And so the waiting game started.
It would perhaps have been better had she come here with an actual plan. As of yet, all she knew was that Dee's little brother was kept in the basement. In what condition, she didn't know.
"I'm worried about my little brother."
Hope did know she had no bloody clue what to do from here.
She also knew that Mrs Harwick made the best scones of England. Perhaps the world.
And Alex Burgess liked it when she played the violin after dinner. Then again, who didn't like her play? It was no mere hubris to say she had a rare gift; she could make grown men cry. In fact, she could have been famous had she chosen to walk that path. Instead, she'd chosen to become a live-in nurse for those who entered the final phases of their lives. She'd surrounded herself with death, in the hopes it would make it easier for her friend to come and see her.
But, Dee still only visited her that one day a year.
What else? There were guards of course… security detail, according to Paul, but Hope knew better; the basement was locked and guarded like a fortress.
"I'm worried about my little brother."
As an Endless, of course he would one day be free again. He was endless after all. Literally.
Perhaps looking at it in that way, what Hope was doing now, or trying to do, was utterly pointless.
And yet…
"I'm worried about my little brother. I'm worried what being imprisoned like this, by mortals, will do to him."
At night, when Hope was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, as she was now, it was always those words that mulled in her head.
By now she knew, or thought she knew, there were 6.539 white dots, of various shapes and sizes, littered on the ceiling that was painted in a deep indigo colour. Though she wasn't absolutely sure of that number. When she got to that surreal border of waking and sleeping, that moment right before you start to dream, that's when she lost count.
The room had been a pleasant surprise though.
Like the rest of the house, with it's many rooms and studies and… a basement, she'd expected her bedroom to be stuffy and frilly and overly decorated.
It was not.
In fact, her room had a peculiar casualty about it she quite liked. Her oak bed was comfortable. Her oak wardrobe was functional, the oak desk she never really used, and the small oak table that had a vase with fresh flowers every week was… nice.
"I'm worried about my little brother."
"I know, Dee," she whispered into the dark. "And I'm here. I just don't really know what to do next."
Knowing that Mrs Harwick made the best scones of England, or the world, was not going to help figure out a way to set a dream free. Alex Burgess' love for her music was hardly any more helpful.
At that thought she smiled a bit. She wondered if he'd ever be able to discover it, the pattern in her music. Oh, he might love music, as he claimed, but he certainly had no knowledge of it.
If he had, she wouldn't still be working here. He'd have sent her packing, or perhaps he'd have created a permanent place for her here, right next to the King of Dreams. Because, all the pieces she'd been playing for him, in one way or another, were related to death. From Metamorphosen to the finale from Symphony No. 6 by Tchaikovsky and others. Nothing too on the nose, but she suspected, or hoped at least, that an immortal entity like Dream of the Endless would be able to detect the subtle clues.
Fun as it was, trying to send the circumspect message to Dee's little brother that he'd not been forgotten, that too would not aide her in finding a way to free him.
Over and over she weighed all the options in her mind, but the solution kept eluding her. She simply couldn't figure out a way to get into the basement. Because: one, it was always locked, two, there were always guards down there, and three, they were armed and lastly, they never, ever slept on duty with the help of stimulants and copious amounts of coffee.
Ernestina (Ernie for short) MacNamara and Frederick Coulker handled the night shifts. Tommy Surly and Matt Granger usually handled the day shifts. And then there was also Jason Hillock…
That guy gave her the creeps. The way he looked at her. Whenever he was around, she could feel his gaze on her, feel how he was undressing her with his eyes and fantasising about running his grubby hands all over her. He looked at her as if he wanted nothing more than…
She bolted upright in bed and carefully analysed that stray thought.
Jason Hillock, with his tiny beady eyes, looked at her as though he wanted nothing more than to get her alone somewhere, so he could have his way with her. Somewhere they wouldn't be interrupted, couldn't be interrupted… like in the basement. That was assuming of course Hillock didn't mind an audience. Somehow she had a feeling he'd only get more of a kick out of it.
God, she had to think about this! It would mean putting herself at risk and she had no way of knowing if, once she set things in motion, the Dream Lord would be willing to help her.
If he would even be in a position to offer help.
How far was she willing to go?
Next to the careful manipulating she'd have to do, all of the mind games she'd have to play… things could go very wrong in so many ways. And, if it came down to it, was she willing to make the ultimate sacrifice? To save an immortal entity who'd lived a billion years and would probably live for a billion more? Was she really willing to risk her mortal life span for a being who basically had no end?
"I'm worried about my little brother. I'm worried what being imprisoned like this, by mortals, will do to him."
"Why?"
"Because he used to be kinder. A long, long time ago, when the universe was still young. When we were still young, and my little brother still smiled, before a mortal betrayed his trust. I'm afraid that, with this, when he gets out, there will be no more kindness left in him."
"D! You're killing me, you know that?" Hope groaned. "I really have to think about this."
Hope woke to the chorus of three or four noisy birds perched in a tree outside her window. She lifted her hair away from her face where it seemed to have adhered during the night and she groaned aloud.
The last night had been spent tossing and turning in her bed and she was still no closer to an answer. Quickly she dressed herself, followed her morning routine, did her hair up in a bun and made her way downstairs.
Sunlight came beaming in through the space between the heavy curtains and blasted into her eyes. She was tempted to flip off the sun for the affront but thought the better of it (just in case the sun too was secretly an entity with a conscious mind) and she slipped into the kitchen.
"Good morning, Glennis," Hope greeted the housekeeper who also happened to be an excellent cook. "Such a beautiful day!"
"Good morning, dear," Mrs Harwick greeted her back. "I've got a treat for you this afternoon! Fresh scones with a hint of citrus, and jam on top!"
Oh, goodie! Nothing like planning a daring rescue and possibly your own doom while enjoying the best ever fresh scones! Yum!
"That sounds amazing, Glennis!"
Mrs Harwick cleaned up the homey but luxurious kitchen counter while Hope enjoyed a bowl of cereal.
"Oh, dear, I'm afraid poor Harry just gave up the ghost!"
Hope looked to her left, through the open door where she could just catch a glimpse of one of the many hallways with wooden panelling. And the tall plant stand with the small side table next to it.
And the fish bowl on top of that. And Harry the goldfish who was belly up and no longer moving.
His buddy Larry had died a week before that.
And she remembered…
"I had to go back to that place today. A handyman somehow electrocuted himself in the study. And I saw what they did to her, to Jessamy! Did you know they murdered her, years ago? They murdered his raven! Dream of the Endless always has a raven and Jessamy was with him the longest. She was his friend! And they turned her into a bloody trophy!"
That had not been a good day. Dee was always so perky and upbeat, always so devoted to her duties, but that day, what she'd seen in that study, in this very manor, it had brought back all of Dee's indignation and fury to such an extent that all light in Hope's shitty apartment had shied away from it. It was the first and only time that Hope too had trembled with fear when confronted with the fact that Dee might be her friend, but she was also Death.
By the time the lights had flickered on again, Dee had already left.
That was last year. Such a waste of her one day a year.
Hope stared at belly-up Harry, who'd died in his little bowl all alone and she thought of the immortal entity they'd somehow managed to trap. Not only had they robbed him of his freedom, kept him imprisoned in a dankly basement for… over a century! They'd also deprived him of the comfort of knowing that, at least out there, he had a friend.
She swallowed hard.
That moment she at least made one decision.
Before she made any other kind of decision, she first wanted to know what the basement looked liked, wanted to see for herself how the King of Dreams was faring. Wanted to see the entity with her own eyes.
Which of course meant she had to start her master play, her master piece. Not unlike Richard Gere in the movie musical Chicago, in We Both Reached For the Gun.
"Mr Billy Flynn in the Press Conference Rag. Notice how his mouth never moves. Almost."
Dee had loved watching that with her. "It's a movie and a musical!" she'd exclaimed. "That's brilliant!"
But what Hope had to pull off was much, much harder. With a puppeteer show you always knew there was a puppet master pulling the strings. But, she had to play both her audience and the orchestra.
Give the right cues for the supporting instruments, while she of course, would be playing the lead on the violin, sweeping them up into the fantasy and lulling them into false safety.
All set to the tune of… of… She smiled.
The Dance Macabre.
We begin with the piece opening with a harp playing a single note, D. That note is played twelve times, to symbolize the twelve strokes of midnight. The harp is accompanied by soft chords from the string section…
To get access inside the basement, Hope would have to be invited in. With how heavily guarded the place was, it was no use to duplicate the key to the door. Apparently, whatever was at the bottom of those stairs leading to the basement, was also fortified by an electronic lock. She wasn't some whizz-kid or a hacker. Sneaking or forcing her way in was a definite no go.
An invite however, now that she could manage.
Every two weeks, right after physical therapy to prevent muscle dystrophy in his legs, Alex Burgess let Paul McGuire take him down into the basement for what she guessed was a heart to heart with a dream he kept down there. He was usually down there for about half an hour before he came back out, his face always more gaunt and haunted than when he went in.
Now, the thing with medicine is, there's always other medicine that reacts poorly to it. A sudden bout of severe nausea, our chest pains, right when he was down in that basement, that's all she needed.
She didn't want to kill him…
That wasn't true exactly. She did want him dead. Had wanted him dead when she'd checked his vitals and jotted down the results on her chart one day, in that particular study.
It had caught her eyes, from the peripheries of her gaze, and it had beckoned her.
Turn around and see me. Look at me and acknowledge the horrors that were wrested, not on just me, but on him. Look at me. Look at me, and see me!
And so she'd turned and looked, at a black and white stuffed raven on a desk. Her wings spread wide in an eternal dive for prey.
Jessamy.
It was a mockery and a final insult to a once beloved friend and confidant of one of the Endless, and she could fully understand Dee's fury that one day.
So, yes. She wanted him dead, but it would only complicate matters. Her services would no longer be needed, she'd be sent packing, and who the hell knew what that would mean for the being they kept trapped in the basement?
A medical emergency then. One that she would bring about, by adding small doses of incompatible medicine in his herbal tea. And she waited, noted the symptoms and the time he started to show them. Until one day he came back up from the basement, sweaty and pale, clutching at his chest, requesting her assistance, only ten minutes after he'd gone down there.
Hope then enters with the violin solo, playing the tritone, which was known as the 'Diabolus in musica', or Devil in the Music, during the Medieval and Baroque ages.
It was time.
As Glennis expertly chopped up carrots in the kitchen, she animatedly chatted about a niece, nephew, or distant cousin. The conversation, or rather monologue, seemed to change topics more frequently than a baby's diaper. Hope, seated at the kitchen table, had long given up trying to keep up. With a steaming cup of calming chamomile tea in hand, she watched the clock intently.
Any moment now…
And then Paul swerved into the kitchen, his entrance so sudden that he skidded to a halt just inches away, nearly crashing into her.
"There's something very wrong with Alex, I- I don't dare move him. He's in so much pain! You have to help him!" Paul practically dragged Hope from the kitchen where she was having a nice chat with Glennis. Glennis didn't say a word and immediately turned her back, to resume preparing dinner.
"Of course, Mr McGuire!" Hope said, her voice soothing as she allowed Paul to urgently guide her to the basement. "Is that not why I'm here? To help him?"
"Well, yes, but… oh, please hurry, Hope! He's down in the basement, but, Hope… you will see something down there and you must promise, promise to never speak of what you see. To anyone. Ever! Your life may very well depend on it." He spoke in a hushed voice as they descended down the stone steps, the air turning colder and colder with each step they ventured into a deep and penetrating darkness, the walls illuminated by the flickering flames of candles. Candles!
"Mr McGuire, in my function as a live-in nurse," Hope whispered, "I've seen and heard things. Some of them unspeakable." Unspeakable pain and suffering caused by different ailments and deceases, but that was not something Paul needed to know right now. "I am the soul of discretion and I will take these things to my grave."
Paul nodded in obvious relief the moment she mentioned her grave, the final resting place of all her own dark secrets, but not the non-existing ones.
They were buzzed in through a huge, black, wrought-iron gate and the first thing Hope noticed was Alex Burgess on the ground, clutching at his chest, gasping for air.
"Is he having a heart attack?" Paul asked, nervously clenching his hands.
Hope had to pretend her first concern was for Alex, so she instantly crouched down right next to him and pretended to check his vitals. She already knew what it was of course and she injected him with a beta blocker to slow down his rapidly beating heart.
"No… angina. I've noticed a decline in his health these last few weeks."
"Do I need to call an ambulance?"
And have them discover the two incompatible drugs in his system? No, thank you.
Hope shook her head. "That won't be necessary. He's already stabilizing. But, I will need to have a closer look at his diet. We can't have this happening again? Now, can we?"
Paul nodded in agreement and obvious relief. Then, and only then, Hope dared to venture a glance deeper into the basement. She kept a tight rein on herself, to prevent any emotion from bleeding into her expression, but inside she was bleating like a lamb in front of a snarling wolf.
And then she saw him and she felt like weeping and screaming in rage and cowering away, all at the same time.
They were keeping him in a glass bowl, for fuck's sake! There was very little room for him to stand or comfortably lie down. Right now he was simply sitting upright, a stillness in his body that was unnatural. He was as pale as the moon, lacking the golden kiss of the sun, rake thin, and completely, utterly naked.
Underneath the glass sphere he was trapped in, was a painted circle on the floor with ancient rules and symbols. She'd seen enough fantasy movies to know what it was. A magical binding circle.
She'd just never thought people actually used them.
Their eyes met and she noticed a feint spark of curiosity in them, in those bright pools of blue that shone and sparkled with immortality, like twin stars that had sparked before time and would continue to shine long after even time had stopped existing.
The spark then vanished and his face became a mask of cool indifference, but his eyes burned with a loathing so deep she wanted to crawl on her knees and beg for forgiveness. Now she understood what Dee had meant and Hope wondered if it wasn't too late already, because there was no kindness in those eyes and not a shred of empathy. And she knew that even if she managed to help him, there would be no gratitude. She half suspected he would find the entire notion insulting. But, perhaps, eons from now, there would come a moment he'd remember that at least one mortal had been kind, that one mortal had been willing to sacrifice everything. Perhaps then a sliver of kindness would burgeon inside of him.
And that would never happen if he would simply bide his time to free himself, waiting on the fallibility and mortality of man.
Time then to continue her play.