She shifted, the glide of warm velvet under her cheek, the brush of a soft fur blanket covering her. So peaceful and cozy. Her lashes looked like black lace against the warm light. Sighing, she snuggled in, drowsy and peaceful. What the hell? With a bolt of panic, she sat up, the throw falling away, and tried to absorb her surroundings. It was something out of a dream. She sat on an antique chaise, sort of a carved wooden fainting couch, covered in emerald velvet with throw pillows in satin jewel tones. The fur blanket felt real, soft as chinchilla, in a dazzling light pearly gray, nearly a luminescent silver. The rest of the room held similar furniture, an eclectic assortment of Victorian-style lines and fabrics, breathtakingly elegant. Plush Oriental carpets easily worth tens of thousands of dollars covered the floor, one bordering another in a stained-glass pattern of color. On every surface, white pillar candles glowed, their flames straight and true in the draftless cavern. For a cave it was, rough rock walls a disconcerting backdrop for the lovely pieces.
