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The thought does not occur to her until Lord Morpheus returns with news of the ruby’s destruction. Returns and begins rebuilding anew. And when the dust has settled, both literal and metaphorical, the thought occurs to her. She had thought it previously, several times during Lord Morpheus’ absence, and most keenly in the later years, when the library was long gone, and the date of a long standing appointment grew closer, then passed, then receded into history. And so straightening her jacket she ventured into the shelves to retrieve Hob Gadling’s book.
There were few creatures beyond the Dreaming who would have been aware of Morpheus’ absence. Fewer still who Lucienne could – or would want to – speak to. There had only been one she had wished she could warn. And yet she had hoped against hope, with each passing year, that Hob Gadling would never know of her lord’s absence. That his imprisonment would not exceed, nor even approach, one hundred years. Certainly not long enough to alarm the immortal. But Time and Destiny, it seemed, had other plans. Other paths. And long after the words and pages had disappeared from her own journal, her own library, her life’s work reduced to dust and rubble and imperfect ungraspable memory, she once or twice spared a thought for the man who would not know what had happened. Could not hope to know. While she had not known Morpheus’ fate, she had known, with absolute certainty, that he had not fled. Had not abandoned the Dreaming. Hob Gadling would have no such assurance. And Lucienne had mourned the possibility that yet another thing would fall to dust while Morpheus remained absent.
Lucienne finds the book easily, and slips the well worn tome from the shelf. Flipping it open to the most recent years, she finds the section that denotes a written journal, and is greeted by a familiar code. One of Hob Gadling’s own devising. There is likely no other soul who can read it, for Lord Morpheus himself had all but vowed to never read Hob Gadling’s book excepting extreme circumstances, of which there had yet been none. And so, she is sure, she is the only one, and it is a comforting sight to see. And as she reads, silent and swift, it becomes more comforting still. Comforting as she reads of Hob Gadling’s resolution to stay in London, to wait for his nameless friend, despite so many obstacles in the way. Despite being “stood up”, despite the White Horse being sold, despite – she flips back several centuries, tallies up the numbers – ending up waiting for thirty-three years, when previously forty years had been his doom. He had apparently been prepared to wait another lifetime, regardless of the danger that would place him in. And she is immensely heartened to see the extent of his loyalty to her lord.
I don’t know what’s happened, reads one coded entry, I keep trying to imagine more possibilities. It could be anything. I don’t even know who he is, not really. So it really could be anything. Could be something completely beyond my puny human imagination. But then I think about – what is it? Murphy’s Law? No I think it’s the other one. Bugger. Like Sherlock Holmes said about deduction – Occam’s razor! I keep thinking about Occam’s fucking razor, and the simplest explanation and… I don’t know. I feel like there’s two of those. And I don’t like either of them. And they also just… don’t feel right. If he had really just left, stormed off into the cosmos forever – I mean, there’s a lot I don’t know about him, but I reckon the proud bastard would make sure I knew.
Lucienne stifles a laugh at that and hides a fond smile against the back of her hand.
Another entry, not far beyond the previous, but written in a less steady hand, with several words wonkily misspelt and scribbled out:
What if he’s gone gone? Can’t say it. Can’t even righ write it. Won’t. But what if. What if he’s gone and we had that row and it was all my fault and then something happened and I’m just some bloke he met once a century even if he had someone to tell why would he tell them about me. So something could have happened and maybe no one knows or maybe other people know but no one knows about me so I’ll never know. What if I never know. What if I wait another hundred years and
There’s a gap in the writing. It takes up again on the following line, mid way through, even wonkier than the last.
Can’t think about it.
Pub’s alright. Just got to think about that. Keep the pub doing alright. Make sure this one’s here in 100 years. Be a right wanker if I lost 2 pubs in 100 years.
Hope he’s alright. Wherever he is. Even if he’s still mad at me. Don’t care. Just hope the bastard’s alright.
Then, another line down, half heartedly scribbled through with one looping meandering line:
I miss him.
Lucienne shields the words with her hand on the page, as if giving them privacy, as she casts her eyes up, blinking back half formed tears. Perhaps, now that the Dreaming’s power had returned, she might, without causing interruption, task Matthew with the brief mission of ferrying her gratitude to Hob Gadling. Though Morpheus would surely disapprove of what he would consider meddling, nigh underhanded, behaviour. She would simply have to time it right. Which would give her time enough to compose exactly the right words for her sentiment. In a familiar code, of course.