Imposter Syndrome

Dreamweaver

Some nights later, tealights aglow, Sofie found herself in the same bedroom once more, murmuring mantras, joining hands with Natalia, Helena, and Carolina, concentrating on those deftly-crafted eye sculptures affixed to the headboard—and, of course, Veronica—

Veronica...Veronica...wherefore art thou, Veronica?

A powder-pink building—a castle tower? The bespoke Wes Anderson architecture blossomed over the snow-capped horizon in all its Victorian, antiquarian glory, surrounded by seemingly endless forest upon which she traipsed.

Veronica, Veronica, wherever you are...a figure, asleep at her raspberry-toned sofa chaise, as the chants and enchantments continued. 'Here,' came the whisper—

Scenery swirled into an effervescent ombre, as she found herself in a Lausanne countryside cottage kitchen.

Clotilde.

Except, it was Veronica that was Clotilde, blinking rapidly, confused, spotting a mop of messy chestnut curls upon which should have been instead a sleek auburn mane. 'What the...?' Tiled backsplash provided a certain artisan nuance as her hands molded and pounded dough, her fingers swiping at her eyelashes every so often, trying to banish those innermost thoughts of a dream deferred, a family torn apart, rife with salacious scandal—

Money.

There was never enough to go around, in this world at least. The work-worn table, formerly a butcher shop's plank, was evidence of that, its crooks and crevices visible to the naked eye.

If everything had gone according to plan—if she had graduated on time—if she had remained on scholarship—she could have had—she gulped, suppressing a sob—

A future. A successful business. Healthy finances.

A family.

Instead, she and this...this sourdough mixture, soon bound for the arid confines of the primitive brick-laid oven, would fast fade into obscurity, her reputation—ruined. Her legacy—

In shambles.

'No!' she was heard to shriek. 'NO!'

A shudder, and Veronica awoke in her silken sofa chaise with a start. A nightmare. It was—she checked her surroundings, heretofore untouched—just. A. Nightmare.

Right?

The dreamscape fast drawing to a close, Sofie crept toward the kitchen door's threshold, laying an envelope upon the step. Reparations. Damages. Whatever it was, it would hopefully put Clotilde's financial fears to rest.

A touch of her shoulder later, she knew her time was up. The circle now broken, she noticed a dull ache in her left eye, more sheer strain than anything else. Her three compatriots' mental wards, combined, meant Veronica would not suspect a thing, likely chalking it up to an overactive (or possibly guilty) imagination.

"Veronica?" Helena was the first to speak.

"Rattled."

The other two smiled. "Reparations?" Carolina inquired. Money from Sofie's own sale of silk gloves over the internet, a not-insignificant amount—an unwritten prerequisite to full-fledged Goddess League admission—

"Done and done."

And the same exercise occurred the next evening, this time to wintry Canadian wilderness, just outside a tiny tin-roofed house, no larger than the size of a master bathroom (if that)—

Retrograde amnesia—those two words echoed within Veronica's brain, as she sought to make sense of the myriad bubbling glass test tubes before her, the Erlenmeyer flasks, those percussion pops and fizzes.

Eureka! An instant later, a possible cure, demonstrated on tiny microbes, then upon indeterminately sentient zebrafish, each swimming through a miniature plastic hoop within their little aqueous world. Fingers trembling, visage aglow with excitement, the scientist made to contact—the media—the journalists—academia—but—

A shriek of frustration, then another. Alas, no internet connectivity. No civilization for miles, in this part of the North. Nobody to witness the magic, nobody with whom to market one's genius, to capitalize upon the possibility of fame and fortune—

This little locale, a forced retreat due to halted funding far earlier. Once upon a time, a mogul had money. Once upon a time...a dream-weaver, a magic-maker...

A dream deferred—

And once again—an ominous crack of the glass, a victim of cold climes—

Destroyed.

After Veronica had made her leave, unnerved as ever, Sofie appeared, leaving an envelope wedged between the threshold and the door itself, hoping upon hope the fierce, furious wind would not blow it away...

"Two down, a couple more to go!" Natalia's voice rang out amid the flickering tealights, as Sofie's consciousness found her way back to Constanta Castle once more.