“Well,” said Philomena Bucket, disgustedly, “that was a fat lot of good.”
She gazed down at the grimoire, now sitting innocently upon the hastily repurposed altar – which, until a few hours earlier, had been a perfectly respectable card table. The cracked leather binding was still dusted with a stubborn patina of mould, but now also sported yellowish blotches of hardened candle wax and liberal splashes of cuttlefish ink.
“Give it time, girl,” said the ghost of Granny Bucket, shimmering steadily in the corner of the snuggery. “These things rarely happen straight away. You just need a bit of patience.”
Philomena gave her a steely glare.
“Patience? I may not be Durosimi’s greatest admirer, but I can’t forget he’s stuck in one of the book’s illustrations – and it’s my fault. I’ve no intention of abandoning him to whatever horrors lurk between the covers. And what was he mouthing at me? Something about avoiding the margins?”
Granny shrugged with ghostly indifference. “I’ve no idea. You were lip-reading, so you may well have got it wrong.”
She paused, then added, “Philomena, you’ll have to trust me. The spell will work – but it’ll do so in its own time. You won’t hurry it by fretting. Why not get some rest? Have Rhys – or someone – keep an eye on the book, in case anything happens during the night.”
Philomena nodded, wearied by hours of seemingly fruitless spellcraft. Besides, it was well past midnight.
“Reggie’s a night owl,” she said. “He’ll keep watch for me.”
“Good idea,” said Granny, beginning to fade from view – only to flicker back again a moment later.
“I nearly forgot,” she said. “Before you sleep, have a cup of mugwort tea.”
“Mugwort?” Philomena echoed – but her grandmother’s ghost had already gone.
She frowned, then slowly nodded as the penny dropped. Mugwort – the traditional herbal route to lucid dreaming. Typical Granny, to leave out something so critical until the very end.
Downstairs, just a couple of hours later, the grandfather clock – which normally loitered in silence – chose to strike the hour, its three deep, sonorous chimes slicing through the hush of the inn. The sound stirred Philomena into hazy awareness.
She lay still, blinking. The room glowed with a strange, faintly unearthly light. Rhys snored contentedly beside her, so she slipped carefully from the bed, not wanting to wake him, and padded to the window. Outside, the fog hung thick and damp, as always, swallowing moon and stars alike. There was nothing unusual to be seen.
She turned to climb back into bed — and stopped.
Rhys was not alone.
A flaxen-haired beauty now lay next to him, fast asleep.
Philomena stared. Then blinked. Then stared again.
It took a moment to realise, with mingled relief and confusion, that she was looking at herself.
“Hmmm,” she murmured, critically. “Bit pale. Could do with a good breakfast. But not bad. Not bad at all.”
It slowly occurred to her that admiring her own sleeping form from across the room was not entirely standard behaviour.
“This must be a dream,” she reasoned aloud. “And if I know I’m dreaming, then I must be lucid. So… what now?”
She paused, rifling mentally through what little she knew about lucid dreaming.
“I seem to remember the dreamer’s meant to be in control,” she mused. “Well, that can’t be bad. So… what do I need?”
As if summoned by thought alone, Drury, the skeletal hound, trotted into view, tail bones wagging enthusiastically. Of course, the real Drury was downstairs, snoozing in his favourite chair. This was Drury’s dream-self, and – like most animals, living or otherwise – he was a natural at lucid dreaming.
“Just the person – um, dog – I needed,” said Philomena. “I couldn’t ask for a better guide, if I’m to plunge into that book and rescue Durosimi.”
“Better guide? Me?” thought Drury, his bone-eyes gleaming with glee. The truth was, he’d never dreamt himself into a book before. It sounded like a splendid way to spend the night.
Together, they glided soundlessly through the sleeping inn to the snuggery, where the grimoire sat ominously waiting. True to his word, Reggie Upton was keeping watch. He was slumped in an armchair that, like Reggie himself, had known more distinguished days. A half-read book drooped across his lap, a half-drunk tumbler in his hand, and a mostly-full bottle from the Gannicox Distillery perched beside him on the makeshift altar.
Philomena raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t think he intends to use that for sacrificial purposes,” she muttered.
Even had he not been quietly astonished by the prose of D. H. Lawrence, Reggie would never have noticed the dream-shapes of Philomena and Drury hovering before him.
Not, at least, until the grimoire gave a sudden shudder and expelled a small but purposeful puff of dust – just as its new visitors willed themselves into its pages.
To be continued…