"... We are such stuff
as dreams are made on; and our little life
is rounded with a sleep."
- W. Shakespeare. The Tempest
May 2nd, 1889
My dearest A: I received your post, among other parcels, yesterday. While I write this letter, you'll be on your way to the city of lights and will only read it once you've reached D's house. I'm sorry I couldn't see you off on your journey, but unforeseen matters held me at Cambridge longer than I expected. Yet, for one last time, this old man can't avert himself from warning you the perils of your current endeavors. Alas my girl, you are a lady of age now, bright and talented and in full command of your own person. I've told D. you are one of my most talented students, if not my prize pupil.
You will soon find yourself in the company some rather unique people (or dare I say, men); but I've no doubts that you will be able to hold your own just fine. However, if you were to encounter any difficulties or dangers in this new "employment" I beseech you to listen and follow their instructions: they are masters at this strange trade. Your safety will be in their hands. Pay special haste to D's indications. That man has seen, heard and experienced enough to last for several lifetimes. I'm sure his knowledge will serve you well and will help you through this "assignment" you so willingly accepted.
Dreams, my dear A., always have their ground in reality; however, the mind tends to tenuously fade the barriers between them both. If you are to prosper in this new venture you mustn't forget this. Wishing you the best of luck and reminding you to take the utmost care.
Prof. M.
She held the paper close to her chest for a long while she pondered its meaning. Professor Mile's latest warning hadn't been as direct or definitive as the previous ones. In his letter he seemed elusive, and… cautious? She reread the missive. All initials, no name. No places named, saved a veil mention of Paris. The only place mentioned by name was Cambridge, though Miles never went or taught there. He was an Oxford man. But this was his sabbatical year, and his wife hadn't mentioned any planned travels when she went to the professor's house to say goodbye. But then again, Madeleine was the last person he would inform about his whereabouts. They hardly talked since their daughter's death. Most probably he would have retired to his cottage in Faringdon, where he liked to spend his leisure weeks and work on his projects. The last ones he showed her were the restorations of his alma mater's church, the Chist Church Cathedral. He showed her his plans and designs for salvaging the old buildings capitals, while disserting about 16th century stained glass, Gothic aesthetics and critiquing the foolish budget constraints the dean had seemed to place on the project...
She smiled fondly at the memory. This man was almost a father to her, if not a grandfather. He had been one of London's greatest architects for most of his young and mid life. As soon as he graduated from Oxford it was clear he was destined for greatness. After travelling to the East and visiting Italy for an apprenticeship with the great maestro Camillo Boito, from where he acquired and immense love for restorations and medieval art; not long after that he settled in London, where he was hired by one prestigious firm. Project after project, he proved himself a master. Soon, he attracted the attention of several powerful and rich clients. He formed his own architecture firm at barely the age of thirty, a landmark achievement for a man with no influences, relations or background, and took the conservative and bourgeois London society by storm. With his mixture of old and new, and an unabashed preference for complex and intricate, almost paradoxical architecture, his style held no paragon. In the early 1850's there was a saying that half of London's estate would be designed by Miles D. Phillips, while the other, older half, would be tore down for him and his architecture firm to rebuild. That, of course, distressed the young architect, who had married the daughter of one of the city's richest aristocrats and found himself surrounded by the two things poor and talented men coveted the most: money and an old name to back his enterprises. His firm rose quickly to fame; every building, every house, palace or park begged to bear the mark of his design. The son of a modest engineer suddenly found himself on of the most coveted and admired artists in London. By then he quickly realized that by his forties he would have amassed a considerable fortune, vast enough to guarantee the comfort of his family and descendants for at least three generations. Disillusioned with the life of grandeur and fame, the endless parties and formal dinners that came with the title of "London's greatest", he decided to retire. Abandoning the firm in the hands of his partner, and by leaving London to apply to a teaching position in Oxford he surprised everyone. Needless to say, his application was accepted at once. So, in the summer of 1860, with his reluctant wife and small daughter he left the life of marvel architect in London for the life of a quiet academic at Oxford.
It was there that he met Joseph Ledoux, a young and promising architect that would come to be his protégé and closest friend. The son of French Jewish immigrants and heir to a considerable fortune in the prolific gem trade business, Joseph had studied arts and engineering against his family's wishes. The two men, despite the age differences and opposite origins quickly formed a solid friendship. They both shared a deep interest in medieval and gothic cathedrals, the restoration of old and abandoned buildings and, to their surprise, an obsession with designing impossible structures that held place only in their minds and imaginations. Their greatest and forever un-makeable project was a sixty-story tower with stair-covered walls, columns made of endless rooms and halls that went from one staircase to another, with no apparent end or structural support. Even now, almost twenty years after those meetings, Miles still kept in his office the sketches of the "Ledoux Tower", as he affectionately named their creation.
Years later, when Ariadne asked him who had come up with that impossible creation, Miles simply smiled and said after thinking for a moment: "Well, your father mostly, my dear. He said he often dreamed of it. I think he did manage to build it, at least in his dreams."
Of all things to remember now, she found that recollection extremely curious. After all, dreams had gotten her into this whole affair to begin with.