Just Dreaming Read online

  But all was quiet. With a bit of luck, no one had seen me in those old-lady undies. I hoped that Grayson and Henry were waiting for me in Mrs. Honeycutt’s dream.

  Frightful Freddy nodded majestically as I said hi to him in passing. I stopped for a second outside Lottie’s door. Today there was a slate hanging under the notice saying LOTTIE’S LOVE BAKERY—DELIVERIES PLEASE USE THE BACK DOOR, and the message in white chalk on the slate said CLOSED TODAY BECAUSE OF UNREQUITED LOVE. Oh, poor Lottie. Obviously she was still upset about Charles, even if she claimed they were just good friends and that was a good thing because he really wasn’t her type. Who did she think she was fooling? That stupid, balding dentist who couldn’t make up his mind had broken her heart with all his dithering. Maybe it was his fault that she was going to leave London. I sympathetically stroked the pretzel-shaped handle on her door. There must be something I could do to make Lottie feel better.

  Farther away down the corridor, I heard something that sounded like the quiet squeal of a door. I immediately ducked down and turned into a jaguar. Of course, taking the shape of a breath of air would have been a more sensible alternative because a breath of air is invisible, but I could do that trick only when I was completely relaxed and, at the same time, concentrating. And the corridors were far from relaxing at this moment. Even the most harmless sound, like the squeal of a hinge that needed oiling, was enough to make my heart race. Anabel’s “He’s back” was still echoing in my mind.

  I looked over my shoulders, first the left shoulder, then the right, but there was no one in sight. As I wasn’t sure where the sound had come from, I prowled a few doors farther on, keeping close to the wall, and peered around the corner and down the next corridor.

  The figure was standing right in front of the next door.

  If I’d put out a paw, I could have touched it. Unconsciously, I’d been so sure of meeting Arthur saying that he could make me disappear any time he liked, or Anabel saying, “It’s only just begun,” that my first reaction was to sit down on my jaguar hindquarters in relief.

  It was only Emily.

  She was standing outside her own door, in flowered pajamas, and seemed to be wondering what to do next. She was biting her lower lip in such confusion that I almost felt sorry for her. What was she doing there? Pinching her own arm, maybe? Now I really did feel sorry for her.

  “It hurts, but I won’t have any bruises in the morning, so I’m only dreaming,” she murmured. “And if I’m only dreaming, then none of this is real. But then why does it hurt?”

  Oh my word. She clearly needed someone to explain a few basic principles to her—even if it was only that she ought to lock her door at night and never go out into the corridor again. But when I turned the corner, she looked anything but pleased to see me; in fact, she opened her eyes very wide and stared as if I were a dangerous beast of prey. Which in fact—oops!—I was. If I wanted to gain her confidence, I’d have done better to turn into a horse than a jaguar. On the other hand, the mere sight of me made her do exactly what I’d wanted to persuade her was a good idea. She reached behind her and pressed down the handle of her door.

  “I hate this place,” she said fervently, stepping backward into her room and slamming the door. I heard her shooting several bolts in place on the inside. If I hadn’t been a jaguar, I’d have had to laugh.

  Feeling much more cheerful, I trotted on. Jaguars may not be able to laugh, but at least they can smile. I was already looking forward to telling Grayson and Henry about this encounter.

  When I turned left, just past a striking opaque glass door that I’d already noticed as a landmark on the way to Mrs. Honeycutt’s room, the light suddenly changed. It was like a cloud suddenly covering the sun on a fine day. At the same time, the atmosphere felt colder.

  Not a good sign.

  I ought not to have made that comparison with the sun, because it immediately reminded me of what Arthur had said about Anabel, the demon, and the eclipse of the sun that we weren’t going to see.

  My heart beat faster, and the fur stood up on the back of my neck.

  There wasn’t far to go now, but at this moment I felt it would be wiser simply to turn around and get to safety behind my own dream door. That would take longer, but I would be on familiar ground, with other doors that I could open if I needed to be safe.

  I turned around.

  That wasn’t a good idea either.

  Because the doors behind me were in deep shadow. I could hardly make them out. The air seemed to be full of tension, as if a storm were brewing and about to break. And now the shadows seemed to be getting denser, flowing into each other to form an impenetrable pitch-black wall, cutting off my way of retreat.

  I felt sick to my stomach and dizzy at the same time, while the temperature around me seemed to drop to freezing point within seconds.

  I stared at those shadows, as if hypnotized. I didn’t know why that black wall of darkness scared me so much; all I knew was that I must not on any account come into contact with the shadows.

  At last I managed to move and ran in the opposite direction. My claws dug into the ground with every step, and I was lashing my tail behind me. The cold seemed to get even worse, and I couldn’t shake off a feeling that the darkness was following me, was right behind me, but I was too scared to look around. Scraps of thoughts shot through my mind, as if reason was fighting panic inside my head.

  There are no such things as demons. Someone—Arthur or Anabel—is putting on a big show. None of it is real.

  It was no good. My panic grew with every step I took and with every split second that passed without a sight of Mrs. Honeycutt’s door. Even the doors nearby seemed to be changing shape and turning against me. Scornful laughter rang in my ears in one place, sharp teeth flashed in another, out of the corner of my eye I thought I spotted grotesque faces looming from the shadows, only I was running much too fast to see them properly.

  Maybe, whispered the sensible voice inside me, maybe these are just your own fears taking shape. A nightmare surfacing from your subconscious mind and getting worse and worse the more scared you are.

  Something seemed to brush against my furry back, but I wouldn’t have looked behind me now for anything. Where the hell was that door?

  I went faster and faster, I was almost flying. Now the walls of the corridor in front of me also seemed black as night, and I could scarcely make out the doors. It was as if the darkness wanted to surround me on all sides and then swallow me up.

  There, just ahead! Mrs. Honeycutt’s door! With a great leap I sprang at it, got my claws around the door handle, and opened the door as I flew in. I landed on the other side of it with all four paws on the floor and flung my entire weight against the door from the inside.

  Done it! Not very elegant, but I was safe at last. I gave a triumphant hiss.

  Only then did I see that Mrs. Honeycutt was staring at me from her flowered armchair and had dropped her knitting in her fright. The parrot had opened its beak and looked as if it might fall off its perch any moment now. Closer to the back of the room, Grayson was staring at me, equally horrified. He and Henry were sitting at the little, circular tea table that I’d noticed last time.

  Henry was the only one to smile at me. I turned back into human form as fast as possible. Henry stood up and bent down to pick up Mrs. Honeycutt’s knitting.

  She put one hand to her throat. “There … there was a … a leopard in here!” she stammered.

  “To be precise, a jaguar, but a very nice one, Mrs. Honeycutt,” said Henry in the same soothing, hypnotic tone of voice that I remembered from our last visit. “And look, there’s only a girl here now. A very nice girl too—you needn’t be afraid of her. Everything is all right. You’d better just forget that we’re here at all and go on knitting that beautiful blanket.”

  “It’s a stole,” Mrs. Honeycutt corrected him, “but you’re right, it’s beautiful. Thank you.” With a sigh, she began sorting out her needles. “Thank goodness nothing’s
tangled up. You have to concentrate very hard on this leaf pattern.”

  “We won’t disturb you,” said Henry, grinning at me. “You’re doing wonderfully. There’s a lot of skill in your leaf pattern.…”

  I tiptoed past the birdcage, over to Grayson, and dropped into a chair at the table. The parrot seemed to have recovered from its fright, because it croaked, “If you’ve escaped all other harms, we welcome you with open arms.”

  “It’s weird the way everything here looks just the same as last time,” I whispered. “How can she dream her knitting pattern, and the flowers, and the rest of the stuff exactly as it was before?”

  Grayson just gave me a dark look.

  “Simple,” said Henry. “This is what Mrs. Honeycutt’s living room looks like in real life. In all the years she’s been sitting here knitting, every ghastly detail must be imprinted on her mind.” He gave me a kiss before sitting down again himself. “Thank goodness you’re here at last. We’ve been waiting for ages, right, Grayson?”

  “Is that why he looks so cross?” I asked.

  “No, he looks so cross because a jaguar just raced through that door, hissing, and scared him silly,” said Grayson, injured.

  “Oh, that.” I stretched out my legs and was glad to see that they weren’t shaking anymore. Or only a very little bit. “Then you should be glad you weren’t out in that corridor.” I cast an eloquent glance at the door. “I’m not going back through it tonight, anyway.”

  “Oh God.” Grayson lowered his head to the tabletop. “Don’t say Arthur’s waiting out there.”

  Was he? I didn’t really have any idea what had just happened in the corridor. In retrospect, I only half understood it. It had simply been … very, very dark. Maybe I ought to have held up a light.

  On the other hand, it had felt truly dangerous, and I’m all in favor of trusting one’s instincts. “Listening to the inner tiger,” as Mr. Wu put it.

  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “It was either Arthur or crazy Anabel. Or alternatively the demon that wants to see us dead by the time of the solar eclipse.” I meant it to sound like a joke, but somehow I didn’t have my voice properly under control.

  Grayson promptly groaned.

  “Or else it was a monster conjured up by my own subconscious,” I quickly added. “Anyway, everything was horribly dark and weird and … and I think it followed me.”

  “Followed you here? What exactly did it look like? Is it still out there?” Henry was about to stand up again.

  I clung to his arm. “That door stays closed, okay?”

  “Okay.” One corner of Henry’s mouth was raised, as if he were laughing at me, but then he thought better of it. Looking at me, he seemed to realize that I meant what I said seriously.

  “Then how do we get back into our own dreams?” asked Grayson desperately. “I’ve been afraid all this time that the two of you would wake up and leave me here on my own, and the flowered-cushion murderer would come back.…” He stopped. Obviously he realized what a fuss he was making.

  On any other night, I’d have wound him up a bit, but today I understood just how he felt. The scene Persephone had made at the party, Arthur’s death threats, and the thing out in the corridor—more than enough for a single night.

  “When did you get home?” I asked Grayson.

  “Henry and I helped Jasper to clear his family’s place up a bit, and we tried getting him to see that Persephone freaking out, and Theo Ellis, and Mrs. Lawrence were all Arthur’s doing. But he didn’t want to believe us.”

  “How’s Persephone?” asked Henry. “Oh, silly question. Forget it.”

  “Arthur was waiting outside the door at home for Grayson to come back, but he met me instead. We had a delightful conversation.…” I fiddled with the Alpine violets on the table in front of me. “He said if I died, in six months’ time you two would have forgotten that I ever existed. And he said he’d like to prove it.”

  Neither Henry nor Grayson said a word. Then Grayson sat up straight and told us, “Forget everything I said about Arthur before, both of you. I couldn’t care less whether or not he spends the rest of his life in a coma, dribbling—we have to stop him, never mind how.”

  “Yes, but we need Anabel for that.” Henry joined me in pulling petals off the Alpine violets, touching my fingertips as if by chance in the process. “And she’s, well, concentrating on her demon at the moment. At least Arthur wasn’t telling lies about that. Anabel herself has told me that ‘he’ is back again. And that our names are written in blood, which will flow at the time of the eclipse of the sun … and other crazy stuff like that. It’s a pity she decided to stop taking her medication.”

  “Maybe Arthur’s blood will flow first,” I murmured hopefully. That might even make me a fan of Anabel. Or of her demon, depending on who was responsible.

  Grayson hit the table so hard with his fist that the flowerpots clinked, and Mrs. Honeycutt instinctively raised her curly lilac-tinted head. “We’re going about this the wrong way. If Anabel is the only one who can help us to stop Arthur, then we must talk to her.”

  “I’ve tried,” said Henry, adding quietly, with a sideways glance at Mrs. Honeycutt, “More than once. But I’m afraid it’s impossible to have a reasonable conversation with Anabel. She talks about blood and death in Latin, in a sinister, echoing voice, and black feathers float down through the air. What’s more, she keeps turning invisible.”

  “We can’t have a reasonable conversation here either,” said Grayson vigorously.

  Too vigorously for Mrs. Honeycutt. She turned and looked at us. “Now my knitting’s all tangled up,” she complained. “And what are you doing with my Cyclamen persicum? You’re not pulling the leaves and petals off, are you?” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re that tall Harper boy. Weren’t you going to clean out my roof gutter?”

  “Did it ages ago, Mrs. Honeycutt.” Henry lapsed into his hypnotic whisper again. “Everything’s fine. Just carry on knitting. You have to finish that lovely blanket.”

  “Stole!” Mrs. Honeycutt turned around, grumbling. “You’d do better to knit than play cards yourselves.”

  We exchanged surprised glances. The fact that we were sitting around a table didn’t mean we were playing cards. But that made no difference to Mrs. Honeycutt.

  “It leads to no good; you can see that from Alfred’s example,” she went on. “My sister, poor soul, always stood up for him. She even knitted him pullovers. And how did he thank her? He gambled their money away, that’s what he did. And wept crocodile tears when he found her dead in bed. Asthma, indeed! I know what he did, but no one would believe me.” Her grumbling was drowned out by the click of her knitting needles, and we breathed sighs of relief.

  “I mean, it’s no use talking to Anabel in a dream,” whispered Grayson. “We must do it where there are no demons and no chance of turning invisible. In real life! Where I don’t feel a total idiot. Where common sense always wins out in the end.”

  “With Anabel?” I said doubtfully. “Even the psychiatrist got nowhere with her.” Although he himself had been rather crazy.

  “I can do it!” Grayson very nearly thumped the table again, but he stopped himself at the last minute. “I know Anabel from before she went … before she got sick. She was well-above-average intelligence, someone who could think very logically. And she still is. Do you see what I mean?” He cast a skeptical glance at us. “That stuff about the demon as an explanation for all this is perfectly logical. In itself, I mean.”

  “Absolutely logical,” I agreed. “If demons existed.”

  “Exactly,” said Grayson, pleased to find that someone understood him. “So we don’t need to convince Anabel that she’s nuts, only that her demon doesn’t exist.”

  Hmm, easier said than done. And of course it assumed that the nonexistence of demons was a fact.

  “It’s worth a try,” said Henry, shrugging.

  “I’m no use to anyone here in these corridors, anyway.” Grayson folded
his arms.

  “I’ve told you hundreds of times…,” Henry began, and Grayson interrupted him. “Yes, I know, you’ve told me that it’s all a matter of practice. But I’m afraid Arthur will have finished us all off long before I’ve had enough of that.”

  Something rustled, and he looked at the door in alarm. “Did you two hear that as well?”

  “It was only Mrs. Honeycutt scratching her head with a knitting needle.” Henry laughed.

  “You’re only saying that. I’m not going out of here on any account.” Grayson straightened his back and stretched. “Oh, shit, how can anyone be asleep and so tired at the same time?”

  That had always seemed strange to me as well. In reality, we were all lying in our beds fast asleep, although some of us must look rather odd. Me, for instance, with a flowered scarf around my waist, assorted hair clips on my head, two armbands on my wrist, and a tattered notebook under my pajama shirt. The trendy look for a woman of the world haunting dream corridors by night. (But I had passed on Senator Tod’s sock to Henry—I couldn’t bring myself to wear it.)

  “You can wake up anytime you like,” Henry told Grayson. “You just have to want to.”

  “The trick is to imagine all the details of coming awake. As intensely as you can.” It had taken me some time to learn the trick myself. It was simplest in your own dream, but much harder, I thought, in the corridor or in other people’s dreams. And most difficult of all was waking when you were under stress. “Close your eyes, and when you open them again, you’ll find yourself in your bed. In your room. Try to imagine yourself lying there, imagine what the quilt feels like, how the moonlight is falling in through the window, or—”

  “It doesn’t work!” Grayson had closed his eyes and opened them again at once. “I’m just afraid that you two will disappear the moment I’m not looking.”

  “Would we do a thing like that?” Henry grinned. “Come on, try again. And then we’ll meet at twelve noon tomorrow to study.”

  “Oh, hell.” Grayson rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead. “I’d entirely forgotten the chemistry test on Monday.”