Page 3 of Realm of Dreams & Shadows

What he doesn’t understand is that a fresh start means nothing if your nightmares follow you.

Still, I’d seen it as the truce offer it was. And no way was I walking away from a chance to study for free where no one knew me as “that poor girl whose mother died so violently in her sleep.”

Uncle Finn grimaces as he checks his watch. “Faculty meeting in ten minutes. But dinner tonight? My place at seven?”

“Deal.”

As he hurries away, Tia sidles up beside me. “So that’s Dean Lyte. He’s seriously hot for an old guy.”

“Please never say that again.”

“Just stating facts,” she says with a shrug. “Back to our room? I decorated my half while you were out, but I left your side completely boring and sterile, just like you asked.”

“I didn’t ask for sterile,” I say as we break away from the tour. “I just said to keep it minimal.”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. And don’t worry, you can borrow some of my fairy lights if the emptiness gets too depressing.”

Hamilton Hall is a four-story brick building with tall, narrow windows and a steep slate roof. Inside, the common areas have been modernized, but the rooms still retain their historic character—high ceilings, thick plaster walls, and ornate crown molding.

Our room is on the third floor, at the end of a long hallway illuminated by wall sconces that cast more shadows than light. As promised, Tia has transformed her half of the space into a bohemian paradise—colorful scarves covering the walls, strings of fairy lights decorating her bed frame, and enough plants to qualify as a small jungle.

My side, by contrast, contains only the basic furnishings provided by the college—a twin bed, a desk, a dresser, and a small bookshelf. My suitcases and boxes sit neatly at the foot of the bed, still unpacked. But on the nightstand, there’s a mason jar stuffed with white daisies and a card in Uncle Finn’s familiar scrawl: Welcome home, kiddo.

Despite everything, I smile. He knows me. Daisies over roses, every time. I pull one from the jar and tuck it behind my ear, which earns me a grin from Tia.

“Cute,” she says. “Secret admirer?”

“My uncle.”

“The hot dean sends flowers? Okay, I officially need to be adopted into your family.”

“You really need to stop calling him hot,” I say, but I’m laughing as I sit on my bed, testing its firmness. Not too soft, not too hard. Perfect. My sleep is sketchy enough without adding an uncomfortable mattress to the mix.

“So,” Tia says, rolling onto her stomach to face me. “What’s your major?”

“Psychology, with a focus on sleep disorders.” I’ve already told her about how Mom died, so I’m not surprised when she doesn’t ask why I chose my major.

Instead, she just nods, a hint of sympathy in her eyes, and I’m grateful she’s not making a thing about it.

“You’re art history, right?” I ask, hoping I remembered what she’d said earlier.

“Right. And I’m doubling with Religious Studies. I’m all about occult symbolism in Renaissance paintings.”

“That sounds cool.”

“Oh, it totally is, but the truth is I picked it because my mom worked in a museum and raised me on art, and my dad taught and wrote books about world history through the lens of religion.” She shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but I recognize the grief in her eyes. I’ve seen it in the mirror often enough.

“I think that’s great,” I tell her. “And a totally cool double-major.”

A hint of a smile erases some of the grief. “Thanks. I think so too, even if it is a little obvious. I mean, the whole wearing my trauma on my sleeve. But I really am interested in both subjects. And,” she adds, her eyes darting away from me, “I miss them both.”

I blink back my own tears. “Believe me. I get it.”

“I know you do,” she says.

Tia’s parents died in a car accident a few months before my mom succumbed to a sleep disorder. Or, at least, that’s what I told Tia. Somehow, telling my new roomie that Mom was killed by a creature in her nightmare didn’t seem like the best first step in getting to know each other.

“What does your dad think of your major?” she asks. “I mean, is he proud of you for wanting to dig into sleep disorders? Or does it just make him sad because of how your mom died?”