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I glance down at myself, at the gray sweats and oversized hoodie.
These aren’t my clothes.
I try not to panic as I carefully lift the hem of the hoodie up.
My floral shirt pokes out underneath. A welcome familiarity in this strange place. Well, at least no one undressed me.
With that satisfying revelation, I let my eyes flutter closed again. There’s no point doing anything until the aspirin kicks in.
When I wake up a third time, there’s light coming out from behind the sunflower curtains.
God, what time is it?
I hunt around for my phone and finally spot my purse lying next to the bed. I rummage through it quickly. Keys, wallet, phone. All are still in there.
I pull out the latter and click the on button. Nothing. It’s completely dead.
Well, maybe someone around here has a charger? Then, at least, I can get a cab home and sleep this hangover off in my own bed.
I slide off the side of the bed slowly, testing my sense of balance, before standing up. I wobble a little, but as soon as I start walking, it feels a little better. So my movement isn’t so restricted, I strip down and remove my underclothes before slipping the sweats back on.
Two more aspirin go down the hatch before I’m able to convince myself to go explore—but finally, I tentatively push open the bedroom door.
It opens onto a wide corridor lined with antique-looking light fixtures and oil paintings. It reminds me a little of the pictures I once saw of Buckingham Palace—or even of the Maguire mansion back in its heyday.
Archaic and in serious need of an upgrade.
My head begins to throb painfully as if insulted by the decor as well. I try not to grimace as I make my way further into the house.
It’s like an empty maze.
I peer into one room to find a dining room large enough for the entire cast of My Hero Macro-Man to sit and eat comfortably, and then the next room I look at is a storage cupboard for dry linens.
Finally, after spending too long just peering in, I decide to enter a cavernous ballroom.
The ceiling is a masterpiece of color and form. The tiles themselves are painted in some kind of Renaissance fashion, but the pièce de resistance is the chandelier. Hundreds of thousands of crystals glitter from its frame, and I find myself transfixed by the way the light refracts around the room.
I can only begin to imagine how magical it would be to dance here.
“Hello?” I call out after a moment.
My voice merely bounces back to me.
“Anyone there?”
I spin around a little and notice a series of large portraits on one wall. With nothing better to do (and no one in sight to stop me), I approach.
The first is dated back to the early 1900s. An Italian-looking family gathers close together on the steps of an old building. The next is a father and son from the first painting. The one after, the son is older, clutching the shoulder of a younger man again.
Generation after generation of family portraits unfold before me, right up until the end.
The last painting is of a hardy-looking man in modern attire. The stern look in his eye makes it look like he might be watching you everywhere you go.
Beneath the painting is a simple plaque that reads only one word:Nova.
The name rings through my mind.
There’s something about that name… I know it from somewhere. Maybe a book? Or a TV show I once watched?
