Visioness (8 page)

“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 is 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?

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 things 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.

“And what did you say?”
Adabelle prompted.

“Well at first I denied him.
But then he put the knife to my neck and said he’d rip me open if I didn’t.”
The words were jagged, almost cold like steel. It made Adabelle shudder. She
felt the knife at her own throat, biting her skin.

Such hateful words,
Adabelle thought.

“I’m sorry, Adabelle, but I told
him you were at the University. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You can’t lie in the Dream
Frequencies,” replied Adabelle, voice gentle to assure her she understood. Dreams
were the mind talking, and it could not lie. It could withhold certain aspects
and camouflage things, but to outright lie was impossible.

Adabelle placed a comforting
hand over her shoulder, patting softly. “Then what happened?”

“He said he’d been observing
you, watching carefully. But he then said he hasn’t been able to see your
sister.”

Adabelle’s fear that had
come on at the thought of him watching her was suddenly exchanged for a
tremendous amount of relief. As if the boulder she had been rolling up that
momentous precipice had been smashed; she felt suddenly free.

If I can keep the knowledge
of my sister away from him, then she will be safe.

“Did he ask you was she
alive?”

“No, thankfully,” she
replied, “He said he hoped she was still around, considering the deal he made
with your mother.”

“Deal?”

“The promise to let your
mother give birth before he killed her.”

The shiver of fear that had
sprung up her spine suddenly disintegrated at the thought. Her sister could
remain blissfully ignorant for the time, and that was something of a blessing.

“But then he asked if you
were a Dreamer, and I said yes, and then he asked if you were competent, and I
said yes, and then he asked how competent, and I said extraordinary for someone
without training. Then he asked what you were doing with your life, and I
responded in kind, but then when he asked he to summon up an image of you, I
refused. Apparently, his first attack was meant for you. The Sturding Nhyxes
were meant for you, but since he doesn’t know
exactly
what you look
like, he can only go off vague guesses based off how you looked when you were
younger. I suppose since we’re related, we have some of the same features. But
I refused, which was when he pulled out the knife again. He asked again, and I
refused, and again, I refused. Each request drew the knife closer, but never
did I let up. And then he finally cut.”

“I was there,” Adabelle
said. “I heard your screams, and I went into the Dream, and I found you. I
wanted to stop it, but I couldn’t. I’m so, so sorry, Larraine.”

“It’s a good thing you
didn’t show yourself,” Larraine said, “else my fight would have been for nothing.”
She paused, taking a breath before she went on. “Then, after he made the cut,
he leant down to me, reeking of cologne. I can still feel his beard. Still feel
it on my chest.” Her hands floated there for a moment, scratching an unseen,
probably entirely invented itch, brought on by memory. “And he whispered…” she
paused, taking a deep breath. Adabelle realised by having her recount the
story, Larraine was reliving the pain. She was in agony now. But she pushed on.
“He whispered that I have to warn you that he’s coming for you, and he will not
stop until he has you.”

Adabelle paused, terrified.
“But why does he want me? What for?”

“I do not know. It’s very
apparently he
needs
you for something, though. Very clear.” Again her
hand reflexively rose up and touched her face. Cheek to jowl, there would be a
scar. Forever. “He is coming, and he will not stop until he gets to you.” Her
tone was grave, her gaze a fearful pit.

That notion brought the kind
of shiver up that one only got when facing the worst of fears. It was the cold
sweat one awoke to from a horrible nightmare, the sinking of the stomach one
felt when receiving bad news; it was the screaming of her cousin as she was
attacked in her dreams.

“In dreams we’re meant to be
safe,” Larraine said, looking past Adabelle and into space. “In dreams, we’re
meant to have some modicum of privacy. I sometimes wonder if there was ever a
time without the Oen’Aerei, without Dreamers, where people could privately
experience their own thoughts without fear of others coming in. Even sleep was
meant to be safe. Now, I don’t know what is. I haven’t been able to sleep much
at all, with the last few days of trouble.”

Adabelle had been so
distracted by the cut along Larraine’s face that she failed to notice that her
eyes were rimmed with black, fading out like a sunken aura of exhaustion. Her
skin, usually so bright and warm, was dull and drained.

“Have you asked the nurses
for some help?”

“No, I haven’t,” she
replied, “but part of that is because I haven’t wanted it. I don’t want to
sleep, because if I do, I’ll be subjected to whatever Count Therron wants of
me. He’ll torture me for information again, if he cannot find you, and I’ll be
blamed for everything he hasn’t achieved.” She stopped for a moment, shuddering
under the weight of her fear. “He is a terrifying man, your father. What ever
drew your mother to him?”

That was a good question,
indeed. What sort of man was he before he became the powerful Oen’Aerei and
murderer for which he was now infamous? Who was he when he first met Adabelle’s
mother? Who was the man with whom she fell in love?

“I do not know, but if she
was alive today, I’m sure she’d ask herself the same thing.”

“Speaking of family,”
Larraine said, “I was wondering if you could please visit Aunt Marie. I’d
normally have visited by now, and she’s probably getting lonely. Doesn’t have
to be for long—I know you’re busy—but just a quick one to tell her I’ll visit
as soon as I’m out of the hospital. Something to assure her I’ll be back soon.”

“Of course,” Adabelle
replied. “I think something like that might be helpful; keep my mind off
things.”

Larraine nodded curtly,
patting the book on the bedside table. Adabelle rose. “Well make sure you read
up on that, for me.” She smiled warmly, “And I’ll be sure to visit Aunt Marie.”

“Thank you,” Larraine said.

The next time Adabelle sat
with her little sister, she brought up her visit with Aunt Marie.

“I know you don’t like
going, because it bothers you, but I was wondering if you would like to come
with me to see Aunt Marie?”

“When?” Charlotte asked,
which was naturally her next question. Most times, when she was given a day,
she was able to associate some event with an excuse not to visit. She wasn’t a
very good liar, but she would get out of it if she could. It wasn’t out of
selfishness at all, but rather a genuine fear of what she faced there.
Charlotte could not fathom dreaming to any capacity, let alone another mind
entering those otherworldly Frequencies. She understood it to a degree, but
just like the shadows in a deep crevasse, or the secret depths of the ocean,
the unknown and unknowable frightened her.

“Tomorrow morning, after my
violin lesson. If you come, we might be able to go out for lunch afterwards.
Enjoy some cheesy croissants, maybe.”

Cheesy croissants were
Charlotte’s favourite. That threw an enormous knot in her excuse-weaving.