On the first floor of Nocturna,
Hidden behind a large painting,
Is a secret sleeping room.
A quiet place where members come
to surrender the waking world,
close their eyes,
and wander wherever dreams choose to take them.
This evening,
Alistair Fisk has gathered a small group
to discuss the great mysteries of history,
and perhaps encourage a particularly memorable night’s sleep.
Among those attending
are Nocturna’s resident armchair philosophers,
Dante Ververs
and Seamus Draker.
Neither appears especially interested
in going to sleep.
They are already deep in conversation.
Little Bella Dolce
lies curled contentedly
upon Seamus Draker’s stomach,
sleeping with the complete confidence
of someone who has attended many philosophical discussions
and survived every one of them.
The room carries the scent of lavender.
Candles burn softly.
Somewhere,
an old clock marks the passing minutes
with patient determination.
New members have joined the evening’s gathering.
Miss Marmalade Bramblewick,
wearing silver spectacles
and a moss-green velvet gown embroidered with tiny leaves,
settles carefully into one of the reclining chairs.
Chestnut curls refuse to remain pinned
and tumble loosely around her face.
Beside her sits Major Bramwell Thorne.
His tweed waistcoat is immaculate.
His boots are polished.
Folded neatly inside his coat
is a small blue notebook,
ready to record anything
that might be encountered in a remarkable dream.
One by one
the room grows quiet.
Eyes begin to close.
Breathing slows.
It appears the evening is progressing exactly as Alistair Fisk had hoped.
Then Dante speaks.
“Seamus…
If someone dreams about eating an apple…
does the apple taste sweet…
or does the dream remember
that it was meant to be tart?”
Seamus strokes his beard for some time before replying.
“That depends entirely.”
“On what?”
“Whether dream pears
experience dreams of their own.”
Dante considers this seriously.
“I’ve never trusted pears.”
“No?”
“They’re suspiciously observant.
An apple minds its own business.
A pear always seems to know something.”
Across the room,
Cedric quietly opens one eye.
Miss Bramblewick exhales,
already sensing
that sleep is becoming increasingly unlikely.
Alistair Fisk takes a slow breath,
counts silently to four,
and reminds himself
that patience is a virtue.
Fisk allowed the laughter
to settle of its own accord.
He straightened the pages of his notes,
adjusted his spectacles,
and waited.
Eventually,
the room became still once more.
He smiled to himself.
There it is,
he thought.
Order.
“Now then,”
he said,
as though nothing unusual had occurred,
“history is filled with mysteries that have remained unsolved for centuries.”
Dante folded his hands.
Seamus looked thoughtfully towards the ceiling.
Neither spoke.
Excellent.
Alistair continued.
“The disappearance of entire settlements…
ancient maps depicting impossible lands…
objects discovered centuries before they should have existed…”
He allowed the silence to linger.
Everyone was listening.
He smiled again.
“This evening,
we shall begin with…”
“Excuse me…”
It was Seamus.
Alistair closed his eyes.
“…yes?”
“If dream apples fall from dream trees…
do they strike the ground…
or simply wake up?”
Dante nodded immediately.
“An excellent question.”
“It wasn’t an invitation,” sighed Alistair.
“I know.”
The discussion resumed anyway.
“Perhaps,”
said Dante,
“they bounce.”
“Fruit rarely bounces.”
“Quinces do.”
“I’ve never seen one attempt it.”
“They’re shy.”
Bella Dolce gave a sleepy huff,
lifted her head,
then decided the matter did not concern her
and returned to sleep.
Alistair raised one finger.
“Gentlemen.”
They stopped.
“Thank you.”
He took another breath.
“Returning to forgotten civilisations…”
Once again,
the room became attentive.
Major Bramwell Thorne nodded politely.
Miss Marmalade Bramblewick listened with complete concentration.
Alistair spoke for several uninterrupted minutes.
The lost library of Alexandria.
The Voynich Manuscript.
Ancient astronomical devices.
Perfect.
Not a single interruption.
He permitted himself
the smallest,
most satisfied smile.
He had done it.
The evening had been rescued.
Then,
quite unexpectedly,
Miss Marmalade Bramblewick raised one gloved hand.
“Yes?”
said Alistair,
pleased that someone finally wished to discuss history.
“I was simply wondering…”
“Of course.”
“If fruit dream…
does every orchard produce the same dreams…
or does each tree dream independently?”
The room became very quiet.
Dante slowly turned towards her.
Seamus sat upright.
Major Bramwell Thorne removed his notebook
with the seriousness of a man
about to document military intelligence.
“My word…”
whispered Dante.
“That’s magnificent.”
Seamus leaned forward.
“It changes everything.”
Alistair blinked twice.
“I fail to see how.”
“The orchard,”
said Seamus patiently,
“is no longer merely an orchard.”
“It is?”
“It is an entire sleeping community.”
Major Thorne cleared his throat.
“If I may…”
Everyone looked towards him.
“In my experience…”
“You’ve encountered dreaming orchards?”
asked Dante.
“No.”
“But I have commanded soldiers.”
He opened his notebook.
“If every tree dreams independently,
discipline would eventually collapse.
The cherries would wander into the plum dreams.
The peaches would ignore instructions.
The apples would begin holding meetings.”
“Exactly,”
said Dante.
“I suspected as much.”
Miss Bramblewick frowned thoughtfully.
“But meetings require minutes.”
Major Thorne tapped his notebook.
“I have anticipated that.”
Seamus looked genuinely impressed.
“So every orchard requires a secretary.”
“At minimum.”
“And someone to organise seasonal dreaming.”
“Preferably a pear.”
Dante shook his head immediately.
“No.
We’ve already established
that pears cannot be trusted.”
Several members laughed.
Another attempted to object,
only to discover
they entirely agreed.
Someone near the fireplace proposed
that lemons were incapable of optimism.
Someone else insisted
that coconuts dream in complete silence.
Major Thorne wondered aloud
whether pineapples required special permission
before entering another fruit’s dream.
Within moments,
the entire sleeping room
had become a symposium
on unconscious horticulture.
Ideas travelled faster than reason.
No theory was dismissed.
Every impossible suggestion
was treated with absolute seriousness.
Laughter rolled from one end of the room to the other.
Even Bella Dolce abandoned sleep,
wagging her tail enthusiastically,
though nobody was entirely certain
which side of the debate she supported.
Amid the commotion,
no one noticed
Alistair Fisk quietly gathering his notes.
He stacked every page
with remarkable precision.
Placed his spectacles back into their case.
Buttoned his jacket.
Walked calmly to the concealed door.
He paused only once.
Looking back,
he found every member
still arguing earnestly
about whether figs experienced recurring dreams.
Alistair sighed.
Not dramatically.
Not angrily.
Simply with the resignation
of a man who understood
that some evenings
cannot be rescued.
The hidden door opened.
A moment later,
it closed.
Nobody looked around.
Nobody noticed he had gone.
The discussion continued long into the night,
interrupted only by laughter,
until it became universally accepted
that the greatest mystery in history
was not Atlantis,
or Stonehenge,
or the lost library of Alexandria.
But who,
in the first place,
had planted
the dream orchard.
