I woke this morning frantic from a dream.
I’d been in Italy for 14 days. Fourteen! And I had been ignoring my dressmaker. She called, angry because my wedding dress was finished three months earlier and I hadn’t yet come in to try it on. And here I was, in the same city as my dress for 2 weeks and I’d been ignoring it!
Attempting to placate her over the phone, I pulled out a paper map that instantly sprung into a 3-dimensional topographic map of the city. Realizing she lived on the highest hill, I sighed and looked out onto a courtyard draped it mist that could only be described as English. It was a gloomy morning that glowed grayly as the sun shown through fog.
I was wearing a dress that Jane Austen would have adored.
Also, I was a spy. Which is why I hadn’t told my dressmaker what I’d been up to. That she knew I was in the country only hinted at the degree to which I’d screwed up the operation from the night before. As the dream faded further and further from memory, all I can say is that it involved an enormous stairway and an even more gigantic fishbowl and a terrorizing combination of the two.
And people in ballgowns and tuxes with tails and monocles, just like Mr. Monopoly’s.
It was nice to wake up.