“It’s a well-done illusion, perfect in almost every detail. But the well-trained mind can see through it.”

Feeling the sun on his skin and a light wind in his hair, O’Cir was inclined to agree. “This is too pleasant,” he said. “I haven’t seen a day this brilliant or bright since I was a boy, and even then I suspect that it’s been colored more brightly in memory.”

“Quite right,” Nil’tiac said. “If it seems to good to be true, it probably is. Whoever or whatever is creating this illusion wants us to be swept up in bliss, leaving us weak, distracted or vulnerable.”

“I wouldn’t know what bliss feels like,” O’Cir scoffed.

“I’ve only ever found it in the bottom of a mug or the curve of a pipe, and this is neither,” Nil’tiac agreed.

“We need to talk about your indulgences, friend, but perhaps now is not the time. The more pressing question is, if our every sense is being decieved, save perhaps our reason, how are we to break the spell?”

Nil’tiac looked across the idyllic field, the bright skies, the gently undulating grasses below the great single tree on a hill. Then something within the oil painting come to life moved. It was a cat, a tabby, and it was visibly scarred, notably grumpy-looking, and busily devouring a bluebird while keeping its one good eye on the interlopers.

“None of this is real, but that cat is suspiciously real.”

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