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Solomon focused his attention on the garden as he worked through his ritual breath. He held firm the memory of the garden, willing himself to appear in the gazebo as he entered the dreamspace. As he felt sleep descend upon him, he looked down at his hands in his mind's eye.

When he looked up, he found he was surrounded by plants of all kinds. The flora appeared to have no organization; while placed in long and broad planters, they were not sectioned off as he remembered. This was not the part of the garden he had fallen upon, but perhaps this was part of it. He looked around and found he was in the center of a greenhouse of sorts. The planters were raised upon long tables. He looked down to find there was stone under his feet; not a stone walkway, but rather a stone floor. Glancing over the tops of the plants, whose height rose to just below eye level, he found he was alone, or believed himself to be. He reminded himself the stranger could be watching and appear at any moment.

There was, of course, the possibility it was the presence watching, and the stranger its proxy. Solomon knew not, and he was sure it didn't matter. He was here to continue his investigations, to understand what moored the presence to the house, and release it. It bothered him to find his lack of control in this dreamspace reinforced by his arrival in a greenhouse and not the gazebo where he met the stranger on his last visit. This could be significant, but he doubted it. Banishment in past predicaments was straightforward: by dreaming, he was transported to the space where he could deal with the entity directly, clearing it out in a matter of moments. Never had he needed to move about in the dreamspace over several visits; his inability to appear where he desired may simply be a regulation when dreaming.

With a deep breath, Solomon began moving through the greenhouse, toward one wall, in the hopes it provided an exit. The scents arising from the flora ranged from pleasant to outright delicious. He wondered what manner of plants these were, as they were nothing like any he had ever seen. Their colors ranged from the deepest purples to the brightest yellows, with all shapes and sizes of petals and leaves and stems. Even the soil was tinged with hints of opalescence. The effect was mesmerizing; Solomon stopped to examine one plant or flower after another, so interesting and tantalizing were they. Here were what appeared to be marigolds, with petals of crystalline blue with pink tips. There were what appeared to be roses, whose petals were a startline silver color on black stems. Solomon was no botanist; he knew little to nothing of plants. This did not hamper his interest, however. He breathed in the smells of each type of flower; they were intoxicating, and he held no reservation in his enjoyment of them. What is life, he mused, or dreaming, for that matter, if you cannot stop and enjoy the flowers?

Continued after the break

When he reached the end of the row, he found he was no closer to the exit than when he started. He had sampled of innumerable flowers, wondered at many plants. He had no way to determine how much time he spent doing so, and felt some panic arise; there was little time before his first alarm went off, and he did not want to spend its entirety inside the greenhouse. He began walking with purpose toward what he presumed to be the exit, fighting the urge to be drawn in to the stunning and beautiful growth around him. However, the further he walked, the more exotic the plants, and he soon found himself once again pausing to examine and enjoy these most interesting specimen.

As Solomon reached the end of the row, he once again realized he was no closer to the exit—or what he assumed was the exit—than when he arrived. The panic began to rise again, but he fought it down. He would not allow himself to fall prey to his fear in the same way he had in the corridor. He took a few deep breaths, calming himself and refocusing. With renewed resolution, he began again to stride with purpose to where he expected to find the exit.

His resolve, however, failed him once more. It wasn't long before he was fully enraptured by the stimulating and succulent nature of the wild and varied plants around him. He was head-first submerged in a giant turquoise tulip when a blaring horn sounded throughout the greenhouse. Taken completely by surprise, he pulled himself out of the flower to figure out what was happening.

The entire greenhouse was lit up in a bright red, which pulsed in time with the blaring horn. He wondered briefly if he was trespassing, and it was few moments before he came to recall his alarms, of which this was the first.

Solomon awoke to a ceiling that was becoming more and more familiar as he withdrew from the dreamspace with each visit. He reached over and dismissed the alarm without glancing at his phone. He lay there thinking over the experience; had he not set the alarm, there is no question he would have remained trapped. He considered the words of the stranger once again.

Even these tricks will not save you for long.

Well, this trick had saved him this time. Perhaps it would save him again. However, he could not find himself in a similar position as the corridor or the greenhouse again. His travel was too arbitrary, and it left him vulnerable. He would not make the same mistake.

He prepared to undergo another visit, and this time, as the time before last, he would seek out the stranger. Poor guidance was better than no guidance, he reasoned. Perhaps he might draw her out enough for her to make a mistake, causing her disguise to slip. If, that is, she was indeed an agent of the presence. He didn't know how he would do it, though. Like most trips of this nature, he would have to figure it out as he went.

He closed his eyes and began his ritual breath once again, this time with his focus trained on the stranger. She would guide him to the tower whether she realized it or not; this is what he was committed to.

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