and lack of care. A chained dog, lying defeated in the muck. I think it's going to rain.

A raven sits on the old tree and croaks loudly. It's beady dark eyes bore into mine, too bright, too intelligent to be beast. Its eyes were terribly cold, a frost deeper than the coldest winter, a winter that comes without a star. It has a terrible power, darker than night, a shadow that hovers over this field itself -

Another raven swoops down and joins the first one on the tree. Both of them stare at me. I take a step back from their frigid glares.

Another raven lands on the tree, staring at me.

And another.

And another.

A swarm of them, cloaked in black feathers, their beaks razor-sharp and their freezing eyes gleaming, surround the old tree and stare at me. Their pressing, freezing stares tell me one thing.

Run.

But I stand rooted to the ground, my feet planted firmly, unable to look away from their terrible gazes, though I shrink from them, unable to behold their wintry gazes. They sit like statues, staring at me with a hatred deeper that the coldest frost.

One of them gives a caw - a signal.

At once, all of them - the entire swarm - rise into the air. The first raven swoops down at me, pecking ferociously at my face, clawing at my eyes, its beak and claws draw blood. I shriek and beat it back, but the whole swarm comes at me as one, scratching at my arms, my torso, every inch of skin they can reach. I shriek, I scream, but the field is empty except for the chained dog, there is no one to hear my screams.

I struggle and flail, but I fall into darkness; I can see nothing but the glossy black feathers of the ravens blocking my vision. As my fear rises, so does my desperation, so great I'm surprised the ravens don't feel it burn them. I raise my arms to fight them off, and in the corner of my eye, I see a burst of silver. The raven in front of my eyes gives a caw of surprise and backs off.

I gasp, trying to make sense of my surroundings again - the first raven I saw is perched right in front of me, on the lowest branch of the tree. Its terrifying cold eyes bore into mine, and I'm frozen again, paralysed by its gaze.

The raven opens its shiny, razor-sharp beak, and caws; to my astonishment, it does not have the rough voice I expected - instead, its silvery and silky, soft as silk and deadly as the edge of a dagger. It speaks, its gaze never leaving mine.

"And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear? - weep now or never more!

See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!"