Chapter 6
Claire
Claire stepped through the jet’s portal and into the clouds. Literally. Two minutes ago, she’d thought the fur coverup her dressers draped over her shoulders to be ostentatious, but she quickly drew it close against her as she stepped out into a brisk breeze that seemed to carry a hint of snow.
Straight across from the jet’s door, snowy white peaks stretched as far as the eye could see. The ridge they’d landed on stood at odds with it all, its edges smoothed into columns, arches, and towers creating structured symmetry against a rough backdrop—all of it seemingly carved into the mountain itself.
“Hood up, m’lady?” one of the dressers asked, indicating the hood on her coverup.
M’lady. The term was growing on her.
“Yes, please,” Claire said, starting to feel a little bit like an actor getting into character. She was wearing silk gloves and a gown of silver perfection. She couldn’t let her hair get wind-tossed out there. Now was a time to be high maintenance and take all the precautions. Her current styling was as impractical as walking around with a book on her head. Maintaining it would require a lot of third-party supervision, so Claire would take as much attention as possible in the name of not going full-pumpkin before midnight.
To her surprise, the cloak’s hood had a framework built into it so it didn’t touch her hair when raised. All of the function, all of the fashion, none of the fuss.
When Malachi appeared past the curtain in layered furs that looked like they belonged on a medieval royal, the whole situation started to feel a bit like a movie.
Who dressed like this? And how was the mountain castle outside real, and not CGI art on a green screen?
Was this the part of the dream where Claire realized she was dreaming? Had things just gone that one step past too weird to ring the alarm that this was all most definitely not possible?
She’d gone from starting out the dream sneaking into Margot’s office wearing a Nadia mask, to getting caught by an imaginary boss’s son, to getting “punished” by being flown to a private jet. There, she’d been pampered for hours before being dressed in a gown that miraculously fit in every way, and was now being escorted to the Neuschwanstein of mountain peaks by a man dressed up like a prince.
And all this without a single panic attack.
Claire was no expert on lucid dreaming, but this was all getting a little crazy. It had to be a dream. That said, she really didn’t want to wake up. She wanted to act like a princess for the night, go find her prince in that castle, and dance like a princess—not a metronome—for once in her life.
Thoughts of Jack pulled Claire’s eyes away from Malachi and back to the mountain palace. Suddenly eager to be there, Claire stepped out of the jet and into the frosty wind. The arctic air wrapped around her, touching nothing but the tip of her nose with its chill while she stayed warm under the cloak.
The air felt thinner outside, like she needed more of it to get the same amount of oxygen. Worried she might be waking up, Claire breathed deeply to keep herself anchored in the moment. Because this was amazing.
A glance each direction revealed plummeting valleys all around, like elemental centurions keeping the uninvited at bay. Finding the right peak out here without a map would be like finding one wave in the ocean.
Good luck.
Claire inhaled, taking it all in. So … this was what feeling small felt like.
Claire thought she’d experienced that particular sensation many times in her life—like all those times her parents had spent holidays away, or that time they’d forgotten to send someone to pick her up from school for summer break. But nope. Standing on a mountaintop dressed like a queen surrounded by endless mountain ranges and elements that would obey exactly zero of her commands was the true feeling of impotence. A thousand servants could star-stud Claire for hours, and she still wouldn’t hold a candle to this glory.
It was a lot to take in.
Claire spent her life obsessing over details … trying to control them. The more she could break something down and control its parts, the stronger she felt.
Standing on this peak felt like witnessing the opposite of herself.
The nature around her controlled nothing in its environment and yet somehow emanated power and peace.
How did it do that? How could she do that?
Was it even humanly possible?
When Claire returned her gaze to the mountain palace, it seemed more miraculous somehow. She hadn’t noticed before, but its entrance looked like it was carved out as if expecting giants, not men, to enter its arched gates. The airplane hangar to the right of it gave new perspective to the flight of stairs leading in.
So. Many. Steps.
Claire mentally measured the daunting staircase, reminding herself that, even if this wasn’t a dream, she was one of the people who went to the gym now. She did cardio five times a week. She could climb those steps in a ball gown. Definitely … maybe. Time would tell. But to find out, she was going to have to make it off the jet and down to the ground first.
Looking down from the jet’s doorway, all Claire could see was copious amounts of skirt glinting back at her. All that shimmering fabric might make her the belle of the ball later, but kind of made her as coordinated as a cat in a bathtub when it came to navigating teeny-tiny jet steps.
As if perceiving her dilemma, a militant man dressed in a black version of a British guard uniform stepped to the side of the railing.
Where had he come from?
The black fur cap on his head was the only sign that the man might be an actual human capable of getting cold. Everything else about him seemed impervious to anything but his duty to help her take eight steps without falling. He presented a hand in her direction to assist her descent.
Without hesitation, Claire accepted the help, noting that the man had the grip of a marble statue—his body more secure than the hand railing built into the stairs.
“Thank you,” Claire managed, her voice sounding slightly out of breath with the realization that this man had more strength in one arm than she had in her entire body. And while that was nice for the part of her that didn’t want to face-plant off the stairs, it was terrible for her sense of control, which was already reeling from taking in the view of the surrounding mountains and noting how remote all this was.
So remote.
If this wasn’t a dream and Malachi had any ill intent at all, she was screwed. Seeing the mountains in all their majesty had felt poetic there for a second, but all that vanished after touching hands with the guard.
Reality check: She was the weakest thing on this entire mountain, dressed in impractical silk. The only thing she controlled at this point was whether or not she screamed.
Halfway down the stairs, lightheadedness set in, making her steps a little less confident. She tried to tell herself it was the thin air, but she was far too familiar with panic to miss its signature haze in her mind.
Claire cast a nervous look back toward the relative safety of the jet, part of her wanting to race back in.
Man, that aromatherapy wore off quick.
No screaming now, she coached herself, taking the final downward steps. If you were going to go full crazy, you should have done it before takeoff. It’s just pathetic now. You’re wearing a silver ball gown, for crying out loud! Have some dignity. Besides, gym or no gym, those stairs look tall. You might want to conserve your energy. You’re going to need it.
Humiliating visions of needing to be carried up the stairs had Claire taking three calming breaths as her footman escorted her.
In and out…she walked from tarmac to carpet.
In and out…she paused and noted that the air didn’t feel so thin anymore.
In and out…she nodded her thanks to her footman as he took his leave.
She didn’t feel better in the slightest, but if she could not freak out for three breaths, then she could do it for four. Then five. Then six. Then more.
She could do this.
In. Out.
Count the number of windows on the building, her false sense of control urged, offering her an olive branch on restoring mental stability. Counting windows was something Claire could control.
Malachi deplaned and stepped up next to her, offering his arm as an escort. “Shall we?”
This was it. Dream or not, this was the moment of commitment.
Last chance to freak out with any real credibility, a little voice warned. No playing victim after this. No wildly swinging on an emotional pendulum, and no being the weakest link. Game on, or go home.
Her inner voices were using sports metaphors now. Things really had changed in the past year.
I choose game on, she thought, sliding her arm through Malachi’s like a proper lady.
His encouragement seemed genuine when he said, “Let’s go meet the boss, shall we?”
“And Jack,” she clarified.
“And Jack,” Malachi repeated before looking back at the fortress. He took a breath as his gloved thumb stroked up against his signet ring finger. “And Margot.”
Wait, what?
“They’re all inside,” he promised, not missing a beat. “And it’s much warmer in there. I promise.”
The not-so-subtle hint to start walking didn’t go unnoticed, but Claire still stole one last glance at Malachi’s glove, realizing that she wasn’t the only one anxious to see someone on the inside.
Malachi and… Margot?
I gotta see this, pretty much every voice in her internal peanut gallery said at the same time.
Buoyed slightly, Claire gave a prim nod and they both started forward.