Consequences

While the address printed on the card that Isabel handed to the dreamers is not erroneous, it is not the location of the dream thief’s home. If the cavern or crumbling once-house above it has any address at all.

It is a room in the temporary residence in the house over from their crumbling home that Isabel tells Gwynn is sometimes procured by her father should he need to meet someone not entirely informed of his profession. 

Gwynn and Isabel walk to the temporary location

When they arrive, Isabel disappears to a kitchen, leaving Gwynn in the front hall, watching the dream thief disappear to and from a room to the left, behind a sliding stained glass panel that shimmers in the candlelight. When Isabel reappears, she follows her father and tilts her shoulder at Gwynn, who follows her in turn. She leads him through the sliding door and into a large parlour paneled with dark wood, filled with colourful silk screens and warmed by a fireplace that casts dancing light over the glasses of brandy and wine and the cups of coffee Isabel places on a shelf by the window.

The dream thief takes no notice of them, slipping from the parlour into the adjacent room, and returning with a book in hand, muttering under his breath. Isabel moves aside easily, like water moving around a rock.

“Is your father alright?” Gwynn asks, indicating the person in question, who paces the width of the room like an agitated cat.

“He is nervous. I think the scope of what he is about to do is bigger than anything he has ever accomplished.”

The dream thief finally goes into the adjacent room and closes the door, and there is no noise from beyond it.

Isabel and Gwynn wait for the guests to arrive, and though Isabel offers him food, Gwynn does not think he could keep anything in his twisting stomach.

The rajah is the first to arrive, bedecked in an ivory robe shot through with gold. Beneath its swaying hem are visible the curled toes of his elaborate embroidered slippers and hi turban and belt are the deep crimson and ash of a dying fire. The overall effect gives Gwynn the impression that he is a djinn reincarnated into a man.

Gwynn opens the door and is greeted with a warm handshake and a slight smile. “Hello (Arabic),” he says as Gwynn opens the door wider, to allow him entrance.

“Hello,” he replies, as Isabel appears and shakes his hand.

Isabel leads him into the parlour and he seats himself as close to the fire as he can, relaxing in a velvet armchair. He makes polite remarks about the weather, but seems content with the silence as Isabel makes him a cup of black coffee.

Katerina and Emma arrive at the same time, though they insist it is merely a coincidence. Within seconds of their arrival, Isabel has handed them each a glass of wine and is directing them around the room, pausing before unusual artifacts her father usually uses to keep the corners of books down, and proceeds to inform then that the curios are part of her father’s collection.

Katerina insists she has furthered her discoveries in the time between their visit to her laboratory and her arrival to thief’s home. She declares she is almost there, and her next discovery could be her last in a world in which gold is found instead of made. But she will not discuss her formula, nor disclose her findings unless heavily intoxicated, she tells them, and adds that is would take much more wine than they would think to accomplish this.

Emma is somewhat more subdued and when asked why, attributes it to the taxing care of a newly acquired pet in the menagerie. She exudes further enthusiasm when the rajah briefly introduced his homeland, and asks him more questions than he is able to answer in a timely fashion.

Gwynn introduces the rajah to Emma and Katerina, who insist on a formal introduction, though they have already spoken.

The ladies are more talkative than the rajah, but he offers the perfect comments and remarks to ward off gaps in the conversation, so it flows as easily as the wine.

The door to the adjacent room opens and the dream thief steps out, dressed in a black suit with tails.

His arrival causes the conversation to halt abruptly. Emma breaks it.

“Sir, would I be correct in assuming you are the Mr.Marque we have heard so much about?” she asks.

“I am indeed,” he says, with a smile that has a certain charm to it, a pulling seduction that Gwynn has not witnessed before. “I would love to make your acquaintance more properly, but I am busy at the moment, so I will have to return to your company in a few minutes. But thank you for coming, and you are welcome to drinks,” the dream thief sweeps a hand at the tray in Isabel’s hands.

“Wonderful,” Emma says, reaching for a glass of wine. The dream thief turns back to the adjacent room.

“Please feel free to get acquainted while we make preparations,” the thief adds, before he closes the door behind him.

Emma returns to Katerina and the rajah, and politely inquires about Katerina’s line of work.

Isabel collects Gwynn from his place by the side table and whispers, “Would you like to see the other room? You’ll have to go in there anyway.”

“Alright.”

Isabel pulls a small ring of keys from her pocket and opens up three different locks, two of which Gwynn did not notice, but are set in dark metal on the dark door, and follows him into the room.

The perimeter of the room is lined with vessels resembling Moroccan lanterns, ornamented with mosaic glass, empty and dark.

And everywhere, there are books.

Lying open on the floor are several volumes covered with lines of handwritten symbols. There are one or two Gwynn recognizes from books of myth, some he recalls from the alchemist’s chemical-splattered notes, but most of them are foreign.

Some of the volumes are so close together that their edges overlap, but none of the symbols are obscured from view.

“What are those symbols for?” Gwynn asks Isabel, while she lights the candles by the window.

“Father is a student of two teachings. He can enchant with or without the use of symbols, but for some things it is simply safer to use on or the other. This is a very old magic, wild. The symbols are a safeguard.” Isabel touches the page of one of the books, careful not to nudge it from its position beside the other books.

The dream thief is nowhere to be seen, but his voice comes from behind them,

“Is everything in place?” the thief asks his daughter, glancing to the clock on the wall, eyeing the distance between the hour hand and the twelve.

“Yes,” Isabel replies, looking uncertain and pale as she stands next to the thuribles, awaiting instruction.

“Then we can start,” he says abruptly, and turns to the door.

When they re-enter the room, the company does not stop their conversation, but instead they seem to grow more engaged, and the rajah looks almost animated.

The thief taps a silver coffee spoon on the edge of his wine glass to get the guests’ attention.

The conversation fizzles to silence, and the three guests lean back in their seats to regard the thief with mixed expressions of concealed suspicion and curiousity.

The thief addresses the entire company, and only stops to scowl at Isabel when she quietly offers another glass of wine to their guests.

“You have no doubt surmised that I have brought you all here for a reason. That purpose has been disclosed individually to you and with a request for discretion, for which I thank you. It is not entirely necessary, but given the circumstances, I believe better safe than sorry.”

He takes a pause, in which he glances at the door behind him.

“Please get to the point. None of this beating around the bush nonsense,” Emma insists, from her seat by the window.

“As you wish,” the thief says, with a small nod. “If I may request that you enter the room to my right, one at a time, for a private consultation. I will disclose to you your individual responsibilities.”

The guests do not protest, but they seem suddenly more cautious, and as the dream thief invites the rajah first, stepping back and sweeping a hand toward the door, the rajah rises slowly and follows, flanked by Isabel and the thief, and Gwynn casts one last glance at Katerina and Emma before pulling the door closed.

Isabel tilts her head and Gwynn locks the door.

The rajah stands in the centre of the circle of books, looking guarded but not frightened.

“Mr.Marque, though I can appreciate an unconventional personality, it is much to ask for the faith of a person who stands in a stranger’s home without protection,” the rajah says, in a voice like a thunderstorm.

“You are absolutely right, but this procedure is a necessary evil. I am sure you understand the lengths to which you would go to protect someone you love,” the dream thief replies.

Isabel’s expression gives nothing away; she watches the rajah, occasionally glancing at her father, remaining attentive yet reticent.

“I do not know what you understand, sir,” the rajah says. “But I demand an explanation.”

“I am sorry,” the dream thief says, moving back against the wall, outside the triangles of the thuribles. “I have other demands to meet.”

The rajah takes a step forward, but the movement has no impact in the light that follows. The thuribles flash, as though blazing with white fire. A wind whips throughout the room, howling in the space. It blows the rajah’s robe into a flurry of golden silk, though he does not notice.

He falls to his knees, eyes wide as though in pain. Gwynn takes a step forward, but Isabel’s hand upon his arm stops him.

The dream thief’s lips move, though in the rush of wind, Gwynn cannot hear his words.

The thuribles blaze brighter and brighter, until their light is blinding. Gwynn closes his eyes against it, and the light burns red through his eyelids.

When Gwynn looks again, the rajah lies on the floor surrounded the books, which appear untouched by the wind, in their same positions.

Two of the thuribles are dark glass, but the third glows as though it holds a small sun within its scarlet glass and iron frame.

“It is done,” the thief says, lifting the lantern and gazing into it with narrowed eyes.

Gwynn looks to Isabel. Her eyes are fixed on the rajah, and she sways as though she may faint. Under Gwynn’s gaze she shakes her head. “I am alright. There is more to do.”

The remaining task was to lift the rajah and bring him into a room through another sliding door, and out of the view of the other guests.

When the rajah rests on a velvet couch surrounded by silk cushions, which confuses Gwynn, for the rajah’s soul certainly cannot be comforted by cushions, the dream thief opens the door and cheerfully motions Katerina into the book-filled room.

“I am very busy,” Katerina says, as the thief closes the door behind her. “I am very close to a scientific discovery of great value.”

The thief says nothing, and the alchemist interprets his silence as an invitation to say more.

The clock ticks  closer to midnight in the silence.

Gwynn is not sure he can watch this again.

The dream thief mutters a few words, and the thuribles begin to glow again. Katerina collapses to the floor more rapidly than the rajah had, and this time Gwynn pulls Isabel’s face into his chest while he closes his own eyes against the light.

When Katerina lies on the floor, and the second thuribles glows like an emerald caught in sunlight, Gwynn and the thief bring her into the other room.

Isabel stands with a pale face by the empty thurible.

The thief approaches her, and after a moment of hesitation, pulls her into an embrace. He pulls away, with his back to the window.

Gwynn takes Isabel’s hand and leads her away from the thurible.

The rain on the window freezes into frosted streaks of ice.

The thief hears the devil before he sees him.

“How sweet,” the devil says, behind the thief.

The dream thief does not turn to acknowledge his masked companion, only watches his daughter and the boy with the same piercing scrutiny.

“He’s just as lovesick as you were, if not more,” the masked gentleman continues, walking up to the glass, standing next to the thief.

“A would-be prince, an animal lover, and a girl with imaginary machinations,” the devil says, considering the glowing thuribles before him. He taps one with his finger and the sound echoes in the quiet room.

Gwynn and Isabel turn to him. To Gwynn, he appears like a shadow, elongated and black,

“You get less and less mundane each time I see you. I am almost impressed.”

“Who are you?” Isabel demands.

Gwynn does not need to hear the masked gentleman identify himself as the devil.

“I have no name, but you are welcome to name me if you wish. For your benefit. You get more beautiful each time I see you,” the devil answers.

The devil’s insouciance makes Gwynn nervous, though the dream thief seems unruffled. His expression looks forced though, and Gwynn hopes the devil does not realize it.

“We’re almost done,” the dream thief says. “I’m sure we can spare you a glass of wine, if you would like to wait.”

“I would love a glass of wine,” the devil says.

The dream thief gestues to his daughter, and Isabel exits the room, leaving Gwynn in the silence between the two companions. The masked gentleman stands calmly with his hands behind his back.

Isabel returns and hands the masked gentleman his glass, careful not to touch his fingers. When he has a secure holdon it she releases the glass and retreats to stand beside Gwynn, watching the devil wearily.

The masked gentleman takes a sip, tapping a nail upon the glass. The sound mixes with the steady tick of the clock.

Gwynn does not glance at it. He does not take his eyes off the masked gentleman, even when the gentleman speaks.

“These are very impressive souls. I would be very honoured to possess them.”

It is the latter sentence that catches the thief’s attention and makes the smile fall from his face.

“Would be?” the thief repeats. “You are not keeping them?”

The devil smiles. “Seeing as our agreement ended a minute ago, I am not accepting them.”

Gwynn turns immediately to the clock on the mantel, but it read a minute past midnight.

One of the thuribles remains empty; the process left unfinished, awaiting completion.

Isabel speaks first. “That isn’t fair,” her voice breaks on the word as her hands begin to shake. “That isn’t fair, you interrupted.”

“I was only speaking, my dear. I did not hinder the process physically. You could have finished, had you not been distracted.” He claps his hands behind his back, looking untroubled despite Isabel’s growing distress.

“You will not take her,” the dream thief says, moving to stand before Isabel, who has begun to tremble in Gwynn’s arms.

The devil approaches them slowly, tilting his glass, which glows with an incandescent red colour in the candlelight.

“I gave you a chance. It is not my fault you could not comply with the conditions of our agreement.” The masked gentleman holds the thief’s gaze steadily for a moment before turning his attention to Isabel.

Isabel pulls away from devil, and around them the books begin to flutter. Ripples form on the surface of the coffee in its cups, and a sudden tempest swirls around them. Gwynn must hold his sleeve before his eyes, watching the whipping on Isabel’s hair.

The devil stands in the centre of the vortex, pages swirling around him.

And suddenly, it is gone. There is no flash, or puff of smoke, only an emptiness where there had been, previously, the devil and Isabel.

As quickly as the wind started, it stops.

The books are messed of covers and paper and crumpled symbols. The rain patters on the window as the clock ticks onward. The devil’s half-finished glass of wine sits on the windowsill.

It is ice cold in the room, though the devil is long gone.

“We have to get her back,” Gwynn says, before he realizes he has opened his mouth.

“We cannot,” the thief says. He looks ill, and what may be sadness in his expression is distorted into agony.

“We can,” Gwynn protests. “We only need to find her.”

“you cannot defeat the devil. Not in his own domain,” the thief says. He reaches blindly for the wall, and leans against it heavily.

“She’s your daughter!” Gwynn shouts. “And you will not even try to get her back?”

“I has nothing to do with effort,” the thief snaps. “The devil is cunning. He has an eternity of wisdom. He has no morals, nothing to stop him from destroying others with his greed. Your own conscience would hinder you against him. And he has abilities you cannot even fathom.”

“Then prepare me against them. I will do whatever it takes to get her back.”

The thief looks at Gwynn with narrowed eyes. The silence is heavy as Gwynn returns his gaze. Then the thief suddenly strides through the paper, and begins to grab book after book from the floor. He turns abruptly and pushes the door, into the parlour, where Emma sits, looking concerned and sipping tea.

“We are dealing with something,” the thief says to her. “I apologize, but you must come back another time.”

He does not wait for a response and slides the glass door open, striding across the hall and into the room opposite. Gwynn spares Emma an apologetic glance before hurrying after the thief.

The room he enters is filled with dream books, in multiple colours, as though the thief has transported some of his collection into this temporary place.

“I have his address, though not in this language. I will have to translate it,” the thief says as he sorts through the disarray of paper. He topples piles of dreams and a jar of ink that spills across the desk on which it sits, dripping off the surface and onto the floor. It spread like a black pool.

Gwynn absently rights the inkbottle and hastily moves a lit candelabra before the space it previously occupied is disturbed by a sudden upheaval of papers.

As he speaks, the thief goes back and forth between his book, discarding some for others, then returning to them a moment later.

“It is a dangerous place. Do not let the pleasant appearance fool you. Beauty isn’t made of sugar. It can be as dangerous as the forest in the night, and the devil has eyes in many places. I’m not sure where Isabel will be, nor what state she will be in when you find her.” The thief pauses. “If you find her. But you must not linger there. No matter what. You must be swift.”

“I must be swift? Are you not coming?” Gwynn asks.

“I cannot,” the thief says, simply. “I am barred against any of his dominions, I am sure about that. He will have so many wards there meant to keep people like myself explicitly out.”

Gwyn is not sure he trusts the thief’s castigations, but there is something beneath them, a warning and a hint of caution, than keeps him silent.

“I will try,” he says. “I will bring Isabel back.”

The thief opens another book and scans the pages. Barely discernible in the symbols is a jumble of archaic language that may be some form of Italian but is too looping for Gwynn to distinguish.

“Simply know, that you may not come back yourself,” the thief says, and, finding a spare pen amidst the flurry of paper, begins to translate the address for Gwynn.

Text by Lucie MacAulay