Chapter 2
A crash of thunder shook the castle, and all eyes turned to the storm raging only an arms-width away. “That bastard of a storm bears down upon us!” Frank called, his voice nearly swallowed by the winds. “We shall never surrender!…Hey! A monkey! You know, with the tail and all.” Frank pointed his Greek short sword at a carved statue in the shape of a monkey suddenly perched on the wall. It was fashioned of pure gold.
Daniel noticed that instead of kindly sitting still as most statues would, this one was reaching for him. The creature’s glowing emerald-green eyes stared at Daniel expectantly. A medallion looped around its neck bore a carving that strangely resembled a butterfly sunken into the metal. Daniel worked to commit the image to memory, from the ridged edges to the small ruby affixed to the top. From all around, a whisper rushed across the wind, “You can trust me.”
“Aw, look, he’s giving you a rose,” said Sury. Daniel tentatively took the plump, red rose offered by the golden claw. Sury clapped one hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “Time to wake up,” she said with a wink…
* * * *
Daniel opened his eyes and glanced at the antique clock on his nightstand, its delicately sculpted hands placed the time as exactly 7:02 A.M.
Every morning after the dreams came, he awoke at the same time. As always, Daniel pulled back his tightly tucked sheets and rose with efficient moves from the carved, four-poster bed. He took precisely four steps to reach the table holding his wireless speaker. With swift and steady movements, Daniel punched up the Vivaldi concerto that started his morning. A swell of violin strings cascaded through the room, marking his counted steps to the bathroom.
The mirror over the pedestal sink showed the same reflection of the man from his dreams, though Daniel found very little in common with the hero who leapt off castle walls and battled oncoming storms. He also stood at 6’3” with light blond hair and blue eyes, yet the real Daniel Trace wasjust a rare-book dealer. No one would mistake a towering, timid man like himself for a medieval knight who let the wind get the best of his hair. He could barely speak in public without a blush staining his pale cheeks, let alone lead an army into battle.
As long as Daniel could remember, the dreams were part of his life. When he was younger, he thought everyone dreamed the details of their day with insights into people and events. It took him a while to discern that parts of the dreams were like secrets—some could be shared, others were just for him. What didn’ttake long was figuring out that he couldn’t talk about his peculiar affliction with just anyone. His mother understood, as she came with her own unique qualities. Daniel recalled the knowing smile she gave him as teachers or parents would talk of his “active imagination.” But when he trusted the wrong person, the inevitable anger or taunts of his freakiness would follow. Throughout the years, Daniel narrowed the scope of his life down to a few people, whittling away the chance of discovery. Thus ensuring his life was orderly, calm, controlled.
With the rhythm of the concerto as a guide, Daniel followed his regimented routine. He employed the same, constant beat to brush his teeth, to move through the stretch and pull of yoga and weights, and to gel his blonde locks into a firm state. Just enough gel. Just enough aftershave. Just enough.
As the symphony pulled toward its close, Daniel counted each button as he sealed his vest and jacket. He deposited his tortoise-shell glasses on the bridge of his nose, then clicked off the speaker exactly as the last note of the piece faded.
Daniel repeated his habit of brushing nonexistent lint from his brown jacket as he slowly descended the steps of his apartment. At the bottom of the stairs, he took a deep breath, and opened the door to a sunny, Chicago city block, and into the meaning of his dream.
Striding past the lowered blinds of the shop Lilac and Lavender beneath his apartment, Daniel silently counted the steps as he approached the red awnings of Avellini’s Italian Ristorante. Frank Avellini rolled up the grate. His strong arms and portly belly were now properly encased in a red polo bearing the restaurant’s logo. “Morning, Daniel!” he called. “Beautiful day. You know, with the sun shining and all.”
Frank’s nephews, Abe and Jimmy, began their daily dance setting up the outdoor tables. Though identical in appearance, the brothers carried themselves in vastly different ways. “Hola, Daniel,” said Abe in his quiet voice as he smoothed out a white tablecloth.