Venice

Her mother told her dreams want to be real, that when one starts to wake up, they hang on and try to slip out into the waking world when you do not notice. Very strong dreams, she had said, can almost do it--those that last for almost half a day, but not much longer. Venetia asked her if any ever made it. If any dreams had actually stolen out into the real world, like one of the rhyming thieves of the smoke-and-mist filled city that her father had once talked of.

She had smiled, and said, she knew at least of one. She had that longing, tired look in her eyes that made Venetia think of her father. Her mother always looked like that when she talked of him.

Venetia was small, she could have not been any more than five. In all her childish innocence and curiousity, she asked who, and did she know them?

Her mother simply smiled, and said that it was a long time ago, and Venetia wouldn't remember.