Visioness

by Lincoln Law

  “What are you doing?” Mrs. Abeth asked, voice furious.

  “Larraine was in trouble,” Adabelle replied, unable to shake the sleepiness in her voice. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine,” Mrs. Larraine said. “She’ll need some stitches on her cheek, and some time to rest now. She is rather shaken.”

  “Did she say anything, though?” Adabelle begged. “Anything about my father?”

  Mrs. Abeth’s mouth opened as if in a traitorous attempt to answer. For a moment, a sound came from her. She stopped. Adabelle knew the answer.

  “I want to speak to my cousin,” said Adabelle furiously. “I need to speak with her!”

  Mrs. Abeth said nothing of worth, murmuring under her breath. “Not now. She is not in any state to talk for the time. For now, I need you to go to your room and sleep. You have a meeting with Professor Oakley this afternoon, and I want you ready to ask all that you can. Until then, I don’t want you speaking to Larraine. I need you to promise you won’t.”

  “I won’t promise anything,” Adabelle said. She rose up, staring into Mrs. Abeth’s eyes for a time, glaring with all the fervour she could muster. Despite her steadfastness to stay angry, her expression quickly melted into one of sorrow. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Abeth.”

  Mrs. Abeth extended her arms, wrapping them around Adabelle. “It’s okay,” she whispered, stroking a hand through Adabelle’s hair. “You’re frustrated. I understand.”

  Adabelle swallowed the tears attempting to ascend.

  “What you have to do is see Berne. He’ll be able to help. I will not let you speak to Larraine till then.” Mrs. Abeth pushed Adabelle out of the hug, keeping her hands on her shoulders, holding her at arms’ length. “It’s for your own good. I promise. Better you have the tools you need, than the information that could frighten any hope of freedom out of you.”

  Adabelle nodded, wiping away a stray tear that had forced its way to the surface.

  “I’ll do that, then,” she whispered.

  “Very good, now go and rest. You’ll need it before your meeting this afternoon.”

  It didn’t make sense for her to need sleep, but she did. She felt it in the aching of her bones, and in the weight of her eyelids. She had only just woken up a few hours ago. Why was she so tired suddenly? Why had only a short trip into the Dream Frequencies caused her so much trouble?

  Slowly, methodically, she made her way back to her bedroom, set an alarm for herself on the alarm clock beside her bed.

  She closed her eyes and slept soundly.

  She awoke minutes before her alarm went off, allowing her a small while to enjoy the softness of her bed. She had undressed into her small clothes before laying down atop the blankets to shut her eyes, so it was only a matter of pulling on her dress once more to be ready.

  Crossing the university’s grounds, she passed through the Smeth Memorial Courtyard. It was a small square of grassed area, with picnic benches and a handful of statues. Professor Oakley’s office sat across the courtyard.

  The door was open when she arrived, so she knocked and quietly waited. He stepped out from a pile of books, calling out, “Yes’m?”

  Professor Berne Oakley was an unusual sort of man. He was stunted, nearly a head shorter than Adabelle—and she wasn’t very tall to begin with—with a crescent of greying-brown hair circling the back of his head, closing with a few small wisps at the front. He had no neck of which to speak, nor a chin for that matter, as it seemed his head simply merged with his chest in a smooth, sweeping flap of skin. His teeth were crooked and brown from too much coffee, but his face suggested someone who had been much more handsome in his younger years.

  He stood before her in a grey shirt and waistcoat, his tie pulled down slightly as it could not wrap entirely around his not-neck. He smiled pulling the door a few more inches open to allow her in.

  “Good afternoon, Adabelle,” he said. “You’re right on time. Excellent. Please take a seat.”

  He indicated to a single lounge chair. Velvety crimson-patterned upholstery covered what appeared to be the most indulgent chair she had ever seen. She made her way over, Professor Oakley leaving the door open. Dust danced slowly in the beams of golden afternoon sunlight falling through the open door, drifting on cushions of air.

  “Righty-oh,” said the professor, who seemed somewhat distracted, like his body was here in the moment, yet his mind had wandered elsewhere and was presently distracted with other matters. “Tell me about what troubles you, girl, and I’ll see what I can do.” He settled down in his own seat, which looked equally as soft as her own, and took a pen and paper from the stack beside.

  She kept her eyes on the dust as it danced about, explaining the troubles with her father. She needn’t go into much detail of his life, as most people already knew what he was infamous for. She did, however, have to explain in full detail what had happened to him after he had been sealed away in the sphere. As her mind recounted events, she looked about the room.

  The desk in the corner of the room was piled high with papers for marking, and books filled with scrawl. Pens and nibs and jars of ink splattered the stained wood in places with black and blue splotches. Behind that desk was a bookshelf, without an inch of space left. Every book looked well used, and messy with marker notes, their spines broken from constant opening and closing. From that shelf came the scent of old books and older knowledge.

  She then went on to explain how Larraine saw Therron in her dreams, and of how she had warned her that his precursor was the scent of his cologne. She had a theory that the song from the music box—The Dreamer’s Lullaby—was a part of the precursor, too.

  After she finished explaining, Professor Berne Oakley leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on his knee, the other rubbing his not-neck. His lips were pursed in thoughts, his eyes glancing about the room as if the walls themselves held answers.

  “Theoretically, your father breaching the Oen’Aerei’s security is impossible. Dreams spheres were invented to store dreams, and nightmares, so they couldn’t wander freely about the frequencies. That place is a mess of ideas all bunched one on top of the other, so all the horrors of people’s nightmares dwell within. The dream spheres came from the need to store those nightmares. They’re unbreakable, unless opened from the outside. It shouldn’t even be considered that he has escaped at all. The only way to well and truly check would be to visit the Halls of the Oen’Aerei and see whether the sphere that sealed him is still there. I’m sure Lady Morphier would have every security in place to keep Count Therron sealed away for good. But…the spheres.” For a moment he seemed to talk only to himself. “There’s always a first time for everything. When dreams are involved, nothing is impossible.”

  Adabelle considered his point. It was true; the dream spheres were meant to be unbreakable. But as he said, that was only theory. Nothing could be proven entirely until put into practice, and no Oen’Aerei would have a desire to test the unbreakable theory with a sphere filled with Nhyxes or nightmares.

  “What if the theory is wrong?” asked Adabelle. “What if, after all the theories are tested, we find out my father is free? What do we do then?”

  The professor was quiet for a time, looking about the room, apparently searching for something in particular. He grabbed a book from his desk; a thin, green cloth-bound volume entitled Dream Theory and Cognitive Skill. He opened it up to the appendix, eventually finding what he searched for, before turning to a page mid-way through the novel. He skimmed the page, searching mostly through underlined passages and added material.

  “We have a way of testing if there is indeed another conscience in your dreams—or at least, an aware, sentient and solely conscious one. If they are truly within your dream, and they are lucid, then they, in some small part, have the ability to keep things as they want. Or rather, they’re able to keep certain aspects constant. The one thing that will remain consistent without question is their precursor.”

  Adabelle’s eyebrow rose. “Why i
s that?”

  “Well the precursor is a sense that makes it seem normal that this figure is in another dream. It’s the reason we don’t feel confused in a dream when we fly moments after we think it. It’s the reason dreams make sense to us when we do the impossible. It’s because a millisecond before we do it, our minds create the thought—the precursor, so to speak—and then we realise we can do it. Well it’s the same with a person’s precursor; they’re able to have that occur so that when they enter the Frequencies, there is no shock. No…surprise that something foreign is there. They’ve had warning, even if it’s mostly subconscious.”

  Adabelle nodded in understanding. She’d studied some dream theory, but never in that much depth.

  “So what do we do?” she asked. She remembered the dream world, the mist, the silhouette of her father, and her cousin’s screaming. But also how The Dreamer’s Lullaby had made her forget what she was there to do, how it had distracted her from her own task at hand. The sounds had made it seem that everything that was happening was natural, though she hadn’t considered it at the time. It frightened her, knowing this power her father had over her.

  “Well there is one thing we can try, if we want confirmation that someone is in your mind, and that you’re not alone in your dreams. It won’t confirm whether it is your father or someone else imitating him in your mind, but it will confirm a foreign presence. I think that might help, at the least, to let you decide what you want to do.”

  Adabelle’s spirits lifted slightly. If it was a Nhyx and not her father, and therefore an illusion, then there would be no reason to go anywhere near the Oen’Aerei, and no need to inspect the Dream Sphere into which her father had been sealed.

  “What is it?” she asked. “I’ll do anything.”

  “A phantasmagory,” he said, closing the book with a snap. “Literally, a phantasmagory is a myriad of images, not necessarily connected to each other, all coming at once in quick succession. One usually suffers them if ill with a dark fever. In Dreaming, however, a phantasmagory can be used as a test to see if another mind is in your dreams. The world around you will change, the scenery flipping from one thing to the next, but the figure who has invaded will stay the same. The invader’s precursor will remain noticeable, their image unchanging. It will warn you that it is more than a Nhyx or a horror created by the dream itself.”

  Adabelle nodded, happier now at the prospect of having some much-needed answers.

  “But is there any way for me to tell if it’s my father?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Nothing short of checking the dream sphere will confirm that, and I know you’re quite reluctant to go to the Oen’Aerei at all.” He took her hand, patting it softly with his free one. “But you have our support. We’re here to help. And if matters do worsen, we can station some Oen’Aerei around your room to keep you safe.”

  That’s the last thing I want: more Oen’Aerei.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  “And take some comfort in your younger sister’s unusual and apparently useful inability to dream. So long as she cannot dream, she is safe from your father’s touch.”

  “And I suppose that is something to hold onto.”

  The professor nodded. “Indeed it is. Now, anything else you require of me?”

  “Not at all, professor, thank you.” She shook his hand and left.

  On the short trip back to her room, she was troubled with thoughts of her sister. If her father broke free of the dream, and faced her in flesh and blood, then her sister was in danger.

  But they disposed of a body, she thought. She remembered witnessing the burning. His mind was sealed away in a sphere, his body destroyed so that he could never return. Not even the greatest and most terrible criminals were ever left to suffer such a fate. Yet her father had. His mind sealed away for an eternity, to exist, but to never feel or touch or smell or see.

  My sister is safe, she thought, assuring herself as much as confirming the professor’s own suggestions. My sister is safe. There is no need to trouble her with matters she needn’t deal with. Father cannot touch her. She doesn’t even need to know.

  This was how she could protect her. She was the older sister; it was her job to care for her younger sister. Not the other way around. It was a promise she made to her mother, not that her mother had ever been there to hear it. Adabelle had promised to keep Charlotte safe.

  How am I meant to keep her safe when I can’t even keep myself away from trouble?

  Chapter Four

  A Warning

  The guilt of hiding something so monumentally world-shattering from Charlotte weighed upon Adabelle like a boulder being rolled uphill. Just when it seemed the guilt had released its hold from her, she saw her sister again, or she said something, and there the boulder was again, at the bottom of the hill.

  Added to that was the concern she had for Larraine. Intending to visit her after her trip to the professor, she had received a missive stating that Larraine wasn’t in any state to talk yet and that an exchange would have to wait until the day following.

  And again, the day following, she received a letter stating that Larraine was still too deeply entrenched in the nightmare that had terrified her the night previous. At night, Adabelle slept and fought off the nightmares attempting to take her. She kept an ear out for the lullaby and a nose up for the scent of Therron’s cologne. But it didn’t appear.

  There was time for her to practice violin, too, and that gave her a small comfort during the times when her troubles seemed far too great for her to deal with. In a way, her practice, particularly of The Dreamer’s Lullaby was a way for her to keep the tune fresh in her mind, to remind her to be wary so that when that song appeared again within a dream, it did not shock her into inaction as it had last time. Combined with work at the café, she had enough to keep her mind occupied.

  It was another day before she was given an opportunity to visit Larraine, and when they informed her, she demanded a visit first thing in the morning.

  When she arrived at the ward, she found Larraine sitting up in bed with a bowl of porridge. The cheek that had been cut open was sealed with stitches, a staccato line of thread seeming to hold her face together. She smiled when she looked up from the bowl at Adabelle, and set her spoon down so that she could give Adabelle a hug. The smile made Larraine wince, yet she didn’t seem overly troubled by it.

  “Morning, Adabelle,” she croaked, not sounding well at all.

  “Larraine,” Adabelle replied, pulling up a seat beside the hospital bed, “how are you?”

  “I’m all right,” she replied, though her tone suggested the opposite. “My cheek still hurts, but I’m hoping it will heal without too much of a scar. I’ve been told that, with the depth it cut, I’m lucky it’s not infected.”

  Adabelle’s gaze brushed over the healing wound, at the wires sticking out of that curved black line, at the softly red tint to the skin around the cut, and the subtle way the skin dipped in slightly around her cheek. She would have that scar forever. No amount of positive thinking would ever heal that deep a cut.

  “Well I suppose we can be thankful of that,” Adabelle said. “Oh, before I forget. I brought you a book to keep you busy.” She picked the emerald, cloth-bound book out. It was Dream Theory and Cognitive Skill, the same one the professor had used. In her day off, she’d been able to find a second hand copy in a bookshop. She hadn’t time to flick through the book, but while her cousin was in hospital, Larraine would.

  Larraine glanced at the title.

  “What is it?” she asked, opening it up to the title page. It read:

  Dream Theory and Cognitive Skill

  A reference for Somnetii

  With Pictures and Diagrams

  by Lady Noelle Morphier

  “It’s a dream book,” Adabelle explained. “The professor referred to it when I went to see him about Therron.”

  “Professor Oakley?” Larraine inquired.

  “Yes. And he found some useful t
hings in it. I thought, since you’re the one who keeps being…well… a target, you should probably read it. Start with the part about phantasmagoria—that’s what I’m planning on using should I need to—and then read on as you wish. But especially the phantasmagory section.”

  Larraine closed it and put it to her bedside table. “Thank you.”

  “It was the least I could do.” Adabelle smiled, though it was mostly apologetic. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Larraine’s hand absently rose to touch her face where the stitches held the skin together. She touched it, wincing quietly with each soft tap against the wires. Her grimace, which was deep and mournful, suggested a girl who was about to cry, as did the quaver of the voice. Yet when she spoke, she spoke with strength.

  “Well I went to sleep and I started to dream.”

  “Naturally,” Adabelle replied.

  “And then in the middle of something that I’d consider a good dream—I can’t remember the exact details—this fog came in. At first, it was only a thin haze, like that on a cold morning. But then it thickened and deepened, till everything was grey and foggy. I could smell the cologne, so sickly I almost choked. And then there was music. The Dreamer’s Lullaby, from memory. It played a handful of notes, and then I remembered hearing it in my first dream. But the music made me forget what I was in the dream for…or rather, I forgot I had to actually do something if I wanted to escape. And then this silhouette came out from the fog, and I recognised it, and I knew it was Count Therron, but I couldn’t act.” She choked a little here. “I couldn’t run, I couldn’t even move. Before I knew it, he had me in the chair, and I was tied down.”

  She paused here, closing her eyes, voice wavering with terror. Tears collected in the corners of her eyes, though she did not sob.

  “He pulled out a knife. He told me I had to be quiet, or he’d use it on me. And then…and then he asked me what you were doing.”

  She fell quiet. Adabelle waited for Larraine to speak, and for almost a minute, she didn’t.