Plan A: Cause Trouble. Plan B: Find More.

[una_persson]

Una had waited a few days to send Signor Candida a letter from Jeremy Cornelius, asking for more travel advice for Rome and the surroundings; as she anticipated and as she gleefully reported to Dorian, the response that came to Jeremy's poste restante was an invitation to dine, and that the charmingly sceptical Signor Gray was also welcome. The arrangement for the evening in question, then, was for Una-as-Jeremy to collect Dorian, and for the two of them to proceed to Kensington together.

But on the appointed night, it was Una as herself (albeit in a fashionably daring Artistic Dress gown in blue and white) that rang at Grosvenor Square, with a letter in her hand, a disgruntled expression on her face, and not a single damn given for anyone who looked sidelong at her for showing up alone at Mr Gray's house.

Comments

[depicted]

Noting Una's dress and expression on receiving her, not to mention the letter, Dorian could conceive only one response. "Should I pour you a drink?"

[una_persson]

"Please." She sat down and tossed the letter on the table for Dorian's own perusal. "Just as well I thought to check Mr Cornelius's post this afternoon, I suppose. Otherwise we might not have known that dinner was cancelled until we got there, and that would have been embarrassing."

The letter, written in a florid mixture of Italian and English, was an expression of deepest regret, but Signor Candida had been recalled to Rome for urgent family business and was leaving today by the first train; he hoped that Messrs Cornelius and Gray would not hold this against him, and would find it in their hearts to share his company on his return to London, which would be within the month at the outside. Sincerely yours, et cetera.

[depicted]

Dorian glanced over the letter, but Una's manner and words gave him the essentials. Irritation speaking in volumes with his body language, he poured them each a drink before dropping onto the longue in the picture of petulant irritation. "Abandoned by an Italian. What is my life coming to?"

Yet almost instantly his eyes fell on Una and brightened with promise. "Now, we have a void in our schedules. Perhaps it's time we take another step on our journey through London? You mentioned an interest in the Chambers of the Heart."

[una_persson]

It wasn't so much that Dorian's own irritability lightened Una's mood as the manner in which he expressed it; what might have been obnoxious in another was oddly charming in him. A faint half-smile was already forming as she raised her glass to her lips. "I wonder if it truly is family? Well, assuming he returns in one piece, perhaps we'll find out."

As for the evening's entertainment—"I did, indeed. I've heard rumours, but I should like to hear more of what's worth knowing from your lips before embarking."

One might have mistaken that for caution, but in truth her mind was already made up—she was interested and that was as good as a yes, as he would probably perceive. Though it was a real question; she didn't want to be entirely unprepared.

[depicted]

He was not too worried to find out. As was his habit, he had already moved on to the next thing, and the next thing happened to be something he had been particularly looking forward to.

"There is always a risk to any pleasure; in this case, the risk usually involves bad memories, yours or somebody else's. It is meant to take the edge off of the--" (his fingers curled by his head, trying to capture in words the indescribable) "--the, um, sense of dread." The oppressive sense of wrongness that pervaded all the world. "So it shouldn't expose one to mind-destroying horrors. But there are stories."

To Dorian, a sense of danger only heightened the experience. He thought he had found in Una one who would feel the same.

[una_persson]

Memories. That worried her; if anything would blow a hole in her carefully constructed persona, it would be affording someone a glimpse of the twentieth century or beyond, or of the far past. Still, provided it remained unspecific, it could always be put down to mad imaginings out of some French novel or the like.

And the sensation of living nightmare, stilled for a while by her last adventure with Dorian and its pleasant aftermath, had started to grow and tug at her mind again. The promise of something that would blunt that sensation was deeply tempting. And—she almost laughed—surely the things she'd seen in her long life, at least some of them had to give whatever visions the drugs would bring a run for their money.

She sipped her drink and smiled, cat-like. "It's a risk I think I can accept—perhaps even enjoy. I wonder if I should ask after the stories, or if it's better to not have them too present in one's mind before setting out?"

[depicted]

"Likely best to wait." He smiled, by implication confirming that the state of mind influenced the journey through dreams. And that was true enough, but mostly, he simply didn't want to waste time. He was already set on the idea.

Dorian hopped to his feet, a spring in his step as he walked to a tall cabinet. From it, he removed a small, beautiful bottle: red and gold, covered ornate carvings like curling wisps of smoke, images of Orpheus asleep worked into the pattern. Dorian set the bottle on the table. "We shouldn't need too much for, say, two hours?"

[una_persson]

Una leaned forward to look curiously at the bottle, admiring it; it was a lovely object in and of itself. As well, she couldn't contain her excitement or her curiosity.

"I defer to your expertise in the matter," she said, with a graceful offertory gesture of her hands and a smile. "If you think that two hours is adequate for a novice such as myself, then I accept your advice without question." She was being deliberately arch and theatrical, of course, as much for her own entertainment as for his; here was another role to be played, of a demimondaine determined to be able to say someday that indeed, she has seen it all. It was, perhaps, one of the roles with the most truth in it.

[depicted]

"It will be a good start." He poured them each a small amount in a second set of glasses (patterns of whorls similar to the jar, part of a set) and, taking up one for himself, offered her another. "It doesn't take very long to begin, so it's best you sit down."

[una_persson]

She took the glass and seated herself next to him, then paused for a moment to sniff at the liquid in the glass. Nothing immediately off-putting about it, so far as she could tell, but the thought this is a terrible idea did briefly cross her mind.

Of course, if she had a pound for every time that thought had crossed her mind and she'd ignored it, she'd be a very wealthy woman indeed.

"Well then." She raised the glass to Dorian in an ironic toast, and then lifted it to her lips.

[depicted]

After drinking, Dorian sank into the chaise lounge. Already his mind was growing slow, languid. Soon, his eyes would not remain open, and he was drawn into sleep.

Here, there was warmth and red. Sweetness lingered in his mouth, in his sense of being, with that familiar smoky darkness a quiet presence beneath. This dim room filled with steady, rhythmic beating. It was the same kind of drunken lucidity that absinthe could bring.

He sought Una out, his soft voice echoing in the chamber made of flesh and doors. "Miss Persson?"

[una_persson]

Sinking into this sleep, for Una, felt like being gently, kindly drowned, in a soft, blood-warm ocean. All was darkness for some indeterminate time—no more than a few seconds in reality, perhaps.

When she came back to herself, she was sitting on the warm floor, her legs folded under her and her skirt pooling out around her, and her hands were pressed against the floor. Her hair fell loose around her face, and she found herself breathing in time with the pulse that pervaded the surroundings.

She looked up, hearing her name. "Here, Dorian," she said, almost singing out the words.

[depicted]

Dorian approached, keeping balance on the odd, uneven surface. He offered her his hand to help her to her feet. Here, for reasons he never understood, his clothing always changed back to what he had worn the day Basil painted him. As if in his dreams, he was trying even more to become that image of himself. He was relieved as the years went on to realize that he did not in dreams become the picture of his soul. Still, the clothing change set him a good few decades out of date as far as fashions went. It was always a little strange.

"Shall we choose a door?" There were many possibilities in this chambered heart, and Dorian did not hesitate to chase after them.

[una_persson]

She took his hand and got to her feet, almost losing her balance briefly. As she stood, she realised that though the colours were the same, the cut of her dress was off by at least three decades—in the future, not the past. Oh dear. Well, it could have been worse; she could have found herself in her Russian Army fatigues, or a Courreges mini-dress. She decided not to call attention to it. Men's clothing at this point in history was less variable, but she did note that there was something a little out-of-time about Dorian's own clothes.

"They all seem equally interesting." She looked around. "There, perhaps?" One nearby with a suggestion of the Gothic about it, with curious carvings that might or might not have borne closer scrutiny.

[depicted]

He made no comment on her dress, not recognizing it but not knowing to attribute to a time he had yet to see. Instead, Dorian agreed to her suggestion, opening the door for her.

What lay beyond was a palace of crystal and greenery, something Dorian did not recognize. Black and white birds fluttered from wood to crystal branch, singing. Strange bubbles of light filled the air. Dorian marvelled at the sight.

[una_persson]

Una actually gasped a little; whatever she'd been expecting, this kind of beauty wasn't actually on the top of the list. She was reminded, in an oblique way, of another world and life, an adventurer who walked through dreams and took the bad ones away—but this wasn't one of hers, she was certain of that.

"The stuff fairytales are made of," she murmured. She reached up to touch the bark of a tree that seemed to be made of glass; where she touched it, there was a ripple as if she'd put her finger in water, which quickly stilled. Under her finger, it felt like sun-warmed glass. "One of yours? Definitely not one of mine."

[depicted]

"I'm afraid not. If it were, I might never leave the world or thought that held it." He reached up to catch a bubble, smiling as it kept its shape in his hand.

[una_persson]

She took a few steps forward, pausing to twitch her skirt free from something that had caught it. "It's marvellous. Someone has a very pretty imagination. Do they have to be nearby, or could this be from anywhere?"

She reached out and balanced a bubble on the tip of her finger before lightly bouncing it back up into the air. The tree nearest her quivered a little, though she didn't notice.

[depicted]

"It could be a dream from the far side of the world." A branch above cracked, breaking Dorian's reverie.

[una_persson]

At the cracking sound, Una instinctively grabbed Dorian's arm to pull him clear of anything that might be falling from above—and indeed a handful of shining splinters rained down from somewhere up on high. It didn't even occur to her that such reflexes in a woman might be considered a little unusual at this time.

"I suppose this might be a good time to ask how we get out of here? Just in case, you know." The black and white birds were flying wildly about now, their song turning to sharp cries.

[depicted]

Her movement surprised him more, but he recovered quickly. "Yes, it's probably through the other side." Trusting she would follow (suspecting that she could have lead if she knew the way), he worked through the trees, eyes scanning from the floor to the branches above. "There is an edge to these things, the limit to what one mind can sustain. Another's dream starts then."

[una_persson]

She hurried after him, swearing under her breath as her dress caught again on one crystalline root after another. The hell with modesty (ridiculous under the circumstances so many ways, considering); she hiked up the train and hem to her knees and followed close behind.

"Should we be looking for another door, or will the scenery simply ... change?" She sniffed the air; was it her imagination, or was there a suggestion of roasted chestnuts and mulled wine on the breeze?

[Reference for potential scenery change, if desired.]

[depicted]

Catching the scent, Dorian said, "We're crossing over right now." As the trees grew sparse, soft dirt turned to cobblestone, and was that--a vendor's cry?

Yes, there was no mistaking it. Dorian stumbled onto the familiar and strange street. It had the feel of London, he knew it to his core, but it was not something he was familiar with. And it was Christmas.

He checked to be certain that Una had transitioned over right. The roots and branches were gone now, just the most distant hint of bird cry suggesting they had ever been in another dream.

[una_persson]

Una's initial feeling of relief at the familiar scenery was quickly replaced by something that felt suspiciously like panic.

If you looked straight ahead, there was, at first glance, little to distinguish the market there from, say, the Smithfield or Covent Garden of the 1880s. The vendors hawked the geese and apples and pies; children chased each other amongst the stalls; Christmas bunting hung from the eaves and there was a light, almost to picturesque dusting of snow. But if you raised your eyes upward—as Una did now—one saw the new baroque skyline of Pierrot's London: crystal towers glowing green and red, black and gold, blue and silver. There was a low hum as an airship passed overhead, stately as a royal barge in its progress.

Una raised both hands to her mouth, feeling at once exhilarated and faintly horrified. She should have seen this coming, she thought. Foolish of her to have imagined she might keep these memories at bay forever. Or perhaps—just perhaps—she had wanted to be caught out after all.

Her hands brushed stiff lace at her throat and she glanced down. The blue Edwardian dress was gone, and in its place the vari-coloured costume of Harlequin.

Oh hell.

[depicted]

Dorian's eyebrows raised, first at her, then up at the sky. "Is this familiar to you?" It was certainly a sight, the things that had so smoothly woven into the London he recognised.