When I was young it was too late.
~The Lover

The Last Forgery

A Very Brief Prologue

At the time, I could forgive my mother's over reaction because not only was she going through menopause and a bit of a mental breakdown simultaneously, but she also had to contend with my father romping around with the local gold digger, Janet Swanson. Allowing her to have a righteous fit was the least I could do. Banishment, however, was an entirely different issue.

I can honestly say I'm not proud of the circumstances that led to my familial excommunication. (I like large words. They're the only things that keep people from realizing I'm not as smart as I make myself out to be.) Yet, to say they weren't worthy of such a grim punishment wouldn't be fair, either. I was forced into the situation that stirred up the controversy—alright enough beating around the bush. You aren't the jury. I'll tell you what happened in a word: prostitution.

Well, more accurately, prostitution of my mind.

I was a Forger; although it wasn't until later I'd become familiar with the term. Men would pay me, describe in excruciating details their own fantasy woman, and I would go under with them and create an exact replica. You can see the appeal. Why go to a whorehouse, when you can go to someone and get precisely what you paid for without having to worry about Pimps and STDS? I'd been a leather-clad vixen with freakish heaving breasts, to a Japanese schoolgirl innocent in the eyes. In the real world you are limited. In the dream world I could be a robot, a mermaid, a magical witch, an experienced nun—anything. I charged ten times as much because I deserved ten times as much. I didn't discriminate gender, either. Men, women—some it was impossible to tell. I was running a very lofty, profitable business.

And then Janet Swanson visited me and everything came full circle.

I won't go into the details right because it's all very muddled and exhausting. All I can say is that I found myself two months later packing my belongings in my dorm at Oxford—naturally, they'd found a way to expel me—when a man came at my door.

"Are you here to help me move?" I asked, a little tiredly.

"Depends," he replied, "are you still in business?"

My head jerked up and my first instinct was to assume it was one of the Rugby boys come to antagonize me—even though most had visited on more than one occasion. But he was far too old to be a student.

I continued folding clothes. "I haven't my equipment anymore."

"They take it?"

"No, I smashed it before they could."

He shook his head. "A bit of a waste don't you think? No matter, I have my own. How about it, darling?"

You would think that after being expelled, and practically disowned, and having my name marred in the community with nowhere else to go, I'd have better sense, right? That I'd give up these seedy shenanigans for a better life abroad? Well, that's the thing about crime. Eventually, it leaves with nothing to lose.

"What do you have to offer?" I questioned. If I was going to do this I at least wanted it to count even though this smarmy character seemed to all too aware I was down on my luck.

"A grand in American dollars," he said. "What I want is very particular."

I mulled it over. I had plenty of money, for sure. But having a grand put in my palms right now gave me more options, since I didn't want to be tracked via my bank account. "Alright," I conceded, "just one more stipulation."

He cocked an eyebrow.

"Help me move," I said, thrusting a box in his hands.

I have to admit the girl, this Harper Yale, was good. Not excellent or experienced, but good.
And I mean that it terms of her Forgery.

She stood before me exactly the way I had described, even her breath, which I insisted be the taste of vanilla and cherry. Not that this was by any means the woman I wanted to bed—although, if I do say so myself, she was quite becoming—but the girl had passed my test. She remembered all the details including the little ones like the constellation of freckles on her chest, and the paleness of her skin-erm.
Not a good time to get distracted.

"You're quite a remarkable Forger, love," I complimented smugly.

At this she looked bewildered. "I beg your pardon?"

"Forger," I explained, "the term used to impersonate someone else in a dream. Of course, with the line of work I have you in mind for, it will be a bit more difficult. You will have to deceive someone into thinking you're the person you are impersonating. You look a bit lost. Here," the bed was replaced by a chair, "have a seat."

"No thank you." She was growing suspicious of me.

"Have it your way." I sat down. "Now, tell me—where did you pick up this trade?"

The question caught her so off guard that she transformed back into her regular self. "What do you want?"

Our eyes met, briefly. Quietly she asked, "You know, don't you?"

I stood up. No point in fighting the cat once it's out of the bag. "Your father taught me the trick of the trade. He said that you were the only one to…inherit his ability." I looked her straight in the eye. "I know why you've been doing this. Why you're preparing to hide."

"Can you help me?" The words burst out of her mouth as if she had been waiting for someone to rescue her.

I smirked. "Darling, I will do so much more."