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.
