Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

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IMOGEN STARTED AWAKE, UTTERLY DISORIENTED. THE ROOM was dark and oddly familiar, but she couldn’t place where she was. Was she back in the salon?

Don’t panic , said Mouse.

“Fine. Then tell me where I am.” At least she remembered who she was and where she’d been before falling asleep with her head cushioned against Mouse’s etched steel fur. She’d retreated to the top of the clock with Mouse so they could make plans. Nestled in among the ticking, turning wheels, they’d started considering their next moves—but she’d been exhausted. “Did I fall asleep?”

You are asleep .

“Then why am I talking to you?” She sat up, realizing Mouse wasn’t anywhere in sight. “Where are you?”

Right where you left me. You’re dreaming .

“Dreaming?” If she was dreaming, then she really was asleep. “Is it safe to sleep?”

I’ll wake you if I need to. But maybe right now you should have a look around .

Groggy, Imogen put a hand to her forehead. Fatigue had almost come as a surprise. Though Imogen had been sickly all her life, here she was climbing and running as if she’d never had so much as a sniffle. However, sending the ciphered message had been grueling, almost as if she’d been asked to do algebra and climb a mountain at the same time. “Why do I feel so awful?”

Let’s see. You had your soul ripped from your body, you’re trapped in a sorcerer’s alternate reality, and you’re being hunted to the death by the malevolent shade of your dead twin. Not to mention using previously untapped parapsychological strengths to send coded messages into reality. A bit of a lie-down was in order .

Imogen bristled at the sarcastic tone, then realized the rush of temper had cleared her head. “Why do I need to look around?”

You’re about to learn a new trick—one that not every spirit can manage, but I’ll tell you what to do .

“All right,” Imogen said uneasily.

Dreams are what happen when your spirit wanders into another place—it might be a real place, or one that you’ve created for just that moment. But you’re already a wandering spirit. The only way you can dream while you’re in this place is through someone else .

“How?”

Everyone is connected to those close to them. That is how Evelina found you, and how you knew there was a séance. Those who know how to look for it can see the weave of connections on the spirit plane. All you need to do is find the thread you want and follow the spiderweb into someone’s dream .

That sounded like a fine theory, but she still couldn’t visualize how it worked. “And yet I’m already in a different place, so how did I get here?”

Sometimes a living soul wants to see someone so badly they call that person right across the spirit plane. Find out whose dream you’re in .

“Someone dragged me here?”

Not a kind way of putting it, but essentially correct .

She shuddered, remembering the horrible nightmares she’d shared with Anna for so many years. The only thing that had kept her sister out of her dreams was laudanum. The invasion had felt like such a monstrous violation—sleep was one of the few places a person could be truly private. The last thing Imogen wanted to do was haunt someone else.

A feather of uneasiness brushing through her, she rose. She’d been asleep on an old worn sofa. A dirty teacup sat on the floor beside it, along with a notebook and pen. Imogen looked around, realizing she was in the back room of Bucky’s toy factory.

Bucky? Knowing it was him made everything different. With a rush of anticipation, she slipped through the door. The great, cavernous workshop loomed, machines and workbenches lost in a wilderness of shadows. There were shelves of toys in various states of assembly—mostly wood and clockwork, but some with soft bodies and luxurious fur. She saw a small army of ducklings with their wings outstretched, bills opened as if to quack. The next row down, ranks of tiny leopards were drying their spots. But there weren’t as many toys as she remembered seeing the other time she had visited, and she felt a pang of disappointment.

In the darkness beyond, near the bay doors that opened to the outside, something enormous loomed. She couldn’t quite make it out, but she wondered if whatever it was had consumed all of Bucky’s time. Of course, this is only a dream and what I see might not be real. I mustn’t forget that .

And then she began wandering through the dark warehouse. It had the shifty feel of a dream, as if the furniture and rooms weren’t quite right. Even stranger, it was pitch black, but she could see perfectly well. But then a sudden bloom of candlelight drew her like a moth.

Bucky was slumped over a table with his head cradled on his arms. Imogen stopped, her hands clasped against her middle. It felt like it had been years since she’d seen him, and she drank in the sight of his sleeping face as if it were the only cool water in the desert. I love him so much .

It wasn’t just that he was an educated, pleasant, well-off or good-looking young man. He was all those things, but he was also the one who’d put her happiness before everything else. Plus, he’d known her from the time she’d been a skinny girl in braids. If he knew her that well and still liked her—that said much.

However, she’d had no idea until that moment that he snored. “I suppose no one is perfect,” she muttered, drawing near. The candle had burned low, giving off the smell of hot wax. The glow flickered across the worn wood of the table and spilled over his broad, capable hands. Bucky was in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, his coat tossed carelessly over the back of his chair. Imogen reached out, her fingertips almost, but not quite, brushing the waves of his hair. It was a true brown, the highlights just hinting at auburn. She could just see one sleeping eye and the straight blade of his nose. She wondered if she could get away with kissing him before he woke up. After all, what was the fun of a dream without a dash of fantasy?

“Did you call me into your dreams?” she whispered. Was it just chance? Or did the fact that she’d been longing for him—and for his help—influence what had happened?

She peered over his shoulder at the papers scattered on the desk and saw it was a pencil and paper with a graph filled with alphabets and a lot of crossings-out. Imogen frowned, trying to make sense of the jumbled letters. Then she recognized the card from the clock and realized with mounting horror that it was her message—except that the clock had spelled it out in cipher.

Frustration stung. It looked like her message had been deciphered but now he was trying to find some alternate meaning for her words. And why not? The terse message she’d managed to scrape together hardly made sense. Damn and blast! Any scruples she had about haunting him vanished.

She put out a hand to shake his shoulder and paused a beat, wondering if her fingers would pass right through him, but she touched the smooth, cool cloth of his shirt and the hard muscle beneath. “Bucky!”

He sat bolt upright, blinking. “Huh?” His brown eyes looked almost black in the candlelight. When he saw her, they went wide. “Imogen!”

She nodded, her heart beating wildly. “Yes, it’s me. I’m in your dream.”

“You always were,” he said, getting to his feet and holding out his hands to her. “How are you?” she asked, perhaps a little stupidly but she’d never contacted anyone in a dream before—at least not anyone she actually wanted to see.

“I’ve had a very strange day,” he replied. “This is going to be the only good part, but why are you here?”