I awake in a room. It’s a familiar room. One that has haunted my nightmares for years - Rachel’s room. I look around, but no one is about. There is a faint buzzing in the walls. I didn’t hear it the first time.

Figures are visible around me, 6 Changelings: Myke, Blodwen, Fenrir, Blackbird, MJ, and me. Well, a younger me anyway. Rachel appears, staring at her mirror. The younger me manifests and begins speaking to the dreamer.

She is convincing her that everything is alright. She is pretending to be a new friend from school. Rachel believes her.

There is something downstairs, something vile, but she doesn’t know it yet. It is Rachel’s quince and she isn’t ready to go downstairs. She’s afraid. Rachel’s always afraid. The redheaded, grey skinned Artist comforts her, letting her know it is safe if they go together.

Rachel nods and everyone follows. As we reach the downstairs, there are people there, but these people have no face, just a blank canvas where a face should be. Everyone resolves themselves. We will escape this dream. Rachel will finally have a good night’s sleep. That’s what we hoped for, anyway.

Blodwen and the others begin fighting, but the people are too strong. The redheaded Artist intimidates them, but not for very long. She never was very intimidating.

A shift in the dream happens. We are inside a shop, trying to escape. I can hear them more clearly now - the Faceless Man’s pixies. They are in never ending supply, waiting to prey upon your worst nightmares.

The redhead feels useless. She wasn’t made for battle. I watch her struggle, trying to find a way to help. She resolves to fight them on her own for as long as she can to allow the others to escape. She knew it was a sacrifice. She knew it was going to terrify her, but she wasn’t ready for the pain. She wasn’t ready for the terror that would come afterwards. She screams, the touch feeling like it burns across her skin, though no marks truly exist. Eaten alive, being touched - two things that genuinely terrified her.

She awakes from the dream, the grey Artist screaming and sobbing. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Please. I’ll be better. I’ll be perfect. Please- PLEASE.”

I feel her dread.

Her sobs become incoherent, backing herself up into a corner and crying into her hands, knees pulled up to her chest. Every time he had touched her, a little piece of her soul was gone. How many pieces did she have left?

The dream fasts forward then. A meeting with her spymaster, Phillip. He sees the way the Artist looks pale, the way she won’t let him within two feet of her. They stand outside of one of the Winter Court’s safehouses.

“Are you okay?” His smooth voice asks. The Draconic looks genuinely concerned, but how would one ever truly know with those black orbs of abyss?

The Artist scoffs, “Would you be okay if you died in a dream?” She asks, her voice cold. Cold and unfeeling like the rest of her.

“No…” His voice is soft. “What do you need?”

I reach out. I need to touch him again. I need to feel alive again. I call out his name, “Phillip.” But he doesn’t see me. I’m just a figment, watching the way my life unfolded. How it all truly began.

It takes a minute, but the Artist speaks, “Something has happened to Blodwen. I need someone who can work with spirits.”

The Draconic just silently nods and writes down a number. He tries to hand it to her, but she jumps. He sets it down instead on a brick just slightly sticking out, taking a step back for her to retrieve it. Once the Artist has the card in her hands, he speaks again, “Cassandra.”

I miss hearing him speak my name.

“What?” The grey skinned Artist asks.

“Let me make you tea later. You look like you need it,” He says. Again, his voice is soft and inviting. I forgot how tentative he had been at first.

The Artist looks as if she might say no, but instead she just nods. She looks scared and exhausted, but Phillip is her friend, even if it is mostly for gathering intel and friendship from Spring while she socializes.

Mere hours later, I’d allow him to hold my hand as I sobbed. I told him everything. I got everything out of my system - every last thing I could tell about Arcadia, every last thing I could tell about what had hurt me. It was the first time he’d ever looked at me like that - with loving concern. Or, maybe it was the first time I’d realized he was looking at me like that.

“Let me take away your sorrows for just a moment so we can see clearly.” He squeezes the Artist’s hand and that’s when it happened. For just a moment, she didn’t feel an ounce of sorrow or regret. For the first time since she’d escaped, she felt like she could truly see.

That’s when I became the Polychromatic, apathy gone. My skin had taken on its true kith, sparkling with prismatic color.

The feelings of relaxation didn’t last longer than a few minutes, but she was changed for good. She finally knew what it meant to feel happy as a Lost. Something had deepened in that moment with him, a different kind of bond than what they'd shared before. Apathy gone, she realized she had buried something deeper, something dangerous for the both of them. But for a moment, none of that mattered. She was bright, glittering, beautiful. She was free.

I was never grey again.