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He takes a corner too hard, and skids; only by sheer blind will does he right himself without pausing. If he pauses, it will catch him. And if he catches him, it will—
There’s a turn up ahead that he doesn’t remember. He takes it more carefully this time; sobs in despair when it deadends in an expanse of dark wallpaper and no chance of egress nor safe quarter. He turns, down a hall perpendicular to the first. He does not mean to look but he does and he sees it, out of the corner of his eye: he sees the hallway swallowed up by nothingness only meters from where he had just been. He runs. Heart pounding, stomach lurching; eyes hot and wet with pure terror. It will catch him. And if it catches him, it will—
There’s a door. There’s a door. In a cursed fairytale manner, the floor before it stretches and stretches. Keeping him from it. But he crashes towards it with desperation and finally, finally, finally, his hands reach the knob. Fresh terror fills him. If it is locked, it will catch him. And when it catches him, it will—
But the door is not locked. He barrels through it and slams it closed behind him; the room he finds himself in is expansive, ceilings nearly beyond eyesight, but somehow his frantic breathing still fills the space. Will the door hold? Can a door hold, against such a thing? It looks as though he has come upon the remains of a banquet; has he offered himself up, just one more dish, for the hungry, gaping—
“Oh!” a voice yelps.
He feels shame as he gasps, and stumbles backwards; this only intensifies with what he does next. He knows that voice. He knows this face, and before he can stop himself he has launched himself forward and buried himself in her arms.
The plates that she dropped in order to accept him clatter sharply to the floor.
If she is surprised—and she must be—she doesn’t show it. She simply embraces him, stroking his hair, letting him huddle in her arms with his face tucked into the curve of her shoulder. His arms are vines around her middle. His breaths are damp heaves against the skin of her neck, but she allows it all with grace.
“It’s all right, my love,” she murmurs, rocking him, “just take a moment. You’re all right, now.”
The fabric of her jacket is cool and rough. The shape of her hug is firm but gentle, and it is this steadiness that allows him to orient himself in a way that he could not have before. He knows this room. He knows these halls; there is none of this that is foreign to him.
None of it that should be, anyway.
Morpheus comes back to himself with a grunt, and pulls away with as much dignity as he can manage. “Taramis,” he bites out. “I apologize. I. Forgot myself.”
“It’s all right, sir.” There is some bewilderment in the chef’s eyes; but she carries on. She always has. As she speaks she crouches down and retrieves the plates (unbroken, he notes, with relief). “Can’t say I was expecting to run into you—or to be run into by you—but it’s nice to see you.”
Is it? Is he someone whom it is nice to see? He can’t imagine this to be true at the moment: as he stands in the banquet hall that is no longer his, trembling and tear-stained, sweat-soaked and stomach-sick.
Too much time passes before Morpheus realizes that he has failed to reply. Taramis smiles, and sets the plates on a nearby table. “Let me make you some tea, milord.”
“You,” he manages, “no longer have to address me this way, Taramis.”
“All right. Let me make you some tea, my darling. You look like you could use some.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself—”
“No trouble!” she chirps. “The Berenices gala is done—thank God, I’ve only been carving ice shrimp for two weeks now!!—and the dishes can see to themselves. And, I have missed you, you know.” She softens. “Come on.”
It is true that in her presence, he feels far less an object of pursuit. The door seems to be holding. And now, with his feet back under him (as Hob might say), the fear is slowly diminishing.
Most dreams are a ripple in the waters. But if one dreams deeply enough one can touch the rocky bottom—step onto the surface that remains, even when all Dreamers have left—and now that he recognizes this surface, he is dreaming, but no longer is he imagining. Taramis is truly before him. His former Chef de Cuisine, his stalwart advisor, is standing just before him, and is offering to make him tea.
He nods for her to lead the way.
As though reading his mind, Taramis muses, “I didn’t think I’d get the chance to see you again, sir. Morpheus. You’ve made my day for sure.”
“You knew that I was alive?” She must have. Her perplexation was not nearly dramatic enough to account for seeing a dead man.
“Right: that. We didn’t know if it was meant to be a secret, but, someone told Merv. So, secret it is not!” She shakes her head. Her hat does not shift by even a hairsbreadth.
“But we weren’t sure,” she continues, “that is, we didn’t know—how much you’d remember? If you’d be able to dream deeply enough, as a mortal, to make it to the castle.”
“I should not be,” he murmurs. “By law, I am trespassing.” Not that he had meant to come here; he had simply fled in the direction which had felt safest.
“Perhaps by law, but, I’d have an awfully hard time thinking of it as trespassing when it’s you. I suspect the rest of the staff would feel the same. Here we are.”
They have woven through tables to the opposite end of the room; now Taramis lays her hand against the surface of another door. Morpheus hesitates. If the blueprints for this part of the castle have remained, then this will take them to the kitchen. He feels calmer now, no longer in the truest throes of fear; still he does not relish the thought of being seen by other former subjects in his current state.
But the door does not open to the kitchen—at least, not to the kitchen he was expecting. The room that they enter must be Taramis’s quarters. And though surely he once had a hand in their creation, they are novel to him now.
“Right here, by the fire, love,” Taramis says, guiding him to sit in the chair nearest a potbelly stove. He does so gladly. It is warm there, warm enough to soothe his shivering, and the faint scent of woodsmoke calms his heart in turn.
He gazes about with this newfound ease. The kitchen is small, not even half the size of the one he now shares with Hob Gadling. But it is tidy, and sunlit. A large vase of wildflowers sits nearby on the table; braids of onions and garlic hang from nails in the rafters. There is a stockpot on the stove, perhaps too large for the cupboards.
And for the first time since his death Morpheus feels at home somewhere in the Dreaming.
A cup of tea appears on the table before him. Taramis takes a moment to rub briskly at his arms before stepping away. “Is there anything else I can get you? You name it and I’ll whip it right up. Only thing off the menu right now is ice shrimp.”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Are you sure? I gathered some lovely matsutake this morning. And I have it on good authority that last night there were dozens of dreams of abalones—”
Does his refusal make him an ungrateful guest? He does not know; he is not a guest often. Nevertheless he cannot countenance the thought of eating anything, not even in the safety of this kitchen, not even if prepared with Taramis’s unrivaled aptitude. Eyes to the table, he shakes his head.
“You never have had much of an appetite,” Taramis says. She does not seem offended. “I suppose some things really do stay the same. Please don’t hesitate to say, if you change your mind.”
She settles in a chair across from him, tea in hand, and blows on it to cool it. He drinks in the sight of her: the soft lines of her face, the straw-like straightness of her hair. Taramis had always been one of his favorites. And she told him once, though it made no logical sense, that he had always been once of hers, too.
Hob’s voice in his head coaches him to take a slow breath. Morpheus does so, drawing a steady stream of air in through his nose and letting it escape from between pursed lips. The kitchen has not retained the scents of cooking. Instead it smells mostly of the breeze that blows in through the window; and Morpheus, still queasy in the aftermath of fear, is grateful for this.
Taramis has been watching him. He finds that he does not mind. “So. What’s it like, being human?” she prompts, after a time.
In the warmth of her kitchen, in the warmth of her attention, Morpheus manages to smile. “Enjoyable thus far. On the balance.”
“You’ve been resting, I hope.”
“I have.”
It isn’t a lie; his human life, in its first few months, has consisted mostly of reading and napping and taking slow walks through the city streets. He sits for hours in art galleries and coffee shops. Hob takes him to the countryside, on the weekends.
And still:
“There are—less pleasant aspects. At times I find it difficult not to fixate my attention on these.”
“You can tell me about those, if you’d rather,” Taramis offers. “It can get tiring, only being expected to talk about the good stuff.”
Surely there is no need to say it. Taramis witnessed it for herself. And yet, saying it is all he wants to do, at the moment. “I’ve been. Having nightmares.”
“Yeah. That much, I did gather. Mind if I ask what this one was about?”
He thinks to tell her; he really does. There is an openness to Taramis which he has always valued, and which coaxes him gently into an openness of his own. But in the end he cannot muster the energy. His only response is to shut his eyes and lower his chin.
“That’s all right, darling,” she soothes. “It’s over now. And you’re perfectly safe here. Not a nightmare around would dare cross my threshold unless they wanted every cook in the kingdom turned against them! They’re far less frightening when they’re whining for an extra biscuit and you’re the one with the power to tell them no, I have to say—”
Startling himself, Morpheus laughs. Nightmares can indeed be petulant things; he remembers that now.
Then he sours to remember that he still let one upset him so badly.
Taramis is sipping her tea. To distract himself, he does the same. And yes, he had missed this; the taste is exceptional. He doubts that this particular blend could be found anywhere in the Waking world; or, even if so, he doubts it could be found in London. It is bitter without being acrid, and there is a curious note that hovers somewhere between cedar and cinnamon. The warmth of it soothes his throat, left sore from the harshness of his earlier breathing.
It occurs to him that the chef is watching him once more, with a smile.
“You do look happier, darling,” she muses. “Nightmares aside.”
“I am. Nightmares aside.”
“Good. You know how I worry.”
“Yes.”
Dearest Taramis. She does worry; she always has. Even when he was a King and she, his subject: she worried when it was truthfully somewhat impertinent of her to do so.
“It was a black hole,” Morpheus tells her. “My nightmare was of a black hole, pursuing me.”
“Oh. That’s a very specific one.”
“My mother cast me into one, some time ago.” He had not planned to include this detail. “It was—unpleasant. I seem to have been left with an aversion to them.”
Taramis’s smile persists, but it has saddened. “I think anyone would have been, love.”
Morpheus’s heart is pounding. He drinks more tea. Looks out the window, to the garden beyond, and takes another measured breath.
There is a ladybird, making her way up the glass. She belongs in the garden, he thinks, but when he tries to open the window for her, he finds that he cannot. He is only a dreamer, now.
Then the ladybird finds a crack, and escapes to the garden anyway.
“I didn’t deserve it,” Morpheus blurts. It takes them both aback.
“Say again?”
“The black hole—I didn’t deserve it. I have deserved many of the things that have happened to me, but, I did not deserve that.”
“I believe you,” Taramis says, which helps more than he would have expected. He sits in her small, sunlit kitchen and observes, with strange detachment, the salt sting of fresh tears in his eyes.
Taramis tilts her head, and considers him gently.
“Let me make you some porridge, love. Mm?” she says, at last. “It does wonders to settle a stomach.”
“Yes. Please.” The thickness of his throat is such that he can barely speak at all, but it is worth it, these two short words. Taramis hums, and gets up from the table.
Drawers open, then a cupboard. A spoon clinks lightly against the edge of some vessel; and then there comes a sequence of sharp digital beeps. It draws a smile. He thinks Hob will enjoy hearing about the chef whose personal kitchen features both a cast iron stove, and a stainless steel microwave.
A moment later there is a bowl of porridge before him.
From her jacket Taramis produces a linen napkin, which she hands to him. Ostensibly, of course, it is meant for cleaning his mouth if need be; but it serves as well to dry the tears from his cheeks.
Morpheus eats.
“This is magnificent,” he tells her, because it is. The oats taste of wind and rain and sunshine; the milk, of pastures, and a cow’s love for its calf. The porridge that Hob makes him comes from a packet. And yet they are not entirely dissimilar, for they both have been made with care and affection for him (and with a healthy spoonful of raspberry jam on top).
“I’m glad, darling,” Taramis hums. “Who needs abalones? Would you—like some privacy?”
He shakes his head.
Taramis sits again, in the chair beside him this time; with one hand she fetches her tea and continues drinking. The other hand, she has laid on Morpheus’s shoulder.
Morpheus eats, and cries, and finishes with both at precisely the same time; he cleans himself once more with the napkin, then, somehow very certain that he is allowed to, blows his nose with it as well. Taramis clears it away along with the bowl and teacups.
“Bit better, now?” she prompts, as she returns to his side.
“Very much so.”
“I’m glad.”
“Taramis,” Morpheus begins, after clearing his throat. “I was not feeling entirely myself, earlier. As you know. I should already have said this, but. It’s good to see you, as well.”
He thinks the kitchen brightens then, the chef’s own happiness manifesting as a fresh swell of sunlight through the windows. “You’re welcome here any time, darling.”
“I think I may wake soon, but, might I stay? Until I do?”
“Of course! Would you like to come out back and help me pick the tomatoes?”
Morpheus nods.
In Taramis’s vegetable garden, both armed with straw baskets, they walk the rows and pick only the tomatoes who announce that they are ready. Perfect gems they are, each one—even the imperfect ones, lumpy or patchy or both—and as Morpheus’s basket fills with red and orange and purplebrownyellow, his nose fills with the green scent of the tomato vines, and it occurs to him that he is losing his footing once more. Conversation has drifted to a comfortable stop, and without dialogue to anchor him, he is beginning to drift as well. Soon he will be just another dreamer. Soon the dream-waters will carry him upwards, away from Taramis and the kitchen and all the things that exist even when nobody is watching—
That’s all right. In the end, it’s been a lovely dream.
He looks to Taramis. Their eyes catch, and she laughs, and shows him a tomato she has found that is shaped almost perfectly like a tennis shoe.
He will visit her again; but for now, the waters lift him.
And Morpheus wakes smiling.