"We're here!" proclaimed Italia as she slowed her car to a park in front of her new residence.  She glanced back at Royce, who was staring out the car window at their new house.  She couldn't tell what he was thinking, God! she wished she could tell.  Is he happy?  Is he sad?  Does he miss his old life?  He must miss his friends, his old school.  He must, she thought frantically as they past the lawn seemingly infested with brown cardboard boxes that the movers had dropped off minutes earlier.

    "I'll start unpacking." stated Royce, after he and Italia had finished moving the cardboard squares containing almost everything they owned inside.

    "No, why don't you have a look.  Explore, familiarize yourself with the house.  Choose a room for your own!  I'll start unpacking."  Italia shooed Royce away upstairs while she opened a box and started unloading its contents to where they belong.  Royce opened a white and gold door, revealing a very sunny and empty room.  A tree was nestled outside the windows and Royce could see most of his new backyard.

    "Mom!" he shouted downstairs.  "I chose my room!"

    "So soon?  Okay!  Move your stuff up there!" came the reply and Royce dutifully obeyed, emptying the cardboard caskets and filling the empty room with objects, adding color and life to the blank slate.  Soon all he had left were his clothes and his eyes fell on a closet door.  One he hadn't noticed before.  One that made his heart sing and his lungs dance.  The air seemed to pulse as his hand neared the handle.  Then, all at once, he swung it open, expecting the worse and having a yell for 'help' ready in his throat.  But there was nothing, only a classical style painting of a grey-haired queen.  "Oooh!  Loook what we have here." Italia's voice came up from behind Royce as she entered the room.  "A painting, do you know of who?"

    "No.  But I know you do and you're just baiting me.  It's something you and the other historians you used to work with do."

    "It's Catherine the Great!  She was a female tsar of Russia and considered an enlightened despot by-" Italia started rambling on about the life and legacy of Catherine the Great, but Royce was barely listening.  Something about the painting resonated with him, like a song composed in tune with his soul.

    "Let's hang it up in." proclaimed Royce suddenly, still staring at the baroque portrait.  Italia suddenly stopped speaking, slightly surprised.  She nodded and helped Royce mount the frame and canvas onto an empty place on his wall, opposite to his bed.

10:00, After Dinner

    "Goodnight Italia!" shouted Royce to Italia, downstairs.  He gently closed his door, turned off the light and flopped onto his new bed, exhausted from the physical and emotional ordeal of moving.  He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, the moonlight streaming through his window like a spotlight, focusing on the painting of Catherine the Great.

    "Royce, wake up.  Royce, wake up." a voice whispered quietly.  Royce jolted awake, glancing around his room.  His eyes settled on the painting.  He hoped it was just a trick of the light (or a lack of it) but it seemed to be moving.  "Listen quickly, we don't have much time."  The painting was moving, more specifically, speaking.  Catherine the Great was looking directly at Royce and producing words from her pastel mouth.  "Heed my words, for they are important.  You, everything and everyone you know is in danger.  First, you must find my Mandate, they will protect you.  Second, a deceiver will attempt to mislead you.  Do not believe them and their lies.  Third-"

    Royce's phone rang, a sharp, shrill noise that cut through the ethereal tone.  Both Royce and Catherine turned their heads sharply to look at the phone.  It continued to ring, with seemingly increased urgency.

    "He is here.  I must go, but know; this was not a dream."  with those words Catherine stopped talking and it was like something left the painting and the room.  Royce slowly picked up his phone and answered it.

    "Hello?"  He bolted awake in bed, the sun low in the sky.  A bird sang outside his window and Italia was cooking downstairs.  Royce looked at the painting, and it did not move or talk.  Royce took a deep breath.  Maybe it was just a dream, he thought.  A very strange one.