In My Wildest Fantasies

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A thick, gray mist moved through the darkening forest, creeping low along the ground like a twisting, rolling phantom. Rebecca Newland, dressed in black and seated beside her sleeping father in the dark confines of his carriage, was in a place somewhere between dreams and reality, her head tipped back upon the deeply but-toned leather upholstery, her eyelids falling closed briefly, then fluttering open again as the coach rumbled and bumped along the narrow, winding road.

They were on their way home from her uncle's funeral in London. Regrettably, he was an uncle she had never met before, but that was the story of her quiet life, she supposed. She knew very few people, cloistered away as she was in her father's secluded country house, built of old stone and cloaked in thick, leafy ivy, which hindered even the company of the sunlight.

The only thing that kept her from going completely mad in her isolation was the fact that she was seventeen now, and her first London Season was drawing near-next year perhaps? If she closed her eyes she could see the glitter and the gowns she read about in books, the sparkling jewels and hair combs; she could anticipate the balls and stimulating conversations. She longed for it, all of it, everything she had been missing in her father's somber home for as long as she could remember.

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