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In a blissful, deep sleep, Wilomena was transported halfway across the world. She was in a white muslin dress, beautiful in its simplicity, and her hair was down and disheveled by wind. Every attempt to restrain her flyaway tresses ended in failure. The wind was too strong.
She was on a prairie, surrounded on all sides by emerald grassland. There was a hill in the distance, plastered in wildflowers, and she felt compelled to reach it. Her feet were bare, and her nose shriveled when she felt the squish of mud beneath her toes. Unpleasant as it was to have mud on her feet, there was no solution, so she kept charging forward, toward the petal-laden hill.
As she climbed the hill, she realized she wasn't alone. There was a man sitting cross-legged in the flowers. His attire was foreign and his skin was darker than hers, but there was nothing more strange than the wings on his back. She approached with caution, blinking and bewildered.
“Are you...” Her voice was soft as she crept toward him, as leery as a kitten approaching her first dog. “Are you an angel?”
His wings shivered, and then they vanished. She was sad to see them go, because they were beautiful. “I'm not quite an angel,” the man replied. “I'm working toward it. For now, I'm only a spirit guide.”
“What's a spirit guide?” Wilo asked.
“They're spirits of the deceased who watch over humankind,” the man explained. “There is an entire unseen world beyond the veil, and spirit guides are only a tiny fragment of it.”
There was more he could say, but he gave her a moment to process what had already been divulged. He assumed she would have questions, and he was right. What followed was nothing short of an interrogation.
“So... you're dead?”
“I am,” he replied.
“How did you die?”
“In battle, unfortunately,” he told her. “A spear went through my heart.”
“Are you...” Wilo's voice faded as she soaked in his strange shoes, his long hair, and the quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. “Are you... from somewhere else?”
He chuckled at the delicate phrasing of her question. “I was one of the Lakota people, killed during a conflict with the Cheyenne. Your people would call my land the Americas. However, place names and borders matter little in the afterlife.”
“You speak English well,” she observed.
“I've been dead for awhile, so I've had time to learn other languages. I picked up most of my English during my time as your spirit guide,” he said. “I've been with you since you were four.”
“Four!” she cried, and her interrogation continued. “What is your name?”
“Rain.”
“You seem to know a lot about me.”
“I know everything about you, my lady... or nearly everything.” He motioned for her to join him in the flowers. “I've been at your side all along, living through every moment of pain and joy. I confess, I'm not sure how I should address you. To me, you've been Wilo, but... should I call you Lady Winterbottom instead?”
“Please, no!” she bellowed. “If I can escape that title in my dreams, it would be a blessing. This is a dream, is it not? I'm not mistaken?”
“You're not mistaken.” Rain plucked one of the flowers and presented it to her. “My ability to enter dreams is... unique, to say the least. Not many spirits have figured out the trick.”
“And what is the trick, might I ask?”
“It's complicated.” He leaned back on his elbows and sighed toward the heavens. It was Wilo's dream, and she had blessed them with blue skies and pillowy clouds. “Spirits never sleep, so to enter your dream, I have to put my mind in a dream-like state. Beyond that, it is difficult to explain.”
“I wish I could learn how to do that,” Wilo said. “I could visit Cecilia's dreams or call on old friends. I could enter Arthur's dreams and tell him exactly how I feel without any fear of...” She stopped herself before she revealed any details of her wrecked relationship. Seeing Rain's smirk, she asked, “What is this smile on your face? You look... cheeky.”
“I was thinking about your husband,” Rain said. “I sometimes drop into his dreams and turn them into nightmares. Did you know he has a fear of snakes?”
Wilo's eyebrows shot up. He had expressed no such fear to her. “Snakes?”
“Indeed. Big snakes, little snakes... no matter what snake I torment him with, he always wakes up petrified.”
“Ohh, that sounds like so much fun!” Wilomena cried. “Can we do that together?”
Rain chuckled at her enthusiasm. “Perhaps. You're more devious than I expected you to be, my lady. I think I like it.”
A smile soared across Wilomena's face. She liked the idea of being devious. “Have we spoken in my dreams before?” she asked.
“We have, but never at this length,” Rain said. “Sadly, you always forget me.”
“Aw, but I don't want to forget you!” Her smile immediately shifted to a pout. “I want to go on adventures with you and unleash serpents on my husband. Arthur is... he's cruel to me, you know.”
“I know.”
“Do you know everything about my relationship with him?”
Rain waited a moment before answering with a nod, “Yes.”
“How terribly awkward.” Wilomena hid behind her hands and peeked at Rain through parted fingers. “Do you feel the same way as he does, then? Do you think I'm a ruined woman who's ruined his life?”
“Not at all,” Rain said. “I think Arthur is a disgusting man. In no world should a man like him be described as a gentleman.”
“Ah, but he's a viscount! He's Lord Winterbottom. In my society, that makes him the definition of a gentleman!”
“I know.” A low growl rumbled in Rain's throat. “Respect should be earned. You shouldn't be born into it.”
When they went silent, Wilomena took a moment to admire his face. He had the darkest eyes she had ever seen, the squarest jaw she had ever seen, and his lips were fuller than most. He was a handsome man, to be sure, and her own thoughts had her blushing.
“If you can make snakes appear in Arthur's dream, can you also manipulate mine?” she asked.
“Absolutely.” Mischief glowed in his eyes as he studied her. “Is there something you would like me to do?”
“Can you make it rain?” she asked. “Your name is Rain, after all. If you could control the weather, that would seem fitting.”
Wilomena should have been more specific. She expected a mist, a drizzle, or a light patter of raindrops against her skin. Instead, he created a deluge. The clouds split apart and inundated them with water.
“What are you doing?” she shrieked. “This is not what I wanted!”
“No?”
“No!” He had the audacity to laugh, so she swatted his arm. “Please, make it stop, or I will be forced to seek cover!”
“A little rain never harmed anyone, my lady. Especially in a dream.” He didn't want to torture her too long, so he banished the rain clouds with a wave of his hand.
“Perhaps. But this is more than a little rain!” she cried. “This was a cruel amount of rain! Now I am a bedraggled mess! My hair is ruined, my clothes are sodden, I—”
“You look pretty,” Rain interrupted. “You always look pretty.”
Wilo gathered her wet hair on a single shoulder and asked, “You... think I'm pretty?”
“Of course.” He flashed a smile that had surely melted a heart or two. “I don't think anyone could look at this face and think otherwise. You have grown into a fine young woman, Wilomena. I'm very proud of you.”
A sniffle from Wilo's reddening nose was the first sign of sorrow. A silver gloss of tears shuddered in her eyes, and when she spoke, her voice was weak. “I wish... I could feel proud of myself.”
“You can be,” Rain said. “You should be.”
“No, I shouldn't.” Wilo turned away when she lost the battle against her tears. Only one fell, so she rubbed it away and drew a breath to steel herself. “I have no reason to be proud. I've done bad things. I've made terrible decisions. A part of me believes Arthur is right. He chose a bad wife, and he has every right to feel disgusted with me. I'm worthless.”
“Arthur is the problem,” Rain said. “His stinging words are the reason you no longer feel proud of yourself.”
“Perhaps. I wish there was a way to... block him out.”
Rain saw her tremble, so he turned her clothes from wet to dry. A shawl appeared in his hands, and as he wrapped it around her, he asked, “Are you cold?”
“A bit. But my clothes are dry again,” she noted. “Did you do that?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” Wilo laid a hand on top of his. “Thank you for everything... for your kind words. Thank you for watching over me.”
“It's a pleasure, my lady.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. It was a common gesture among English gentlemen, and he always wanted to try it. “Sadly, I think your dream is about to end. Will you do me a favor?”
Wilo nodded, but her lips were frowning. She wanted to stay with him. He was much pleasanter company than Arthur. “I can try.”
“When the dream ends, and you're back in the waking world... will you try to remember me this time?”