by Lincoln Law
But was there any need to even trouble her little sister? She could not dream, so she was safe. Wasn’t she?
Over dinner, as she sat next to Charlotte, she ate slowly, distractedly. She cut apart the potatoes with some difficulty, struggling to pull apart a steak that was almost so tender, she was sure she could tear into it with a bread-and-butter knife. Every now and then, she glanced at her sister, and Charlotte would look back, confusedly. It was only after she dropped her knife for the twentieth time that Charlotte piped up.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You’re all over the place tonight. You seem distracted.”
Adabelle took a long time to respond, staring at her sister, forgetting for a time that she was meant to reply. What was wrong, exactly, with keeping her sister in the dark? Ignorance was bliss, wasn’t it? No need to burden her mind with the troubles of others. She had enough to think about herself.
“Nothing,” she finally replied. She sat her knife and fork down on the plate, wiping her mouth on a napkin and then rising. “I’m sorry. I think I’m not feeling too well. I might go to bed early.”
Charlotte rose an eyebrow. “This doesn’t have anything to do with visiting cousin Larraine, does it?”
If only it didn’t, she thought. She forced a smile to the surface and shook her head.
“Not at all,” she replied. “Just…a little out of it is all.”
Charlotte shrugged, returning to her own dinner.
It wasn’t a complete lie. Not really.
She went up to bed, and surprisingly, did manage to fall asleep rather quickly. She didn’t bother Dreaming that night. She thought it better to keep her thoughts and mind to herself.
But she did dream.
She and her sister were running from her father, and he was catching up, and no matter how fast they ran, they could go no further.
But this doesn’t make sense, she thought. We’re in the real world. We’re not dreaming!
And then she woke up.
Outside, it was raining, the sun covered by overcast clouds spewing forth blankets of rain. She had a multitude of matters to tend to that day, and it would not take long for them to be done. To do them would involve the rain though, and, therefore, galoshes.
“You’ve slept in,” said her sister, who entered their bedroom fully dressed, books in hand. She had tutoring most days, as was usual in Odillan households, but she had hers with university professors rather than her parents. “Didn’t you have to post off those letters?”
“I did,” Adabelle said, glancing at the clock. “And I will have missed the morning post. I’ll have to have it in quickly if I’m going to meet the midday sorting. Then, off to work.”
“Also, I don’t know why, but Professor Oakley left a note for you requesting a meeting tomorrow afternoon.” She looked confused, as she took the note from within her pocket. “Why would you be seeing that oddball? He’s all silly-talk, I think.”
“I just want to see him about my nightmares. They’ve been getting bad lately, and I want his opinion on what that could mean.”
Charlotte nodded, shrugging. “I suppose that makes sense. Don’t you usually go to Mrs. Abeth about things like that?”
“Usually,” Adabelle said, “but there’s only so far she can go before it’s out of her knowledge. This is one of those cases.”
Charlotte didn’t press any more. Thankfully. Adabelle didn’t want to have to lie to her sister, so skirting the matter entirely would be easier.
Adabelle got out of bed, changed out of her pyjamas and into a nice dress for the day, before skipping breakfast to deliver the letters. She carried her small change in a clutch, using the silver within for the stamps for the letters, leaving them at the post office.
She wandered down the avenues and wide-open boulevards, rather than taking the tram, and the walk was only a short one. Short, but long enough for her to clear her mind. There was a gentle breeze blowing down the cobblestone roads, a cooling spray carried off any fountains she passed, or a billow of dust and leaf-litter from streets that hadn’t been swept. The pleasant weather and surroundings led her mind to wander darkly into nightmarish notions of her father.
It was frightening always thinking of her father. He was the reason her life was as hard as it was, he was the reason Charlotte and her were alone. He was the reason her mother was gone. Mrs. Abeth had explained about the abuse her mother had faced after falling pregnant with Charlotte, of her mother’s fear, and of the man who used his Sturding powers to murder people in their sleep. He was a sick man, and she was quite astounded Charlotte and Adabelle emerged alive and untouched.
“He was an odd man, your father,” she would sometimes say. “And yet despite all his oddities and dark turns, he seemed wholly enamoured by his creation in you and your sister. He scorned your mother when she began to defy him as she did, but you girls; I don’t know. He just seemed…like he cared.” And when she spoke of such things, she appeared distant…reminiscent.
Some would argue that madness leant itself well to such odd attributes, yet Adabelle did her best to ignore that. She couldn’t imagine anyone with the ability to murder to also be capable of loving anything or anyone. He had performed his evil deeds, and now he was being punished.
And yet somehow he had escaped. It’s seemed improbable, impossible even! But there was only one conclusion to which she could draw. He had somehow freed himself.
But the dream spheres were unbreakable, from the inside, at least. That’s was why the Oen’Aerei used them in the first place. Once something was sealed away, there was no way out. Yet her father had broken that rule. Somehow, he had bent the laws of reality and broken out from the inside.
The Halls of the Oen’Aerei abruptly stoppered her thoughts. It appeared in the corner of her gaze, a mass of sandstone towers and domes on the other side of the Odilla River, connected to the road she walked upon by a wide stone bridge. At the end of that bridge was a gate and through that gate were the Halls, filled with any Dreamer who had stepped forward for an education in the Frequencies. She felt those Dreamers on the fringes of her mind, a mass of people running through that shadow world that somehow overlapped this one, and connected all of the world’s minds together into one, massive space of shadow and life and light.
How did he escape that place without being seen? How did a man as infamous as he is, ever escape? Surely his face was well-enough known to cause some kind of alarm. Even a small one.
A dark, terrifying thought crossed her. It sent a cold spike of fear up her spin, her entire arm breaking out in goose bumps, her mind fluttering lightly.
How could he have ever broken free?
But there was some small comfort in knowing that her father’s escape was still all just speculation. There was still a tiny ray of hope, a small, vestigial chance that her father was still imprisoned. That his appearance in Larraine’s dream was something entirely left to the Sturding Nhyx’s own presence.
Once she had pushed aside the thought and was able to straighten herself up, she continued along the road towards the University. She used her afternoon to practice the violin, though it was difficult to concentrate on the sheet music when her mind wandered so far elsewhere. Then, once the time came around, she dressed for her afternoon at work. In a black shirt and skirt, she wandered down to the Café on the Rue Larrais, where she found some kind of peaceful distraction from her worries at hand.
She always kept a professional manner at work, though naturally personal matters bubbled to the surface every now and then. She knew, though, that matters involving her father and her worries there were nothing to trouble her co-workers over. Georgette, a kindly young woman who seemed occasionally inappropriate, was quite jovial today, enjoying her time behind the counter, grinding the coffee with a strong arm. Anna, her manager—an older woman with short hair and a playful manner—was in a good mood, too, and Adabelle found it infectious. She smiled warmly with each customer that entered, forgetting entirely for a time an
y of her troubles at home.
She found herself wholly distracted, though, when a young handsome man entered. He was a regular at the café, with a sweet smile, dark, neat hair with slight curls throughout, and a tall, thin frame to him. She knew his name was Rhene, from discussions she had had with him on occasion, during times when he’d been more talkative than usual. She didn’t know much about him, aside from his name, and the fact that he was about as gorgeous as any man could get. Georgette, who was occasionally a tad free with her words, would mutter dirty musings from behind the steamer, her words lost to the hiss and bubble of the milk. Most of these explanations of intent were usually combined with an utterly too animated presentation, with the steam arm as proxy. Adabelle nearly always ended up hitting the woman for some of the words that came out of her mouth, and yet a part of her couldn’t help but agree with those seldom-innocent outbursts. She occasionally laughed, too.
“Hello, Adabelle,” he said, as he left his order at the counter.
“Hello, Rhene,” she replied, smiling. It took her a moment to notice that she’d missed the cup into which she was meant to be pouring the milk. She swore quietly as she dashed to clean it up, cheeks turning hot. Rhene simply laughed and found a seat across the room.
When she glanced at Georgette, as she cleaned up the milky spill, the woman simply winked at her, and returned to her work.
Pull yourself together, she thought, as she returned her attention to her work.
The afternoon sped by, customer-after-customer coming and going. Coffees were brewed, sandwiches sliced, and tip collected. Before long she was hanging up her apron and beginning the walk home, bidding Anna, Georgette and Nicholas a good evening.
Nighttime in Odilla was a brilliant display of lights afire with life and the glow of the lamp-lined streets. Lamps illuminated busy avenues of diners enjoying their evening meals, and sent radiant beams through droplets of water unleashed by the multitude of fountains. They revealed the gentle texture of the sandstone monuments and brass statues. Yet with these lights came deep shadows. The darkness cast against houses, hiding terrace gardens and owls perched on rooftops. Shadows settled over the river’s depths, the surface shimmering with a ghostly reflection of the city, and hiding all that shifted deep beneath it all. It was all strangely magical and frightening; Adabelle loved it all. The walk home at night was nearly always the highlight of her day. There she saw people emerging to enjoy Odilla’s nightlife, at the jazz clubs and bars and gambling houses, the scents and sights encapsulating the artistic and soulful essence of Odilla. She smelled cigarettes and pipe smoke, and a wafting scent of fine wine and cheeses, depending on the direction in which the wind blew. In the distance she could hear music. Drums and brass blasting out some jazz. She imagined people dancing, dresses swirling wildly. Atop it all was the chiming of church bells and clock towers.
As she entered the University, this all ended. She could smell dinner coming from the cafeteria and the sounds of chatter from the students who had spent their day entrenched in scholarly focus.
That night, she was restless in bed. Her sister was quick to drift off, but Adabelle put that to not having to worry about her father seeking her out in the Frequencies. She hated not getting enough sleep, but if it meant she could avoid her father, then that price was fair. Nevertheless, she kept her mind open. She sought out the scent Larraine had warned her of, her lucidity decreasing as she searched. Soon, she lost herself to the tugging tides of fatigue and drifted deeply into sleep.
She awoke startled, but relieved and thankful that the scent of her father’s powerful cologne hadn’t appeared. She knew not what to expect, but she had a small idea of what it would smell like. She imagined shaving cream, mixed with a strong scent of musk. Perhaps even a hint of mint.
After breakfast, with her morning entirely to herself, she chose to go and visit Larraine in the hospital. The walk up to the hospital wing wasn’t a long one. She made herself meander about, choosing the longer path each time. It wasn’t till she reached the same floor as the hospital that she noticed her own drifting. A gentle cry echoed up the hallway. She stopped. That voice sounded terrified, whoever it came from. She started walking again, steps light. Her heart began to race within her chest, her breathing slowing. She recognised that voice, despite the ragged distress with which she cried. Her steps quickened. As she neared, the cries grew louder, more desperate.
She ran the last few metres to the door of the wing. She burst through the door and found Larraine, screaming in apparent agony.
Her body struggled against the fetters that bound her to the tabletop. Nurses and doctors worked hard to keep her down, to settle her, and prevent her from damaging herself. Larraine’s eyes were closed tight, yet she spoke between gasps with an uncanny clarity.
“Therron!” she screamed. “Therron!”
The straps snapped against a sudden thrash from Larraine. Crying appeared between those screams.
“Let me go! Don’t hurt me!”
“We won’t hurt you, miss,” said a doctor, his arms currently resting over one of Larraine’s legs.
“Oh, God,” Adabelle said, raising her hand to her lips, biting her thumb. She could not suppress the look of terror, or the yelp that escaped her as Larraine’s body bowed suddenly upwards, like a bridge over a river, back bent at an impossible angle. Adabelle swore, at the sight before her, that the girl’s back would break in that position.
“I’m sorry, but you have to leave,” said one of the nurses, taking Adabelle by the shoulders.
“What’s happening…what’s….”
Through the spaces between the nurses, Adabelle saw flashes of the event. Tableaus of the terror unfolded before her. Creased into a frozen mask of terror and agony, Larraine’s face shimmered with sweat, a vein bulging at the centre of her forehead. The mask then cracked and then appeared a streak of red on her cheek. First a small dot, and then it spread, her skin slicing open, cheek-to-cheek. Her screams grew louder, more furious, reaching for an impossible pitch.
“ADABELLE!”
The nurse stepped back. A single word amongst what was mostly nonsense. It struck Adabelle like a hammer to the face.
“No, let me through,” Adabelle said, fighting tears. “Let me through!”
“Please leave,” said the nurse, voice firm, brow furrowed.
“No! She said my name!”
“Not the time! Please leave.”
She was pushed far enough out of the wing to have the doors closed in her face. She growled to herself, frustrated at her helplessness. She could do more to help! She could do something! Larraine needed her, and she was stuck outside, forced to listen.
In a fit of frightened rage, she curled her hands into a fist and thumped it against the door. She shocked herself, resting her head against the wood of the door. There, she lay, eyes closed, mouth pursed tightly, angrily.
Her cousin…Larraine was stuck in the dream. And she couldn’t help.
She paused. Larraine wasn’t entirely helpless.
Adabelle ran swiftly from the hallway, and found a small, quiet alcove nearby. She sat herself down, closing her eyes tightly, extending the tendrils of dream, before immersing herself in the depths of the dream frequencies.
Soon, the darkness before her faded…or rather, it blurred. Turned to mist. Thick, white and blinding it hung. Adabelle hesitated before it. But this was just a dream.
No, she thought. Not just a dream. Father might be here.
She took her first few cautious steps towards her cousin’s. It was not hard to find her. The boundaries of her own dream seemed to fuzz, at which point the mists returned. It was like she was in tune with Larraine’s frequencies long before she had actually entered them.
In the distance, there were two figures. One was tied to a chair, her words muffled by distance. And the man standing above her, in a top hat. His voice was muffled, too. No, he was whispering.
She fought the part of her that wanted to storm ahead. She had
n’t seen him in years—and even before then, barely at all. For that reason, she stayed silent, observant, but prepared to act should she need to.
She sniffed, her nose picking up the scent that had been described to her. It was exactly how she had imagined it. It was like shaving cream, but stronger. A cough tickled its way up her throat. It took all her self-control to keep it down.
Something sat over this scene.
A sound.
She listened carefully.
A tune. A soft, high-pitched lullaby, like that from a music box. It tinkled, one note after the other, a struggling tune, seeming entirely devoid of momentum. With every note that played, Adabelle thought the tune might end, but then another note sounded, collapse into the next.
A distant spark, a faintly remembered childhood told her she knew the song.
The Dreamer’s Lullaby, she thought. It was so familiar to her now. It seemed to draw focus towards it, away from the figures. She heard the words in her mind, sung them to herself.
The world of thought beckons thee,
The tendrils of mind set her free,
And then I call you back to me,
Even when you die.
It was her favourite line. It had also been her mother’s.
With that phrase she remembered what she was here for. The notion had slipped her mind. She was here to save Larraine. She looked up, wondering how much time had passed. The two figures were gone, and Larraine’s screaming had ended. She did not have long to think, though, for suddenly she felt herself tugged back to her own dream, and then tugged again back to her space in the alcove. Someone had her by the shoulders and was shaking her.
“Adabelle,” they said. She faintly recognised the voice. “Adabelle, come back.”
Adabelle opened her eyes, looking up into Mrs. Abeth’s worried expression. She hadn’t any time to be caught in the dream buffer. She hadn’t been in the Frequencies long enough to forget where she actually was.