A Rose for Beauty

Chapter 25

"Your mother?" Mr. Hawke sagged heavily into his faded armchair, his mouth gaping. He stared blankly ahead of him in stunned silence, but after a few moments he drew in a long, shuddering breath. "You are sure of this?"

"Without question, Mr. Hawke," Lydia said firmly. Well, as firmly as she could, given the way her heart was racing and her head spinning. It was an effort she could be proud of, at any rate.

The old man lifted a trembling hand to his face, covering his mouth for a moment before his shaking fingers moved as if of their own volition to stroke his beard. "Miss Lydia," he said, his own voice faint, "might I know your mother's name?"

"It was Charlotte," Lydia responded, surprised by the question. "Charlotte Hartford."

"Charlotte?" he repeated, puzzled.

"Charlotte Redding, before she married."

Mr. Hawke's lips tightened in disappointment, and he shook his head. "The name means nothing to me."

"Did you expect that it would?" Mrs. Warren spoke up from her seat by the fire, her eyes sharp, but Mr. Hawke only shook his head.

"For a moment I almost suspected – but no, it is of no importance. Now," he said, leaning forward eagerly, "what did she say? Do you remember?"

As if I could forget, she thought. The words rang through her head as though they were once again being spoken aloud: you stand now on the edge of a vast and terrible precipice, and you may yet fall. "She said I was in danger," she said aloud, "but that she could not tell me much more than that because I must find the answers myself."

"A test of worthiness," he breathed, a light kindling in his eyes that seemed to have very little to do with their present surroundings.

"I beg your pardon?"

Mr. Hawke shook himself, grabbing a mug of tea from the clutter of the tabletop and gesturing with it as he fell into a lecturing tone. "The dream world follows its own rules," he began, "quite different from those of our reality. Often the form it follows is that of a story, or a fairy tale."

"A fairy tale?" Lydia repeated, incredulous.

The gruff old man actually laughed, waving his empty hand in a highly animated fashion. "Don't sound so offended, Miss Lydia. What is a dream but a story, and a story but a dream? It has its own rhyme and reason. The hero, the villain, the test, the quest, the guide, the rescue – all have their part to play. Now, it sounds to me -" he paused, taking a sip from his mug and stopping altogether to stare into it with a revolted expression before placing the mug carefully back where it had come from and continuing. "It sounds to me as though you have been cast in the role of the champion in this tale."

"Me?" She shook her head. "I cannot believe that anyone would choose me as their champion."

"You do yourself a disservice," he chided. "You seem like an intelligent young woman. I am certain that you can uncover the solution to this mystery. Now – as I was saying, it seems you have been set a test of your worthiness. To prove yourself as the champion, you must discover what is going on without help from the guide. Ah – that is, from your mother."

Lydia pondered that nugget of information. "But why is my mother the guide?"

"How should I know?" Mr. Hawke asked crossly. "It isn't my dream. Perhaps you created her yourself."

"What-" she paused. "Is that possible?"

"Young lady," he sighed, "I thought that I had made it quite clear that absolutely anything is possible in the dream world."

"Well, if I made her, or summoned her, or – or what have you, how is it that she knows more than I do?"

"Well obviously -" he stopped, thinking. "I don't know. But that doesn't mean it can't be true. She might be a figment of your unconscious mind trying to draw attention to signs of danger that you missed. It might even be that some other force or person is manifesting in a shape that you would recognize and pay attention to. Now, did she say anything else?"

"Yes," Lydia said, willing to drop the issue for the moment, "she said that I need better defenses, that now that I have started on the Dreamer's path there is no way back."

Mr. Hawke looked thoughtful. "I suppose we shall have to teach you properly, if the herb pillow is proving so ineffective at warding them off. That is a sign of either a powerful dream or a powerful Dreamer, perhaps both."

"Can you teach me?"

"I can teach you some things," he said slowly, "but you will have to practice them yourself, and that presents some danger to you. I cannot enter the dream with you, so you will be undefended except for what I can prepare here." He stopped again, exchanging a momentary glance with Mrs. Warren. "Are you sure that this is what you want?"

"Have I got another choice?" Lydia asked, half in jest.

Mr. Hawke regarded her soberly. "Yes, you have. You can run from Briarwood Cottage, find a new home, try to leave behind this tangle not of your making." He paused again. "It might be the more prudent course."

"My family has nowhere else to go," she protested. "And what reason could I possibly give for us to move again? Nightmares?"

"You could say something of the sort," he replied.

Lydia pondered it sincerely for a handful of heartbeats. Was it too dangerous, truly? The dreams, the cottage, her mother's book, Julian, and now – her mother? Could she honestly allow herself to walk away and wash her hands of all of it? Could she afford not to? "No," she said, surprising herself with the firmness in her voice. "I will not leave. I cannot leave. I do not understand – well, any of this – but I will not simply walk away from it."

Mr. Hawke smiled, slow wrinkles spreading across his cheeks as he nodded approvingly. "A true champion would do no less," he remarked, waggling a calloused finger at her, "but the choice had to be made. This is your test, to prove your worth, but it cannot be thrust upon you against your will. We shall begin at once, for if your dream is any indication, time is of the essence!"

He launched at once into a lecture about the basic principles of controlled Dreaming, with a spark in his eyes that instantly transformed his face, giving Lydia a glimpse of what he must have been as a younger man, before his many disappointments shuttered his spirit. She listened eagerly, determined to learn and remember everything he taught so that she could begin taking action in the strange night-time drama that had plucked her up and cast her into its center without so much as a by-your-leave. She had been tossed to and fro like a ship without a captain, but now it was time for her to take the wheel.

By the time Mrs. Warren interrupted them with a gentle reminder that they must be getting back to the Cat and Fiddle, Lydia felt a spark of confidence she had not known for a great while kindling in her breast, and was sure she was ready to attempt some of the courses Mr. Hawke recommended.

"Now remember," he called as the two women hurried away from his cottage, "don't overreach yourself in your first attempt! Begin with defenses only!"

"I shall," Lydia called back over her shoulder, "and thank you!"

Lydia linked arms with Mrs. Warren for the walk back to town. Her mind was swirling with all she had learned, and she could not wait to get back home and make some notes before she forgot more than she already had. She just needed a little privacy from her brothers and sisters – oh, no.

"Miss Lydia, whatever is the matter?" Mrs. Warren eyed her with concern as she stumbled, squeezing her elbow more tightly.

"Ah - well," Lydia said, her voice sheepish, "I may have told my family I was coming to see you to learn to bake bread. I don't suppose we have time for a lesson of another sort...?"

Mrs. Warren laughed out loud, shaking her head and patting Lydia's arm as she tucked her yellow shawl more firmly around her shoulders. "I expect we'll manage, Miss Lydia. Indeed, I do."