Adabelle’s hair. “You’re frustrated. I understand.”
Adabelle swallowed the tears
attempting to ascend.
“What you have to do is see
Berne. He’ll be able to help. I will not let you speak to Larraine till then.” Mrs.
Abeth pushed Adabelle out of the hug, keeping her hands on her shoulders,
holding her at arms’ length. “It’s for your own good. I promise. Better you
have the tools you need, than the information that could frighten any hope of
freedom out of you.”
Adabelle nodded, wiping away
a stray tear that had forced its way to the surface.
“I’ll do that, then,” she
whispered.
“Very good, now go and rest.
You’ll need it before your meeting this afternoon.”
It didn’t make sense for her
to need sleep, but she did. She felt it in the aching of her bones, and in the
weight of her eyelids. She had only just woken up a few hours ago. Why was she
so tired suddenly? Why had only a short trip into the Dream Frequencies caused
her so much trouble?
Slowly, methodically, she
made her way back to her bedroom, set an alarm for herself on the alarm clock
beside her bed.
She closed her eyes and
slept soundly.
She awoke minutes before her
alarm went off, allowing her a small while to enjoy the softness of her bed.
She had undressed into her small clothes before laying down atop the blankets
to shut her eyes, so it was only a matter of pulling on her dress once more to
be ready.
Crossing the university’s
grounds, she passed through the Smeth Memorial Courtyard. It was a small square
of grassed area, with picnic benches and a handful of statues. Professor
Oakley’s office sat across the courtyard.
The door was open when she
arrived, so she knocked and quietly waited. He stepped out from a pile of
books, calling out, “Yes’m?”
Professor Berne Oakley was
an unusual sort of man. He was stunted, nearly a head shorter than Adabelle—and
she wasn’t very tall to begin with—with a crescent of greying-brown hair
circling the back of his head, closing with a few small wisps at the front. He
had no neck of which to speak, nor a chin for that matter, as it seemed his
head simply merged with his chest in a smooth, sweeping flap of skin. His teeth
were crooked and brown from too much coffee, but his face suggested someone who
had been much more handsome in his younger years.
He stood before her in a
grey shirt and waistcoat, his tie pulled down slightly as it could not wrap entirely
around his not-neck. He smiled pulling the door a few more inches open to allow
her in.
“Good afternoon, Adabelle,”
he said. “You’re right on time. Excellent. Please take a seat.”
He indicated to a single
lounge chair. Velvety crimson-patterned upholstery covered what appeared to be
the most indulgent chair she had ever seen. She made her way over, Professor Oakley
leaving the door open. Dust danced slowly in the beams of golden afternoon
sunlight falling through the open door, drifting on cushions of air.
“Righty-oh,” said the
professor, who seemed somewhat distracted, like his body was here in the
moment, yet his mind had wandered elsewhere and was presently distracted with
other matters. “Tell me about what troubles you, girl, and I’ll see what I can
do.” He settled down in his own seat, which looked equally as soft as her own,
and took a pen and paper from the stack beside.
She kept her eyes on the
dust as it danced about, explaining the troubles with her father. She needn’t
go into much detail of his life, as most people already knew what he was
infamous for. She did, however, have to explain in full detail what had
happened to him after he had been sealed away in the sphere. As her mind
recounted events, she looked about the room.
The desk in the corner of
the room was piled high with papers for marking, and books filled with scrawl.
Pens and nibs and jars of ink splattered the stained wood in places with black
and blue splotches. Behind that desk was a bookshelf, without an inch of
Adabelle swallowed the tears
attempting to ascend.
“What you have to do is see
Berne. He’ll be able to help. I will not let you speak to Larraine till then.” Mrs.
Abeth pushed Adabelle out of the hug, keeping her hands on her shoulders,
holding her at arms’ length. “It’s for your own good. I promise. Better you
have the tools you need, than the information that could frighten any hope of
freedom out of you.”
Adabelle nodded, wiping away
a stray tear that had forced its way to the surface.
“I’ll do that, then,” she
whispered.
“Very good, now go and rest.
You’ll need it before your meeting this afternoon.”
It didn’t make sense for her
to need sleep, but she did. She felt it in the aching of her bones, and in the
weight of her eyelids. She had only just woken up a few hours ago. Why was she
so tired suddenly? Why had only a short trip into the Dream Frequencies caused
her so much trouble?
Slowly, methodically, she
made her way back to her bedroom, set an alarm for herself on the alarm clock
beside her bed.
She closed her eyes and
slept soundly.
She awoke minutes before her
alarm went off, allowing her a small while to enjoy the softness of her bed.
She had undressed into her small clothes before laying down atop the blankets
to shut her eyes, so it was only a matter of pulling on her dress once more to
be ready.
Crossing the university’s
grounds, she passed through the Smeth Memorial Courtyard. It was a small square
of grassed area, with picnic benches and a handful of statues. Professor
Oakley’s office sat across the courtyard.
The door was open when she
arrived, so she knocked and quietly waited. He stepped out from a pile of
books, calling out, “Yes’m?”
Professor Berne Oakley was
an unusual sort of man. He was stunted, nearly a head shorter than Adabelle—and
she wasn’t very tall to begin with—with a crescent of greying-brown hair
circling the back of his head, closing with a few small wisps at the front. He
had no neck of which to speak, nor a chin for that matter, as it seemed his
head simply merged with his chest in a smooth, sweeping flap of skin. His teeth
were crooked and brown from too much coffee, but his face suggested someone who
had been much more handsome in his younger years.
He stood before her in a
grey shirt and waistcoat, his tie pulled down slightly as it could not wrap entirely
around his not-neck. He smiled pulling the door a few more inches open to allow
her in.
“Good afternoon, Adabelle,”
he said. “You’re right on time. Excellent. Please take a seat.”
He indicated to a single
lounge chair. Velvety crimson-patterned upholstery covered what appeared to be
the most indulgent chair she had ever seen. She made her way over, Professor Oakley
leaving the door open. Dust danced slowly in the beams of golden afternoon
sunlight falling through the open door, drifting on cushions of air.
“Righty-oh,” said the
professor, who seemed somewhat distracted, like his body was here in the
moment, yet his mind had wandered elsewhere and was presently distracted with
other matters. “Tell me about what troubles you, girl, and I’ll see what I can
do.” He settled down in his own seat, which looked equally as soft as her own,
and took a pen and paper from the stack beside.
She kept her eyes on the
dust as it danced about, explaining the troubles with her father. She needn’t
go into much detail of his life, as most people already knew what he was
infamous for. She did, however, have to explain in full detail what had
happened to him after he had been sealed away in the sphere. As her mind
recounted events, she looked about the room.
The desk in the corner of
the room was piled high with papers for marking, and books filled with scrawl.
Pens and nibs and jars of ink splattered the stained wood in places with black
and blue splotches. Behind that desk was a bookshelf, without an inch of
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