My baby is crying, his misery fills my ears, and my head is pounding. I'm cold and hot, and I'm not sure where I am.

Dragging my eyelids apart, I can see the outline of dusky furniture standing around the room and the carved posts of the bed I'm lying in. I'm thirsty, and my throat is filled with barbed wire, but the water pitcher beside my bed is empty now. The baby's pitiful cries break through my thirst, ripping my heart, and I slip from under the duvet, lowering my feet to the floor to rise on shaky legs.

I need to reach my son.

I can feel my heartbeat reverberating in my head and thrumming in my veins. The baby's cries grow louder, more distinct, as I open the bedroom door and shuffle into the hallway. The sun is gone, the house is swallowed up in darkness, and when my searching fingers find the light switch, flipping it produces nothing but a click. There's only me, my thirst and the desperate cries of the infant, causing convulsive spasms in my belly.

I need to find him! I need to take care of him!

It is too dark on the landing; I cannot see where to put my feet, and the nautical clock on the wall is ticking deafeningly loud, its relentless beat vibrating along the floor. Did David fix it and hang it back in its place?

I feel my way to the staircase and descend carefully, one step at a time, sliding my back along the wall for support. Outside, fat raindrops are splashing against the windows, and the wind is howling, but I can still hear the baby crying above the noise.

Why is it so dark? There isn't even any lightning to brighten my path as I stumble towards the small hallway leading to the kitchen, guided by the infant's cries. When I pass the bathroom door, I become aware of another sound.

Sobs. Deep, heart-wrenching sobs, the kind that twists my insides with empathy, bringing tears to my own eyes. Somewhere ahead of me, hidden in the dark corridor, a grief-stricken man is crying, his sobs underscoring the baby's cries. I squint, trying to see into the dark recesses of the hallway.

"David?"

There is no answer, but the crying is growing louder, filling my head, and as I shuffle closer, I can make out the form of a man sitting on the floor, clutching a squirming bundle wrapped in bloodied cloth. As I stare, the image becomes more identifiable, and I can see a tiny white fist break out of the swaddling, angrily waving in the air while the baby's cries grow shriller, clashing with the broken-hearted wails erupting from the throat of the man sitting on the floor, holding the child.

I can feel the man's despair, harmonising painfully with the infant's, and I can see him clearly now.

It is not David.

The man seems somewhat familiar, but his features are contorted with the kind of pain only genuine sorrow can induce. Why is he crying, holding my baby?

It's not my baby... I don't have a baby...

Are they survivors of the storm and the flood? Did David bring them here? Where is he? Where is this child's mother? Are they injured?

"David?!"

My mind races with unanswered questions, and I stumble forward to see if I can help the man and his child, crying out in pain when my knees hit the wooden floor, and I smack my forehead against the wall.

For a moment, I just lie still, dazed and frightened, trying to make sense of how I managed to trip so spectacularly. I cannot hear or see anything at first, but then warm hands grab my shoulders and pull me upright.

"Belle! Are you alright?"

I gasp, startled by the sudden brightness around me. The room is filled with fading sunlight. I'm not on the floor in the kitchen hallway; I'm in the bedroom.

"Did you fall out of bed?" I finally recognise David's worried voice and clutch at his shirt when he picks me up, puts me back on the bed, and pulls the duvet over me.

"Did I dream?" I ask while he helps me get into a comfortable sitting position, propped up by pillows.

"I don't know, did you?"

Right, he couldn't possibly know what I've just experienced if it didn't really happen.

"The man and a baby..."

A frown slips between David's eyes, and satisfied that I'm not about to fall from the bed again, he turns away to retrieve the tray he must've hurried to place on the vanity when he saw me on the floor. He transfers it to the nightstand and, taking a mug from it, sits down on the edge of the bed, holding it out to me.

"Yeah," he says when I gratefully take the steaming mug of coffee from him. "You had a dream."

"It seemed so real."

So did playing on the beach with a dying man and standing in the little room downstairs and battling with crows. I sip the warm, comforting liquid, and when I finally look up, I realise that David is watching me, waiting for more information.

"A man was sitting in the hallway downstairs with his back against the closet door. He was weeping, holding a tiny swaddled baby. He was so sad..."

David winces, leaning over to take a second mug from the table, retrieve the bowl of cookies, and place it on the bed between us.

"That's depressing."

"So there's no-."

"Nope, no crying men and babies downstairs; I just came from the kitchen," he assures me, and with his eyes narrowing in concern, he puts his mug back on the tray and, reaching out, cups my face in his hands, studying me with concentration. "You hit your head," he declares, running the fingertips of one hand over my forehead, testing the area, easing up when I grimace uncomfortably.

I giggle, almost spilling my coffee, when he suddenly leans over and brushes his lips over the sensitive spot, kissing it better.

"You're trembling," he murmurs, stroking a hand over my head.

"Yeah, the dream really rattled me," I admit, taking one of the biscuits from the bowl. It's true, I can still feel the man's despair clawing at my heart, hear his sobs and the baby's cries, my throat swelling shut with emotion.

David must see my distress because he takes my mug away, puts it on the tray and pulls me into his arms, trapping my hands against his chest. I can feel my cookie crumble, but I don't care. Being in his arms is warm, safe, and calming, and I can feel the sharp edges of the dream soften and fade, floating away on a cloud of well-being as I snuggle into his embrace.

"Aside from that, how are you feeling now," he asks after a few minutes, letting me go, retrieving our mugs and handing me mine again.

I'm about to complain about a scratchy throat and a headache when I realise that the feverish thirst, dry throat and pounding head have disappeared along with the darkness, the cold, and the dream. My nose still feels slightly congested, but I'm mostly over whatever symptoms I had. I was probably just suffering the aftereffects of being naked and freezing, and now that I'm warm and rested, I am almost myself again.

"Much better, thank you," I smile at him, watching him dunk a biscuit in his coffee and eat it with his eyes closed as if it is the most exquisite treat he's ever had. I could sit and watch this man do the most mundane things for the rest of my life and be perfectly happy, never doing anything else ever again. He is sheer perfection.

Sometimes when I'm with him, he seems so perfect that I'm still afraid that one day I'll wake up to the fact that he is a figment of my imagination. The thought scares me and makes me extremely sad.

"I'm really glad," he smiles at me, taking another biscuit. No mere imaginary man could possibly go through my store of cookies as fast as David can, and I find the idea comforting.

"What have you been up to?" I ask, stroking the back of one of his hands.

"Oh!" he says, turning his head to look at the vanity where the tray had been before. "I'm cleaning the study, and I've found some interesting things in there, like plans for the house. As far as I can tell, the kitchen and dining room used to be connected by a short, covered veranda, and there was a small room between the two. The dining room was later expanded to join the kitchen, and the small room and veranda were incorporated into it.

"Ah!" I say, really not sure how to feel about this news. "So... I was dreaming about a room that used to be there."

"That's all I can think."

Well, that probably makes sense; at least there used to be a room, and I'm not completely nuts; I just have really, really vivid dreams about things I should know nothing about.

"I found more pictures too," David says, rising to put his empty mug on the tray and fetch something from the vanity. I recognise some of the photographs he places in my lap as the ones I scanned through when I was in the study looking for the cellar key. I now recognise the beautiful young woman with doe-like eyes and softly curling hair escaping from a roll behind her head as the woman in the portrait in the solarium. A slightly older version of the girl in the photograph on the fireplace mantel. Maribelle.

"Belle," the name shivers through my mind, spoken in a hoarse whisper, a memory so clear it feels like I'm hearing it again, and a brilliant plan suddenly hits me.

"David, would you please do me a favour?" I ask, reaching out to put my mug on the tray, freeing my hands to take the photographs from the cookie pieces still lying on my lap. "Could you please call me Luna from now on?" I look up from Maribelle's image to find David frowning at me, looking confused. "That way, I'll know when I'm hearing you speaking to me and not somebody talking to Maribelle. I've previously given unconscious Belle the name Luna, but I'm increasingly becoming convinced that she is, in fact, Maribelle."

I know I've just said the weirdest thing ever said by a sane person in a house where only two people are present, but understanding my concern, David slowly nods. In the last couple of days, he has gathered plenty of experience to draw from to make such a wise decision.

"Sure, Luna, I'll try to remember."

I love the sound of that name on his tongue; it flows from his lips in a mischievous ripple, caressing my ears. I was meant to be Luna all along! Well, Craig does, on occasion, call me a looney... but it's not the same thing.

"Is there anything you'd like me to call you?" I ask since offering him the same comfort and peace of mind is only fair.

"David, sounds pretty good to me," he nods, looking earnest, but when his eyes meet mine, an amused smile sparkles on his face. "Especially when you say it."

I slowly work through the pictures with David naming the family members he recognises from looking through the photographs with his grandfather the one time the man was willing to do so.

"So, Bel... Luna, wha-."

"No," I interrupt, shaking my head with determination, not allowing any room for rebellion against my will. "Balloona is not going to work for me."

David laughs, reaching out to squeeze my knee.

"It's not?"

"No."

I am still chuckling when he lifts the other item he'd taken from the vanity from his lap and holds it up for me to see. "Luna, any idea what this is?"

"Oh!" I exclaim. "I forgot about that."

"I found it on the small table just outside the study." The velvet pouch from the Matryoshka doll is lying in the palm of David's hand.

Clearing my throat, stacking the pictures and picking crumbs from my lap to put them in the empty bowl, I tell David about delinquent dolls hiding under couches and dream-time surgery to discover treasures and lost cellar keys. I do, of course, skirt around the reason why I was on my knees searching for my cell phone when I discovered the doll. There is no need for David to know that I have cannibalistic luggage. He already has enough ammunition to caution himself against becoming romantically involved with me; I do not have to provide him with more.

He listens with rapt attention, unpacking the pouch and frowning at the contents.

"Look," he suddenly says, finding Maribelle's portrait in the stack between us and handing it to me while he holds the locket out, resting on his open palm. The woman in the photograph is wearing the locket!

"This is Maribelle's treasure," I mutter, and when I look up at David, his eyes are sombre, and he seems to be lost in thought. "Why would her things be in a Matryoshka doll under the couch?"

"Grandpa and I moved some furniture around; it could've fallen from that display case near the fireplace. It is filled with ornaments and mementoes." That possibly explains how the doll ended up under the couch but not why Maribelle's possessions were inside the doll.

"Perhaps she planned on taking it with her and wanted to keep it safe," I theorise. "And then it got left behind. Perhaps they were mementoes of her and your great-grandfather, and she had to keep it hidden."

"That would explain the hair," David says, his voice lacking its usual warmth, weighted down by the heaviness of the discovery. "They probably shared locks with each other to keep when they're far apart... he was a sailor..."

"They braided their hair together so that at least some part of them were close," I whisper, and when David shrugs, I sigh sadly. "That breaks my heart. They must've really missed each other."

"There are words on this... and I think I see some numbers," David is studying the carved stone, holding it at various angles against the light.

"Try making a rubbing with some paper and a pencil," I suggest.

"That should work," David agrees. "I think the engraving is deep enough."

I take the locket from where David placed it in the open pouch and really study it for the first time since I found it. It is oval-shaped with a delicate floral pattern carved on the golden surface, and when I move it between my fingers, looking at it from all angles, my fingertips encounter a small button. I press it, testing it with my fingertip, and the locket opens with a gentle click.

There is a painted miniature inside done in a subtler version of the vibrant style used in the paintings upstairs. I recognise the couple immediately. Maribelle and her lover, David's great-grandfather. That does explain why she kept it hidden, but why not take it with her? Did she leave it behind for her son to know them?

"This is too sad," I whisper when David takes the locket to look at the portrait.

"I want to see what is on this rock," he says, closing the locket and putting everything except the rock back in the pouch before getting to his feet and moving to the door. I leap from the bed, slip on my fluffy slippers and follow him into the hallway.

The first thing I see is the empty wall, still carrying a faded outline indicating where the nautical clock used to hang. The floor is entirely debris-free, and a beautiful, low chest of drawers stretches between the two bathroom doors. At its centre, the sailor and his love are gazing into each other's eyes against the backdrop of a tall, scale model of a pretty lighthouse. David has been busy.

I hurry to follow him up the stairs to the solarium, and before he opens the door, I grab his hand, suddenly afraid of going in there, but he simply folds his fingers around mine and leads the way into the room. Flipping the light switch, he chases the growing shadows away and confidently walks to where my pencils, sketchpad and the stack of drawings of his great-great-grandfather are lying on one of the cabinets.

Nothing seems to have changed up here since I got attacked by the man with the knife. The family portrait is still on the easel, and it is still incomplete. The room is quiet; no disembodied emotions are floating around, ready to take over my heart or attack me with intensity. I still cling to David's hand, and when I glance up at him, he gives me a warm, reassuring smile.

"You can wait outside, and I'll bring some paper and a pencil down if you prefer."

"No," I say with courage I'm not feeling. "I need to beat the fear, or I'll never come in here again. Let's do it here."

David squeezes my hand, and then he lays the stone on the surface of the cabinet, drapes a piece of clean paper over it and brushes a soft graphite stick over the paper until the grooves and hills engraved in the stone become visible.

"It's a pity I don't have any tracing paper." Though not as thick as the watercolour paper in my favourite sketchpad, the cartridge paper is not quite thin enough to get a very clear rubbing, but we can make out enough of it to fill in the blanks.

"Maribelle Stirling et Hugolin Chevrette-Bellier mariés le 12 Novembre 1926," David reads, a frown creeping between his dark eyebrows. "This is a little more than a year before my grandfather's birth."

"Hugolin," the name whispers from my lips, echoing warmly in my heart, sending a shiver gliding down my spine. "I don't know much French, but is it saying they were married on the 12th of November?"

"Yes," David breathes, his eyes straying to the family portrait on the easel. "They were..." He stares at the painting for a long time and then swallows loudly. "I know that name. I've read about him in some old records at the town library. Hugolin Chevrette-Bellier was suspected of piracy and wanted for the murder of Lawrence Brown, an officer in the regiment stationed just outside the town now known as Misty Falls. Due to the piracy accusations and the fact that Major Brown was an army officer, Hugolin was also charged with treason..."

He blinks, rubbing a hand over his head, not looking happy at all.

"Of course... it makes sense now... I knew my grandfather's father was a sailor and that he was on the run for some crime or another, treason was mentioned, but I didn't know any facts... I never thought he was Hugolin Chevrette-Bellier, the bloody pirate and murderer! No wonder there's no mention anywhere of Maribelle Stirling's marriage to the man. I wonder if she hid it from her parents."

My eyes travel over the painted contours of Hugolin's handsome face, his gentle eyes and warm smile, tangling with memories from the vivid dream I spent in his arms, and my heart lurches painfully.

"I don't think he was guilty of any of that," I tell David. "And I think I can prove it."

☼☼☼