Chapter Five

 

 

Manhattan, New York, 2026

 

The paper crinkled in my hand from the force of the wind and my grip. My eyes couldn't leave the one word I refused to believe: lawsuit.

Instead of telling the mayor the truth, Lana let him believe my machine had caused her mental breakdown. She never mentioned Danny Jacobs to him, and I believed it was because she was angry with me for refusing her the journey into the story again.

I crumpled up the paper, tossed it into the garbage pail, and stormed into the shop. The phone rang, lighting up on the wall, revealing the face of the doctor ordered to test the machine for me. They had been calling for days.

I contemplated not answering again, but I knew they wouldn't stop until they were able to test it. Pressing the button, I sighed. “Hello.”

“Hello, Dr. Hartley. We’re hoping this afternoon works for the assessment of the Lucid Fantasies machine.”

“Fine.” I nodded at the man with the beard. “It does. I have cleared my appointments for the month to go through the system anyway.”

He smiled like we might be friends or colleagues. “Excellent. I will see you in a few hours.”

I pushed the “end call” button and slumped onto my desk, staring at my picture of Lola. As I was already in my late thirties, I had to assume my dog would be the last love I ever had and, unfortunately, she was in her last decade of life.

I pressed the screen on the desk, bringing up the live feed of her at doggy daycare. She was wrestling and growling at another toy dog. She was such a savage. She was my savage though, so she was cute and fuzzy while being hateful.

Jonathan had hated her more than anything. She was a diva, and he had always envisioned himself with a large dog. I spun the ring on my finger, remembering the last time we argued over the dog before finally getting her. I’d told him we might not be compatible, like a fool, because we were never going to want the same things. It made me smile now. We were so opposite, we had gone full circle and ended up matching anyway.

He was my rope dropper, a trait I always thought I hated.

At any point in our relationship if I tried to have an argument or a tug of war for power, he refused to engage. He would drop the metaphorical rope and walk away. I tried so hard to fight with him, but he never participated. He laughed at me or just tolerated whatever rant was going on. He was calm and cool and loaded to the hilt with common sense. And somehow, through it all, he loved me. Me, being spicy and passionate and moderately insane like all scientists. In the end, by some small miracle, he let me win the argument over the dog.

I closed my eyes and let the story of us cloud my head.

When I woke, surprised I had slept, the door buzzer was screaming. Stretching and yawning, I sauntered to the front door to find three doctors: a woman and two men.

“Dr. Hartley, I am Dr. Williams. This is Dr. Brielle and Dr. Dalton.”

“Hello.” I opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”

“We are extremely interested in the machine. We of course know of your work with brain injuries and physically disabled patients to create lucid daydreams, generating lives where they feel fulfilled and not stuck in their broken bodies. We have obviously followed that from its origins. But this—this is something far more interesting. Taking books or movies people love, works of art even, and transplanting sleeping people into them. It’s fascinating,” Dr. Williams gushed. “The last few years have been very exciting for you. And all of us in neuroengineering.”

The woman, Dr. Brielle, gave me an equally intrigued smile. “We have been petitioning to be the people who would test the machine with you since it came under fire. When the mayor started his claims against your work last year, was coincidentally the same time his wife became a frequent client of yours. We knew he would start a witch hunt against this.”

Her words made me feel a touch better. Despite the fact they couldn't fix the guilt I had over not knowing the mayor’s wife was in love with a ghost.

“Don't get us wrong though, we have to be unbiased, as hard as that will be,” the quiet man, Dr. Dalton, added with a less than pleasant demeanor.

“Of course.” I tried to be polite. I didn't want them to hate me and punish my machine for it. “What exactly would you like to see with the machine?” I hoped they would ask to enter a book so they could experience the full genius of it.

“We will of course be testing the machine to the fullest.” Dr. Brielle’s eyes widened. She looked like a kid in a candy shop. Maybe she was a true book lover. “I’d love to go first, and the book I would just about die to experience is Loving by Henry Green.” She almost sounded giddy, maybe a hair shy of it.

“I need to ask each of you the necessary questions first.” All three faces appeared confused which made me smile. “I check to ensure people trying out the machine are fit to use it.”

“Are there any dangers?” Dr. Dalton narrowed his gaze.

“No. It’s like any fun ride at a park. If you have a bad heart or a personality disorder or a drug addiction, lucid dreaming in a forced environment might not be the healthiest decision for you. Paranoia, hallucination, and even nightmares could result from any of those preexisting factors in combination with the machine.”

They all nodded, Dr. Dalton clearly less convinced than the other two doctors.

After we finished their surveys, I winced and gave Dr. Williams a look. “I’m sorry, but with your meds and prior alcohol addiction, you aren’t a prime candidate.”

He smiled softly. “Have you done tests on subjects who have addiction in their past?”

“Yes. We did a year of test studies, working with a broad spectrum of patients. We found anyone with addictions took each ride as an escape from reality but their addiction, being part of who they are, reared its ugly head in the dreamworld. Smokers crave a cigarette and don't find the sensation of smoking in the dreamworld as real. Their bodies actually enter withdrawal, the same as alcoholics and drug addicts. And past addicts come out of the machine wanting whatever it is they are addicted to. It is very much a unique experience to each individual person. We also found that people who don't like books didn't enjoy the experience. They didn't find the connection to the characters, nor pleasure in being transported into a new world or time or anything. They were bored in fact.” It was the same speech I’d given many prospective clients.

“That impresses me. I like that you’ve done the research and have done your due diligence. You didn't rush this, as you could have, and you’ve maintained a strict code of ethics as far as the machine is concerned.”

“Except with Mrs. Delacroix of course,” Dr. Dalton added.

“I never knew of a reason to refuse her. She passed all my tests, paid, liked the service, and she was an all-round pleasure to work with.” I didn’t add that she had also lied about one small detail. I didn’t want them to know I suspected tragic loss may cause an unnatural dependency.

“She came every day some weeks. You never saw this as excessive?”

“Some people have a glass of wine every day. We don't call them alcoholics. She was truly enjoying the ride. I believed she just wanted to be inside the book. The colors and the dancing and the dresses were real for her. And the book is lengthy; she would need time to get through it.” And she was meeting her dead lover so that was clearly a draw.

They all nodded and waited for me to continue.

“This way to the machine.” I stood and held out a hand for Dr. Brielle. She would go first.

Many hours later, I unhooked Dr. Dalton and expected him to smile but he scowled. “As I am not a fan of fiction, I can confirm your findings in the other nonreaders. That was boring to say the least.”

I laughed, unable to stop myself. His inability to filter himself was endearing in some strange way.

“Oh, it’s too bad you can’t go, Henry. You would love it.” Dr. Brielle turned to Dr. Williams.

“I’m sure I would. I do tend to love the odd escape from reality.” He winked at me and then gave Dr. Dalton a disapproving headshake. “You are a disappointment. How can you not enjoy fiction?”

Dr. Dalton shrugged it off. “I have never enjoyed the imagination. I believe in science and tangible proof. I despise when I read a novel and the science is so far-fetched there’s no way it could conceivably happen, and I am meant to dumb myself down and suspend my intelligence for the hours I suffer through the lies within. No. I can’t be bothered. But I see how someone with no knowledge of how the world works could enjoy this contraption.” He let his real feelings be known then. I’d suspected he was on the mayor’s side when he arrived, but this assured me there would be no kind words for me in his review. “Now we need to observe you in the machine and we will be on our way.”

“Oh, we’ve done four hours already. Surely you don't want to sit through another two hours of my being hooked up to it.” I started to sweat.

“We need to observe as a group to ensure there is no bias in any of the opinions; all three of us must observe one patient together. We believe the maker of the machine should have the expertise to give us the needed evidence to prove the machine is sound.” Dr. Williams smiled wide.

My heart raced. My mouth dried of all saliva. My stomach cramped. But I pushed on. I forced a smile across my lips as plans formulated in my mind. In a flash, I bounced ten ideas to avoid this, from sabotaging my machine to faking an epileptic seizure, but nothing would work. There was no room or time to do anything but hook myself in.

“You did say the machine essentially runs itself. It is a simple program and does everything needed with little effort from you. If we detect problems, we’ll run the siren program from the tablet.” Dr. Dalton grew smug. “Simple.”

“Very.” I got into the chair, forcing my legs onto the rests. Every second seemed like it stretched across time.

“Are you all right?” Dr. Brielle gave me a concerned look.

“I am. I just never go into the machine. I’m always doing it for everyone else.” It was the best I could come up with as my heart was in my throat and my stomach convulsed. “I don't have anyone who can run it for me.” I nearly wiped the sweat from my brow but didn't want to be obvious.

“Of course, that makes sense. No one to monitor you and your vitals whilst you’re in.”

“No. And after spending hours taking people through it, I sort of just want to go home at the end of the day.” I wanted to go home right then and there.

But I didn't.

I lay back, pretending to be relaxed, and watched as Dr. Brielle hooked me up, copying everything I had done to her. She did everything precisely and at the end checked it over twice. “I think you’re ready. What book?” She grinned excitedly for me. Of course she couldn't know how the journey would be for me. And I couldn’t let on that it would be the best and worst day of my life. Reliving the heartache was going to be brutal, but I would get through this. I would!

“Persuasion, please. By Jane Austen.”

“Of course. Captain Wentworth.” She bit her lip, lost in the thought of him for a moment before tapping her way through the system to pick the novel.

“He’s my favorite,” I added, not sure why I was divulging that. I hoped he was enough of a distraction that Jonathon might not be one.

“Oh, mine too. The dedication and devotion he had to Anne, even after all that time—it was so romantic. A true mark of a gentleman.”

A silly smile, regardless of the fear I was nearly crippled by, smattered across my face. There was no fighting it. I loved that she sounded different, having spent two hours in a novel. She was excited for me the way I always was for everyone else. “Exactly.” I nodded and closed my eyes, ready for the light-deprivation mask.

I took a deep breath and waited for it all to hit.

I had been in the machine in its early stages, back when the science was for ALS, MS, and Parkinson’s victims. I knew the sensation of falling that occurred moments after it was initiated. I was prepared for the way the breath pushed from you in a forced exhale when you landed.

Everything was still dark.

The world wasn't done loading.

It was unsettling to be there, in the waiting room before the show. I should have created something a bit more pleasant than complete darkness. I felt as though I’d been swallowed up by the nothing.

It only lasted a moment and then a light hit so bright it blinded me.

I winced, covering my face, shielding myself from the intensity of it, but it didn't help. The light was so powerful it flashed through my eyelids.

Blinking, struggling to see, I wondered how no one had given me feedback on this. How had they forgotten to tell me about the terrible first two minutes of the ride?

But when the light faded and the world took form, I forgot what I had been thinking about.

I forgot my name.

All I knew was the house—no, estate—in front of me was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. It was out of a movie.

Standing in the terraced garden, I was stunned by the cobbled walks and layered fountains. The spray made the whole lush garden sparkle like diamonds floated in the misty air.

The house, a handsome estate based on Haddon Hall in Derbyshire, was stone and brick with old Tudor windows that gave the impression one was barred into the home.

The arched doors were solid, made of heavy lumber with sturdy and weathered handles.

Brightly colored vines grew up the sides of the great building, smattering pink blooms to complement the green and gray stone.

Mossy gardens with perfectly shaped bushes lined the pathways. One went to the house and another led farther into the garden, giving me the impression there was a maze made of hedges.

The sky was blue and white and the wind was warm as it brushed against me, carrying with it the scent of the garden and fields.

On the other side of the sculpted hedges, opposite the house and maze, I could see clear across the rolling hills dotted with perfect little outcrops of trees or bushes. Everything appeared as a painting, which it was. Digitally painted to appear this way.

My mind brought the painting to life.

Taking a step, I winced at the feel of my shoe pinching my toes. When I glanced down at my foot, I paused for half a second, unsure of the dress. It was a pale green Regency day dress with a straight skirt, simple hem, and gathered bodice to create a slightly ampler chest. It was exactly the sort of thing a lady would wear midday.

Even my brain was different, allowing for English vernacular to become part of my inner dialogue. We never used Austen’s language and strayed from using too heavy of a British baseline but instead tried to refine the American English so the majority of our clients weren’t left behind. A true Austen aficionado would have been a little disappointed.

I wanted to tilt my head back and let my arms float so I might let the entirety of it sink in.

I made this.

It was mine.

My creation based on the words and works of others, but still mine.

Jane Austen and I had created something magical, together. We were partners. Sort of. Jane had made up the story and I created the script, having my digital design team shape the scent of trees and flowers and the pinch of old-fashioned shoes. It made the dreamer live it all.

A tear streamed my cheek as I took another step, my plain brown shoes no longer pinching, as if my feet had become accustomed to the rigidity of them.

The soft, damp grass smelled strongly of fresh rain and I sank in when I walked.

The cobblestone pathway to the side of the house was perfect. It was aged, exactly as it would have been if this were truly an estate home built hundreds of years earlier with only minor renovations or improvements. Additions and refurnishing were much more commonplace back then.

As if on a secret or spy mission, I crept up the cobblestone and peeked in the windows. They were hazy and small with lead bars, done in the Tudor style.

The parlor was decorated in a shabby chic style.

This was where the young ladies took tea in the afternoon and did their artistries—crocheting, needlepoint, reading, or painting.

Biting my lip and feeling as if I were new to the world, a young girl again and not a woman in her late-thirties, I snuck to the door, taking the heavy cold handle firmly in my hand and turning it so I could enter silently.

Everything was right.

Every part of this world was right.

Scents of fresh-baked bread and musty furniture hit me as the indoor air made its escape, rushing past me.

Piano music softly played from somewhere in the house. Maybe one of the servants was practicing.

I knew Anne Elliot had two sisters: Mary, the complainer, and Elizabeth, the wretched snob.

Mary would be at Uppercross with her family and Elizabeth wouldn't be practicing the piano, not unless she was on show for some wealthy prospect. It could have been Anne, but she was busy no doubt, undertaking the family’s misfortune. For that was where the story started, in the midst of the Elliot financial ruin.

When I closed the door, I sighed, contented in a way I hadn’t been in years. The reason I hadn’t been peaceful didn't cross my mind.

Nothing more than exploring and seeing everyone interact crossed my mind.

“Anne!” a shrill voice shouted into the silence.

Footsteps, not thumping ones but hurried nonetheless, sounded above my head.

“Anne! Lady Russell has come!” The pitch and disrespect in the tone suggested it was Elizabeth shouting. When I left the parlor, I paused, seeing Lady Russell at the base of the stairs with a servant and an elderly woman in a fine riding dress.

Lady Russell was exactly as she should have been. In her late forties or early fifties, with perfectly coifed hair and a sharp look to her eyes. She was dressed just so and forcing a soft smile on her lips.

Elizabeth was also what I had expected to find. She had a pretty face but a disdainful smirk on her lips and an apathetic temperament. As if nothing pleased her. Her hair was styled suggesting she might attend a ball later, but in truth she wouldn't be leaving the estate. Her dress was fancy for an afternoon of lying about, seemingly her attire did the boasting of their fortune for her.

Her eyes drew to mine, narrowing as she forced something of a pleasant smile to her lips. “Cousin Jane, did your turn about the garden serve its purpose? Are you much refreshed?”

“I am,” I answered quickly. Of course. When we’d loaded the book, we added Jane, the cousin. In every book, the person enjoying the story from my machine was named after the author. In this case, obviously, I was Cousin Jane. If this were The Shining my name would’ve been Stephen or Stephanie. If I were a boy in this story, my name would’ve been John. The side character always ended up becoming the important person in the tale, taking over for the actual main character. In this version of Persuasion, I was Lady Dalrymple’s daughter, which meant Elizabeth and Sir Walter Elliot would both vie for my approval and time.

But I could choose how I acted.

So instead of tolerating any more of Elizabeth or Lady Russell, I turned and gazed up the stairs for Anne. I suspected us to be fast friends. She was a girl of common sense and a kind heart.

When she got to the landing she smiled politely at us all, curtseying. “Lady Russell, Cousin Jane. How are you both?”

“I am well,” Lady Russell spoke quickly, taking the space in which I was meant to reply, and then attempted to offer me a kind expression but failed. The hawk eyes ruined her smile. They were sharp and knowing. Judgmental, as they should have been.

“Oh, I’m well as well.” The sentence sounded stupid. Though not very good at it, I was improving on my accent with every word, thought or spoken.

“Shall we all take a turn about the garden before tea? The sun is warm today.” Anne wasn't pretty. She was all-right looking, if I were to be completely American about her appearance. But she was so kind that her genuine smile lit up her face and improved her looks.

“I just came in, but I’d love to meet you out there.”

Elizabeth gave me a stare. “Have you come to a decision on whether you will join us in Bath?”

“As you mentioned before, Anne will be needed in Uppercross. Therefore, I will go with her. Thank you. I wish to see more of the countryside.”

Her jaw dropped in horror, but she quickly snapped it shut again. “Of course.” She turned and gave Anne a smug expression. “I did forget to pass along a message. Mary has taken ill again and requires you there. Thus, you will be going to Uppercross to remain with her until she is quite better.” She started up the stairs, pushing past Anne. “After you have bid our farewell to the tenants and secured the house, of course.”

Lady Russell’s jaw tightened, but Anne’s did not.

“I will remain and take care of that with you, Anne. And then I will go to Uppercross and care for Mary if you wish to go to Bath.” I said it because staying behind meant seeing the story unfold, and I desperately wanted to be a part of that.

“There is nothing for me in Bath. I would rather for a small house nearby. Your company shall be an added pleasure.” She smiled wider, as if that were possible.

“Excellent.” I was truly excited, despite Lady Russell trying to kill me with her death stare.