Dislocation

The afternoon grows late. I have accomplished nothing today. Most of it was spent either in the Museum attic, rummaging aimlessly through old books and maps, or else passed sitting upon one of the benches downstairs, lost in contemplation of matters I would rather not contemplate, if that choice reminded to me.

I dozed yesterday afternoon, exhausted, I suspect, by so much work these past few days. And I dreamt of one of the strange, tall cities of steel and glass. But no one lived there. Nothing lived there at all. It was utterly deserted, as though the race who fashioned it had all recently walked off the face of the Earth. Or whatever I am to call these worlds. Not Earth. This can not be Earth. But I digress, wandering from one terrible subject into another. It seemed I strayed a long time in this city, through great towers and along shimmering black streets and even into tunnels and sewers far below ground. And then, later, I was in Caledon.

Though I have hardly visited the region since the night of the werewolf's death, I recall it well enough to identify some of the places I visited. At last, I found myself in Eyre, and as I wandered those lanes, I awoke suddenly and found that I was in fact in Caldeon Eyre! A man spoke with me, though now I have forgotten his name. Mr. Graggen? Groggen? He asked me if I were well, and I replied that I seemed lost, then took my leave at once, returning to Babbage Square with all haste. To my knowledge, I have not ever in my life sleepwalked, and to have sleepwalked at such a great distance over so short a span of time. To awoke and find myself so far from home. I spent the remainder of the evening hidden away in the Museum attic. By some fluke of this world's "weather" or the fluxuation of it æthers, which I only just begin to understand, Miss Paine had become stranded in a distant city, some place she had wandered off to see. So I was alone for most of the night. Alone with the shock of what had happened earlier.

I have tried to stay awake. I do not want to sleep. But I drifted off again this afternoon, only a few hours ago, while reading a volume on the Cambrian fossils of Wales. This time, I walked the streets of a frontier town that must have been situated in a part of the American West. The town was almost, but not quite, deserted. A gold-mining camp, I believe. At some point, I noticed a newspaper, and the year printed upon its masthead was 1876. I recall also a livery stable and a mule, and the whole place was surrounded by steep hills clothed all in pines. Were those the Rocky Mountains? I awoke in the attic, which was a simple, great solace. But in all these dreams, always have I sensed her very near at hand.

Miss Paine says that Bellatrix Bracken will be returning to New Babbage soon. I confess to feel ing no comfort or gladness at the thought. I do not trust that woman — I do not dare — despite all her assitance and Miss Paine's evident fondness for her. I hope that Capt. Susenko and Miss Maertens will call upon me tonight, as I would prefer not to be alone again, and, even with the Captain's odd belief's and strident insistence that his beliefs are somehow true, the presence of the two of them seems to soothe my nerves and comfort my disposition.