Chapter 12
The darkness of sleep gently enfolded me, tugging on my consciousness to pull me into a sea of color and indistinct shapes.
For a moment they whirled around me before gradually beginning to take form.
When they finally settled, I found myself standing in a misty garden of thorns and roses I remembered well.
My senses were momentarily overcome with the intricate detail—a vision of crimson and magenta roses woven through the ivy, their floral scent filling the crisp air, the leafy green trees tinged in the early hues of autumn gold, the breeze’s soft caress against my cheeks.
A grey, overcast sky obscured the sun, yet its brightness still bathed the world in a dazzling sheen.
I recognized this place by the brambles lacing the manicured hedges, but though I had no memory of how I’d gotten here, I felt more awake in this moment than when I first entered the cursed palace.
At the same time, the edges of my memory felt fuzzy, as though my body had traveled here but my consciousness was a few beats behind.
I took a breath, trying to remember what I’d seen and done last time I found myself in this strange world.
Soft footsteps sounded on the mossy cobblestones.
A man approached, one who even at a distance caught my eye…
I had the impression I’d seen him before.
My heart lurched when he drew closer and I got a better look at his face.
I knew this man…at least I thought I did.
Soulful storm-grey eyes, light brown hair that glinted gold in the strange light, a chiseled jawline that caused a foreign yet pleasant warmth to stir my chest.
He slowed in front of me, tilting his head. “You look as though you know me.”
“I feel as though I should. We’ve met before, haven’t we?
” I couldn’t quite grasp the familiarity taunting me, as elusive as trying to capture fog.
My memories felt hazy, similar to whenever I tried to read an object whose secrets were obscured, or when I’d expended my powers.
Had I met him during one of my past exploits, or had it been from a dream?
He studied me, his composed expression absent of the perplexity cinching my chest. Recognition gradually lit his eyes. “I remember now. You’ve appeared here once before, quite some time ago.”
The memory I was attempting to hold long enough to examine became a little more clear—I’d visited this surreal dreamscape before, during which I’d interacted with the nameless tender of this mystical garden.
From my perspective, it had only been a few nights ago, but of course time would pass differently in a made-up dream where nothing was as it should be.
While the recollection explained my odd sense of knowing this nameless person, I felt there was more to our history than a single dream. If only I could remember.
But there were more pressing matters to focus on than the strange nostalgia rendered by this exchange, namely my sudden presence. “How did we get here?” I asked.
He frowned. “We? I’m afraid I’m not sure where you came from, but as this garden’s tender, I haven’t left my post.”
I had no explanation for why I’d thought we’d traveled here together, though I sensed the memory was just out of reach, taunting me with its proximity. The closer it drew, the more it stoked a memory that, despite the short passage of time, felt as distant as if part of another lifetime.
The recollection returned in fragments, like trying to examine each raindrop as it fell while peering through a foggy glass. The more I gathered, the clearer the vision became, as if I were staring at a reflection in the water. “I think I remember now. Do you come here when you fall asleep too?”
I took in my surroundings with new eyes. Of course this was a dream—my senses were so much more vibrant than the real world, almost dazzling with their array of color and detail.
My companion frowned again. “You keep calling this a dream, but I’m certain it’s real. Why do you believe otherwise?”
“Because I only come here after I’ve fallen asleep and when I awaken I’m back in my normal life.
” Admittedly it was strange to dream of this location twice when my dreams usually varied as much as my heists…
not to mention my waking life had begun to be far less “normal.” I’d also never met the same person within my dreams more than once, nor had such an extended conversation with them.
He shrugged. “From my perspective, this is reality, with you appearing and disappearing at a whim as if no time has passed.”
The comment stirred the recesses of my memory of someone I’d met recently who did something similar. The name was on the tip of my tongue, ready to be spoken…before vanishing in the surrounding fog the garden.
“Are you sure you’ve never ventured beyond this dream?” I wasn’t sure where the question came from, only that I felt compelled to ask it.
He nodded, but he seemed less certain. After a moment the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “You present an intriguing concept. I’ll humor you—if this is a dream, what were you doing before falling asleep?”
I closed my eyes in an effort to recall the moment.
At first I found nothing, as if the memory had been stolen the moment I’d fallen asleep.
But eventually, a faint recollection gradually rose to the surface—a dark corridor illuminated by moonlight, standing in front of a blank wall despite being in a room lined with paintings, a battle of wits with an odious man I couldn’t help but be drawn to.
No matter how much I searched, I couldn’t locate the transition for when I’d moved from that moment to suddenly finding myself in this vibrant garden, the details from the moment lost…save for the heavy exhaustion that had pulled me beneath its dark surface.
“I believe I was standing in what appeared to be a portrait gallery after I’d snuck out of my room in the middle of the night.”
His eyebrows rose. “I venture that’s not uncommon for a thief. What were you trying to steal?”
“Nothing. I was investigating.”
He appeared doubtful of my claim. “And did you find anything in this investigation?”
I struggled to push through the fog of forgetfulness shrouding the memory. “We were looking for a missing portrait.”
“You weren’t alone?” His voiced hitched, almost as if he were jealous, though his expression betrayed no hint of envy as he pondered my words.
He grew pensive. “A missing portrait. That makes me think of something…could it be?” He met my gaze. “I might be able to help you.”
He motioned for me to follow him to a gate I was certain hadn’t been there the first time I’d visited this dreamscape, a lone garden previously entirely enclosed with thorns.
He unlocked it and held aside a curtain of brambles to help me pass, a gentlemanly act I wouldn’t expect from the man who tormented my waking hours.
We walked in silence for a time through the wildly grown, twisting paths leading from the garden through the fog.
Though the world was a wondrous vision of sight and sound, I found myself distracted by the quiet man beside me.
He appeared entirely unassuming, yet I still couldn’t dismiss the sense that he reminded me of someone.
He noticed me staring and cast me a sideways glance. He shifted shyly. “What is it?”
Normally I took little interest in others, but the nagging sense that I knew him tempted me to gather as many clues to the riddle of his true identity as I could. Yet for some reason I couldn’t ask the questions burning my lips, as if a secret part of me was afraid to get to know him.
Instead, I pointed to a small scratch on his arm. “I see the roses were in a bad mood this morning. Who knew gardening was such a dangerous vocation?”
He blinked at me and then a small smile grew as he glanced down, rubbing the scratch.
“I suppose it has its risks. But the roses are my favorite. Daisies are cheerful, but they don’t need me.
Roses flourish under patient care. A true gardener knows how to listen for their unique language, their way of asking for what they need. ”
“The flowers…talk to you?” It really wasn’t any stranger than any other aspect of this world, but I still glanced around, wondering if the other plants were listening as we spoke.
“Not in words.” He flexed his calloused hands, as though anxious to be back at work.
“But if you know them well enough, you can sense what a yellowing leaf or drooping stem means.” He cast me a questioning, almost shy look.
“I’d enjoy showing you some of them later, if you have time.
I think you’d like the damask roses; they have the sweetest fragrance. ”
“Will they scratch me if I try to smell them?” I teased.
He smiled. “I’ll make sure they don’t. I’ll even pick a bouquet for you to take when you leave…if you promise not to tell anyone.”
I laughed. “I won’t breathe a word to the daisies, the tulips, or even the ivy on the wall.”
As we took a left into a corridor lined with a riot of dahlias, I thought back to the rose that had somehow returned with me a previous visit, wondering if he really could send flowers back with me.
“Why do you tend the garden when there is no one awake to enjoy them?” I asked.
He paused to consider, as though he had never wondered such a thing. “It’s…what I’m meant to do,” he finally responded, though his voice sounded uncertain.”The gardens need me, and I need to care for them.”
“Did your father also care for the gardens?”
The pause this time was even longer. “I’m not sure,” he murmured. “This has been my life as long as I can remember…though sometimes I feel like it’s a calling I gave myself rather than the one I was born to fulfill.”
“Does it ever feel—“ I hesitated, trying to think how to word my question. “—like something is missing?” I searched his face.