Chapter 12: Dreamwalking and Midnight Stories
Kairo had a complicated and confusing relationship with sleep. It often gave him nightmares, forcing his mind into thick states of stress, but he also almost always felt tired. Every day, he felt himself falling deeper and deeper into sleep, as if it had the power to drag his mind down, its claws deep within him, with his own, small body having trouble waking up. Through both a blessing and a curse, the nightmares always seemed to wake him up, no matter how deep the sleep. That was the case now; Kairo was once again trapped in the dream world . . . . This night would not give him nightmares this time instead. . . .
Kairo was dreaming, or maybe he was just somewhere sideways to dreaming. He couldn't quite tell. It was like stepping into a pair of shoes that almost fit but a little
too big in the toes, but comfortable enough in a way that made him want to keep walking or maybe that too was due to the dream. . . .But it helped that, for starters, he wasn't a baby in this dream. He was older, a few years maybe, or a decade. He didn't look at his hands or check his reflection; he just knew it in that deep, certain way dreams give you. And his thoughts, oh thank whatever power ran the dreamworld for that . .
his thoughts were clear, sharp, no longer caught under the heavy fog of infancy. He could talk, too, but only to himself, more because no one was around to speak to. He found out that He liked the sound of his own voice, the way it echoed inside his head and through the dream space, like it was glad to be let out.
The world around him was the Cranston Estates, or at least how he imagined them: hedges pruned into fantastical beasts and characters, driveways looping like question marks, and houses that seemed to have been built by architects who'd spent too long reading fairy tales. He'd only ever seen them from the inside, most of the time through his nursery windows; he often watched the other mansions with a kind of quiet longing. Now he was out, sure, in a very strange way but still out, walking the streets under a sky that glowed with dream-logic moonlight, a soft, silver-blue that made every shadow look long, weird but still very gentle and even a little warm, if shadows could do all of that, but then again, this was a dream, so thinking about it wouldn't help him in the least . . .
He passed the first house and felt it before he saw it
a chill that wrapped around his ankles, somehow, like the memory of winter mornings before the radiator kicked in. The house itself glittered under a crust of frost, icicles hanging from every awning, the lawn dusted with coins instead of snow. He heard laughter, high and delighted, and the unmistakable sound of something sliding
penguins,
dozens of them, zipping across the marble floors as if they owned the place. Somewhere inside, two young voices
maybe a year or two older than him, full of mischief
shouted over each other, arguing whether gold coins or cold fish made better prizes. He didn't know their names, not really, but the word "Cobblepot" drifted through his mind like the snowflakes in the air near the house, and he moved on before the cold stuck to his bones.
Further on, the dream shifted, as dreams do. The next mansion crouched low to the ground, all rough stone and twists of iron, more cave than house. The darkness around it was soft, not scary, but thick
like the air inside a blanket fort. He heard a new voice, quiet and uncertain, layered with a strange kind of static that made his ears tickle. It sounded like a girl about his age, maybe a little older, and her words tumbled over each other, too many thoughts packed into a space too small. He felt her before he really heard her— and he heard her alot, her voice bouncing off everything . . . and he thought she might be
someone who didn't just listen, but heard everything, from the sounds of wings in the attic to the slow, steady drip of water far below, even if she didn't want to. He thought, "Langstrom," and the name fit around her like a strange, and tight new layer skin. He kept walking, the cave's gentle gloom giving way to starlight.
Time got slippery. He walked, or maybe he floated, past houses that seemed to breathe out their dreams and nightmares like steam from a kettle. Some smelled of cinnamon, others of ozone, and every now and then he'd get a whiff of something sharp
danger, or maybe just adventure waiting its turn, it was hard to tell.
Eventually, he felt himself being tugged toward a house that seemed to hum with energy. The inside glowed with the kind of light you only get when someone is doing things they're not supposed to do with clocks and calendars. Kairo felt a strange draw, an itch in his bones that spoke of paradoxes and promises, ones that could belong to him and him alone if he wanted. Drifting closer to the house, he could feel a few people inside, but it was one of the men inside who drew his attention more than the others.
He didn't know the man inside, not really, but he knew the name that flowed into his mind, the name: Rip Hunter.
Time traveler.
Watcher.
Someone who understood the rules well enough to break them and still get home for supper.
But before he could get any closer, the dream frayed around the edges. Everything grew warm, and then too warm, and then
just as he reached out a hand to knock on the front door
he woke up.
He was back in his crib, soaked through with sweat, the world suddenly too real and too heavy again. His body felt sticky, his hair plastered to his forehead, and every inch of him was uncomfortable. That's when he felt gentle hands
cool, sure, and familiar
lifting him from the sheets.
Anika was there, eyes bright and patient, her braid swinging over one shoulder as she wiped his brow with a soft cloth. "Hey, little man," she whispered, her voice soft but awake, like she'd been waiting for him to call. "Another Rough night, huh? You're burning up again, but don't worry, I've got you."
She didn't flinch at the mess, just went about the business of cleaning him up with a practiced ease, humming a quiet tune under her breath. Kairo watched her work, studying the way her hands moved, the quick flick of her wrist as she changed his shirt, the way she made a game of it, tickling his toes to get him to giggle even while he was grumpy.
When he was clean, she settled him back against her shoulder, rocking gently in the moonlight. "Still wide awake, are you?" she murmured. "Well, if you're not going back down easy, I suppose we'll have to try the old-fashioned way." She scanned the little bookshelf by his crib, fingers dancing over the spines, before pulling a book with a battered dark blue cover and silver clock hands embossed on the front.
"Ah, here we go, 'Tick-Tock and the Timekeeper's Cat,'" Anika announced, settling into the chair by the window with Kairo cradled in her lap. "One of my favorites when I was little. Let's see if it still does the trick."
She opened the book, her voice slipping into the gentle, theatrical cadence of a practiced storyteller.
"Once upon a time, in a town where every clock ticked a little differently, there lived a boy named Arun and his cat, Whiskers. Arun loved to listen to the clocks, loving how different types, ticked and tocked, cuckoos, grandfathers, even the little pocket watches that hid in old men's vests. But sometimes, Arun wished he could stop the clocks, just for a moment, to finish a game or hold onto a good dream a little longer.
One night, the Timekeeper
a wise old woman with wild, messy hair that sparkled like starlight
came to Arun in a dream. 'Time is tricky,' she said, 'but it listens if you ask politely.' She handed Arun a golden key and told him, 'If you ever feel lost, or if the world moves too fast, just wind this key and listen closely.'
Arun tried it the next day. When he turned the key, the world slowed
rain hung in the air, birds perched mid-flight, and even Whiskers yawned in slow motion. It was wonderful for a while, but soon Arun realized that stopping time also meant missing out on new stories, new jokes, and new friends.
So Arun learned to use the key only when he truly needed it
when he wanted to help a friend, or save a memory, or find his way home in a storm without getting to wet. And he always thanked time for starting up again, because every tick and tock was a chance for something new."
Anika turned the page, showing Kairo the illustrations
bright, whirling clocks, a cat with a crooked grin, a little boy with a golden key hanging from his neck.
She finished the story with a soft smile. "And so, Arun learned that you can't hold onto every moment, but you can make each one count. And sometimes, the best magic of all is letting time do what it does best—move forward."
By the time she closed the book, Kairo was already drifting, eyelids heavy, the ache in his head fading into the gentle rhythm of Anika's voice and the steady beat of her heart. She tucked him back into bed, smoothing his hair and whispering, "Goodnight, little timekeeper. Sweet dreams."
And as Kairo slipped back into sleep, the world felt a little less strange and a little more safe, the shape of his dreams softened by the steady hands that held him, and the quiet promise that no matter how wild the night, there would always be someone to bring him home to morning. But as for the young lady . . . Anika closed the nursery door behind her with the care of someone who had done this a thousand times and still treated every sleeping child like they might shatter their sleep and wake if the latch clicked too loudly. For a second she just stood there in the hallway, hand still on the knob, listening.
Inside, Kairo had settled again. No fussing. No strange little sounds.
And very thankfully, No sudden hush in the air that made the skin on her arms prickle. Just a baby breathing in the dark, finally at peace after another rough patch of the night.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"Good," she whispered to no one.
The hallway was dim, lit only by the soft wall lamps Dr. Wakati preferred after midnight, the kind that gave the mansion an almost dreamlike glow, if you ignored the sounds of the mansion's many machines. Still, Everything looked gentler under that sort of light. The polished floors reflected a low gold. The few old paintings watched quietly from their frames. Even the draft that always seemed to live in this wing of the house had gone lazy and warm.
Anika turned, ready to make her way back downstairs, maybe grab tea if her mother hadn't gone to bed yet, maybe if she was lucky tonight, even sit in the kitchen for ten minutes and let her brain cool down before the next thing happened, because with Kairo, there was always a next thing, even if it looked innocent at first.
She made it three steps before nearly jumping out of her skin.
Someone was standing just outside the circle of hallway light.
Anika's shoulders jerked, and the sharp little noise that left her mouth was not especially dignified.
The girl in the shadows immediately raised both hands.
"Sorry," she said quickly, voice low but bright in a way that made it clear she meant it. "Sorry. That was creepy, wasn't it? I know that was creepy. I wasn't trying to be creepy. I was just… standing here. Which sounds worse now that I've said it out loud."
Anika blinked once, twice, her heart still banging hard enough to shake her body. Then the stranger stepped a little more fully into the light.
She was young. Younger than Anika and younger than she had expected the new arrival to be. Fifteen, maybe. Red hair, slightly mussed like she'd been running her hands through it or had lost a fight with sleep, most likely both. She was in pajamas, actual pajamas, not some fancy silk set either, just soft, practical things with a cardigan thrown over the top like she'd decided halfway through that wandering around a strange mansion at night ought to involve at least one layer of dignity. She had a quick face, bright eyes, and the look of someone who noticed ten things at once, eyes that told Anika that she was worried about something and couldn't for the life of her, stop thinking about it.
Anika put a hand over her chest.
"Good lord," she muttered. "You nearly killed me."
The girl winced.
"Yeah, that's fair. I'm sorry. Again. Hello, by the way. I'm Beryl."
Anika stared at her for another second, then let out a breath and shook her head.
". . Anika . . .You're the new girl."
Beryl gave a little half-bow, one hand to her chest like she'd just been introduced at court.
"Very possibly. Depends how one defines new, I suppose."
Anika narrowed her eyes, though there was no real edge to it.
"You British?"
"Dangerously so."
That got a laugh out of her despite herself.
"Well," Anika said, folding her arms, "are you the new hire here to help take care of that little tyrant?"
Beryl's face lit up.
"Oh, so he is a tyrant. Good. I was worried I'd be the only one calling him that."
Anika barked out a real laugh this time, the kind she had to cover with her hand because there was, technically, a sleeping baby ten feet away behind the door.
"Yes," she said, lowering her voice. "He's adorable, and I love him very much, and he is absolutely a tiny tyrant."
Beryl leaned a little closer, intrigued in the immediate, shameless way of someone who loved stories and had just stumbled onto a promising one.
"That's honestly excellent news. Babies should have a bit of dictatorship in them. It keeps them ambitious."
Anika looked her over more carefully now. There was energy rolling off this girl in waves. Not the irritating kind, not yet anyway, but the sort that could sometimes fill up hallways before a mass of people did. Her posture was casual, but not careless. And even in pajamas, she held herself like someone used to moving quickly when she had to.
"You're really young," Anika said before she could stop herself.
Beryl gave her a look, using all her inner willpower not to roll her eyes in front of someone she wanted to make a good impression on. "That's what everyone keeps saying."
"I mean it as an observation, not an insult."
"I'm taking it as both, but, I'll have you know, I'm being very gracious."
Anika smiled despite herself. This one was quick. Quick and funny and not at all what she'd pictured when Dr. Wakati said he was interviewing another candidate.
Then again, neither had Madame Xanadu.
Actually, come to think of it, today had gotten weird enough hours ago that perhaps this was simply the new standard.
"So what are you doing out here?" Anika asked. "Couldn't sleep?"
Beryl made a face.
"Bit hard to settle after everything. New house, weird day, magic train, very elegant demon staff, probable life change, all that. Also your mansion has the kind of nighttime atmosphere that makes a person feel like they should either whisper when speaking or start solving a murder."
Anika laughed again.
"That's fair."
Beryl glanced toward the nursery door, and her voice softened a little, curiosity slipping into it.
"Was he all right?"
The question was simple, but Anika noticed the way Beryl asked it, doing her best not to be nosy or theatrical, just careful.
"He had another rough wake-up," Anika said. "Bad dream, I think. He gets them sometimes. . . . but a lot more regularly. . . Wakes up hot, upset, like he's been fighting with the universe in his sleep."
Beryl nodded slowly, like she was filing the wording away for later.
"That sounds… about right, from what I've heard so far."
Anika studied her again.
"What exactly have you heard so far?"
Beryl's mouth twitched.
"Enough to know this isn't an ordinary childcare job."
"No," Anika said dryly. "You're catching on fast."
They stood there for a moment in the quiet, the sort of quiet two strangers can share when both of them are trying to decide whether the other belongs in the same strange little corner of the world.
Then Beryl glanced at the door and asked, a little more tentatively than before, "What's he like?"
The question landed on Anika more softly than she expected.
What was Kairo like?
A dozen answers came to mind all at once.
Sweet. Funny. Clever in ways he shouldn't be. Too quiet sometimes. Too aware. Fussy with some people, calm with others. Quick to pout. Quick to cling. Heavy with sleep lately, like something inside him was growing faster than the rest of him could keep up with. Anika shrugged.
"Honestly?" she said after a second. "He's lovely. Strange, but lovely. Smart in a way that doesn't always feel baby-shaped. He watches everything. You can feel him thinking, even when he's just sitting there chewing on a blanket. He laughs with his whole face, though, when he's in the mood. And when he decides he likes you, it's… sweet. Dangerous, too. Because then you'd do anything for him."
Beryl's expression softened at that.
Anika noticed.
Ah, So that was the sort of person she was.
"Would you like to see him?" Anika asked.
Beryl blinked, clearly tempted.
Her eyes flicked to the nursery door, then back to Anika.
For a moment Anika was sure she'd say yes.
Instead Beryl shook her head.
"I think," she said quietly, "I'd rather meet him properly in the morning. Seems rude to introduce myself while he's half asleep and sweaty and probably plotting against the laws of man and time."
That made Anika smile.
"That's probably wise."
Beryl nodded, looking weirdly relieved with her own decision.
"I'd rather let him have one more peaceful night, if he's getting one."
Anika liked that answer more than she expected to.
"Well," she said, "good night, then."
"Good night," Beryl replied, then added with a crooked smile, "and sorry again for lurking like some kind of pajama ghost."
Anika snorted.
"If you do it again, at least politely cough first."
"Noted."
With that, they parted ways, Anika heading down the stairs and Beryl back through the long, softly lit hall toward the guest room she'd been given.
The mansion felt different now than it had when she first arrived. Earlier it had seemed grand, odd, and a little too quiet in the way wealthy houses often did. Now it felt layered. Alive in places people probably didn't notice if they were born into it. Full of old routines, old grief, careful love, hidden panic, and the low hum of something none of the walls had been built to contain.
Beryl let herself into her room and shut the door behind her.
For a moment she just stood there, looking around.
It was far nicer than any room she'd ever had to herself for this long. Large bed. Writing desk. Fireplace. Thick curtains. A wardrobe bigger than the one her mother still insisted was "perfectly serviceable." Someone had even left a little tray of tea things and biscuits near the window, which felt either very thoughtful or deeply strategic.
"Dangerous," she murmured, eyeing the biscuits. "This is how they get you loyal."
She dropped onto the chair at the desk, reached into her bag, and pulled out her phone.
The first report.
She stared at the blank message field for a while.
There was, objectively, far too much to say.
There was also far too much she wasn't going to say.
After a moment she began typing.
Arrived safely. Estate secure. Dr. Wakati appears exactly as advertised: brilliant, private, courteous, slightly haunted, probably hasn't slept properly in years. Staff seem loyal and competent. House atmosphere odd but stable. Child not yet properly met. Heard signs that the job may be more complicated than standard care work. Will observe further before drawing conclusions. No immediate threat detected. More tomorrow.
She stopped there.
Deleted house atmosphere odd but stable, replaced it with environment difficult to read, then changed it back.
Deleted slightly haunted and changed it to fatigued, then stared at that and changed it back to fatigued and distracted.
She did not mention Madame Xanadu's train.
She did not mention demons.
She did not mention Madame Xanadu.
She absolutely did not mention the brief conversation in the interview room that had more or less confirmed the baby upstairs had powers that could make half the known world nervous.
Instead she added:
Initial impression: this may be less about watching a scientist and more about protecting a family.
Beryl read the whole thing through once, lips pursed.
"Vague," she said aloud. "Helpful, but vague. Good. That's probably the sweet spot."
Then, because honesty was a disease with her and she knew it, she added one last line.
The baby has already inspired the phrase "little tyrant" from household staff, which I consider promising.
She hit send before she could think better of it.
For a second she sat there listening to the faint sounds of the mansion settling around her. Pipes. Floorboards. A distant door closing somewhere below. The sort of noises old houses made when they were lived in, nothing too strange. .
Then she got up, changed (removed cardigan), and climbed into bed, though sleep took its time coming.
Elsewhere in the mansion, another woman was still awake.
Madame Xanadu sat at a small table in her room with four cards laid out before her.
The candlelight was low, warm, and steady. It made the edges of the cards glow as if they had heat in them.
One card for herself.
One for Dr. Wakati.
One for Beryl.
One for Kairo.
Her gaze moved over them slowly, taking in the images and all their layered meanings. None were simple. None were comforting. All were true in the irritating, sideways way cards liked to be when they believed themselves clever.
"Interesting," she murmured.
That was both the problem and the answer.
Interesting was not always useful.
Not for tonight, anyway.
She gathered the cards together, held them over the candle flame, and let fire take them. The edges blackened first, then curled inward, symbols and faces disappearing into heat and ash. She watched until the last ember died, then brushed the remains into a small dish.
"No help at all," she told the darkened room, though that wasn't entirely fair.
The cards had helped.
Just not in the way she wanted.
Madame Xanadu rose, put out the candle, and made her way to bed with the unhurried grace of someone who had lived long enough to know that sleep, like prophecy, came easier when not chased too hard.
And above them all, in the nursery wrapped in familiar shadows and the soft wrap of his blankets, Kairo slept on, the night holding him gently while the house, full of new allies and old secrets, kept watch.