《Lair of Dreams (The Diviners #2)》 Page 1 PART ONE New York City, 1927 Every city is a ghost. New buildings rise upon the bones of the old so that each shiny steel beam, each tower of brick carries within it the memories of what has gone before, an architectural haunting. Sometimes you can catch a glimpse of these former incarnations in the awkward angle of a street or a filigreed gate, an old oak door peeking out from a new facade, the plaque commemorating the spot that was once a battleground, which became a saloon and is now a park. Underground, it¡¯s no different. Beneath the streets, this city grows. Tracks push farther out into Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx. Tunnels connect one place to another, closing the distance between impossible and possible. So many people to move. The city¡¯s aspirations do not stop at ground level. The whine of the drill and the clank of the pickax serenade the workers as they clear out rock for a new subway tunnel. Sweat binds layers of dust to the men till it¡¯s hard to tell where they leave off and the gloom begins. The drill bites away bedrock in small mouthfuls. It¡¯s hard, tedious work. And then suddenly, they¡¯re breaking through the rock too fast. ¡°Watch it! Watch it, now!¡± A wall of earth drops away. The men cough and cough, choking on the thick air. One of them, an Irish immigrant named Padraic, wipes a dirty forearm across his sweaty brow and peers into the large hole the drill has made. On the other side is a tall wrought-iron gate gone to rust, one of those ghosts of an earlier time. Padraic shines his flashlight through the gate¡¯s bars, and the rusty coating brightens like the dried blood of an old wound. ¡°I¡¯ll be,¡± he says and grins at the others. ¡°Might be somet¡¯ing worth havin¡¯ inside.¡± He tugs and the rusted gate shrieks open, and then the men are inside the dust-choked hole of a forgotten part of the city¡¯s past. The Irishman whistles as his beam bounces around the tomblike room, revealing wooden panels grayed with cobwebs, tile mosaics obscured by layers of grime, a light fixture dangling precariously from a broken chain. A train car sits half-buried under a mountain of fallen dirt. Its wheels are silenced, but in the darkness, it¡¯s almost as if the workers can hear the faint whine of metal on metal lingering in the preserved air. Padraic¡¯s flashlight beam shines across the tracks, tracing them backward to a dead tunnel. The men move close and peer into the murkiness. It¡¯s like looking into hell¡¯s gaping mouth, tracks for tongue. The tunnel seems to go on forever, but that¡¯s just the dark talking. ¡°What¡¯s in here, then?¡± Padraic asks. ¡°A speakeasy,¡± says another man, Michael, chuckling. ¡°Grand. I could use a drink,¡± Padraic jokes as he heads inside, still hopeful of some lost treasure. The workers follow. These men are the unseen builders of the city, like ghosts themselves, and they¡¯ve no need to fear the dark. Only Sun Yu hesitates. He hates the dark, actually, but he needs the job, and jobs are hard to come by when you¡¯re Chinese. As it is, he only got the job because he shares a cold-water flat with Padraic and several others in Chinatown, and the Irishman put in a word for him with the boss. It wouldn¡¯t do to make waves. So he, too, follows. As Sun Yu navigates the mounds of fallen dirt and brick on the tracks, he stumbles over something. Padraic swings his flashlight beam over the tracks again and finds a pretty little music box with a hand crank on top. Padraic lifts the music box, admiring the workmanship. They don¡¯t make them like that anymore. He turns the crank on the cylinder. A song plinks out note by note. It¡¯s one he¡¯s heard before, an old song, but he can¡¯t really remember it. He considers taking the music box but puts it back. ¡°Let¡¯s see what other treasures are down here.¡± Padraic swings the flashlight. The beam finds a skeletal foot. At the base of the curved wall is a mummified corpse mostly eaten away by rot and rats and time. The men fall quiet. They stare at the tufts of hair gone as thin as candy floss, and at the mouth, which is open as if in a final scream. A few of the men cross themselves. They left a lot behind to come to this country, but not their superstitions. Sun Yu is uneasy, but he doesn¡¯t have the words in English to communicate his feelings. This woman met a very bad end. If he were back in China, he¡¯d see to the proper prayers and burial. For everyone knows a spirit can¡¯t rest without that. But this is America. Things are different here. ¡°Bad luck,¡± he says at last, and no one disagrees. ¡°Right. We best be back at it, lads,¡± Padraic says with a heavy sigh. The men pile out of the hole. As Padraic closes the gate, he regards the unearthed station with pity. It¡¯ll be gone soon enough, knocked out to make way for new subway lines for the growing city. Progress keeps progressing. Page 2 ¡°Shame,¡± he says. Moments later, the high-pitched hum of the workers¡¯ jackhammers melds with the constant rattle of the subway trains; the city¡¯s song reverberates in the tunnels. Suddenly, the work lights dim. The men pause. Wind wafts down the tunnel and caresses their sweaty faces. It carries the faint sound of crying, and then it¡¯s gone. The lights brighten again. The men shrug¡ªjust one of those odd things that happen in the city under the city. They start in again; their machines turn up the earth, burying history in their wake. Later, the exhausted workers return to Chinatown and climb the stairs to their shared room. They fall into their beds, the dirt of the city still caked under their ragged nails. They¡¯re too tired for bathing, but they¡¯re not too tired for dreams. For dreams, too, are ghosts, desires chased in sleep, gone by morning. The longing of dreams draws the dead, and this city holds many dreams. The men dream of the music box and its song, a relic from a time long ago. ¡°Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me / Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee.¡­¡± The song calls to their blood, ferries them into the best dreams they¡¯ve ever had¡ªdreams in which they are aboveground, men of fortune and renown, owners in a country that smiles on owning. Michael dreams of overseeing his own construction company. Padraic dreams of a farm upstate filled with horses. Sun Yu dreams of returning to his village as a prosperous man, and of the pride in his parents¡¯ faces as he brings them to America, along with a wife for himself. Yes, a wife to share the burdens and joys of life here. He can see her smiling at him. Such a sweet face! And are those his children beside her? They are! Happy sons and daughters welcoming him home at the end of the day with his slippers and pipe and happy cries of ¡°Baba!¡± as they beg for a story. Sun Yu reaches for his youngest child, and the dream fades to embers. There is only the dark of the tunnel they found earlier in the day. Sun Yu calls out for his children and hears soft crying. It breaks his heart to hear it. ¡°Don¡¯t cry,¡± he soothes. In the gloom, there¡¯s a sudden spark. For a few seconds, his longed-for family life comes alive again, as if Sun Yu were looking through a keyhole at happiness. One of the children crooks a finger, smiles. ¡°Dream with me¡­¡± he whispers. Yes. I will, Sun Yu thinks. He opens the door and steps across the threshold. It¡¯s cold inside, so cold Sun Yu can feel it even in his sleep. The stove isn¡¯t lit. That¡¯s the trouble. Sun Yu moves forward and notices that the stove isn¡¯t really a stove at all. It wobbles, and underneath that image, he can make out old bricks gone to rot and ruin. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies a rat. It stops to sniff a pile of bones. Alarmed, Sun Yu turns to his family. The children are no longer smiling. They¡¯re lined up, staring at him. ¡°Dreamwithusdreamweneedyoutodream¡­¡± the children chorus, his wife looking on, her teeth sharp and her eyes like coals. Sun Yu¡¯s heartbeat begins to double, an autonomic response. Fight or flight. Even in sleep, it works. Sun Yu wants to wake up, but the dream won¡¯t let him. It¡¯s angry that he¡¯s trying to escape. When he runs for the door, it slams shut. ¡°You promised,¡± the dream growls in a voice as thick as a choir of demons. The music-box song plays. The last of the pretty facade peels away. The dark moves in. One by one, the other men sense the danger lurking beneath the beauty. It¡¯s a trap, this dreaming. In sleep, their fingers stiffen as they try to fight back against the terror invading their minds. For the dream knows their fears as well as their desires. It can make them see anything. Unspeakable nightmares surround the men now. They would scream if they could. It¡¯s no use. The dream has them, and it will not relinquish its hold. Ever. Back in their beds on Mott Street, the men¡¯s bodies go limp. But behind their closed lids, their eyes move frantically as, one by one, they are pulled deeper and deeper into a nightmare from which they will never, ever wake. A gust of winter wind battered the colorful paper lanterns hanging from the eaves of the Tea House restaurant on Doyers Street. Only a few diners remained, lingering over plates scraped clean of food and cups of tea whose warmth they were reluctant to leave. Cooks and waiters bustled about, eager to end their shifts so that they could unwind with cigars and a few games of mah-jongg. At the back of her father¡¯s restaurant, Ling Chan, seventeen, glared through the carved slivers of a teak screen at the lollygagging patrons as if her stare alone could compel them to pay up and leave. Page 3 ¡°This night will never end,¡± George Huang said, suddenly beside Ling with yet another pot of tea from the kitchen. He was Ling¡¯s age and as skinny as a greyhound. ¡°You could always lock the door,¡± Ling said. ¡°And have your father fire me?¡± George shook his head and poured Ling a cup of tea. ¡°Thank you,¡± Ling said. George gave a half smile and a shrug. ¡°You need to keep your strength up.¡± The door opened, and a trio of girls entered the restaurant, their cold breath trailing misty white tails. ¡°Is that Lee Fan Lin?¡± George said, staring at the prettiest, a girl with red lips and a Marcel Wave bob. Quickly, George put down the teapot and smoothed a hand through his hair. ¡°George. Don¡¯t¡ª¡± Ling started, but George was already waving Lee Fan over. Quietly, Ling swore an oath as Lee Fan broke from the group and glided past the lacquered tables and potted ferns toward the back, the panels of her beaded dress swishing from side to side. Lee Fan ran with what Ling¡¯s mother called ¡°a fast crowd.¡± Her mother did not say it admiringly. ¡°Hello, Georgie. Ling!¡± Lee Fan said, taking a seat. George grabbed a cup from a tray. ¡°Would you care for tea, Lee Fan?¡± Lee Fan laughed. ¡°Oh, Georgie. Call me Lulu, won¡¯t you?¡± Lee Fan had taken to calling herself that after Louise Brooks, a crime of affectation that Ling placed on a par with people who hugged in greeting. Ling did not hug. George stole glances at Lee Fan as he poured her tea. Ling knew for a fact that Lee Fan could have her pick of beaus, and her pick would not be gangly, studious George Huang. Boys could be so stupid sometimes, and George was no exception. Lee Fan pretended to be interested in Ling¡¯s stack of library books. ¡°What are you reading now?¡± ¡°Ways to poison without detection,¡± Ling muttered. Lee Fan examined the books one by one: Physics for Students. The ABC of Atoms. Atoms and Rays. ¡°Oooh, Jake Marlowe, the Great American,¡± she said, holding up the last one. ¡°Ling¡¯s hero. She wants to work for him someday.¡± George tried for a laugh but snorted instead. Ling wanted to tell him that snorting was not the way to win any girl¡¯s heart. ¡°What did you want, Lee Fan?¡± Ling asked. Lee Fan leaned in. ¡°I need your help. My blue dress is missing.¡± Ling raised an eyebrow and waited for the words that might make her care. ¡°My aunt and uncle had it made for me in Shanghai. It¡¯s my best dress,¡± Lee Fan said. Ling managed a patient face. ¡°Do you think you lost it in a dream?¡± ¡°Of course not!¡± Lee Fan snapped. She glanced back at the girls standing up front, waiting for her like good little followers. ¡°But just the other day, Gracie was over to listen to my jazz records, and you know how the old girl is, always asking to borrow my things. I saw her eyeing my dress, which was certainly too small for her, what with those big shoulders of hers. Anyway, that night, when I went to look for it, it was gone,¡± Lee Fan said, adjusting her scarf as if its asymmetry were her greatest concern. ¡°Naturally, Gracie claims she doesn¡¯t have it, but I¡¯m sure she took it.¡± Up front, big-shouldered Gracie Leung examined her fingernails, none the wiser. ¡°What do you want me to do about it?¡± Ling asked. ¡°I want you to speak to my grandmother in one of your little dream walks. I want to know the truth.¡± ¡°You want me to try to reach your grandmother to find your dress?¡± Ling said slowly. ¡°It¡¯s very expensive,¡± Lee Fan insisted. ¡°Very well,¡± Ling said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. ¡°But you should know that the dead don¡¯t always want to talk to you. I can only try. Second, they don¡¯t know everything, and their answers can be vague at best. Do you accept the terms?¡± Lee Fan waved away Ling¡¯s admonitions. ¡°Yes, fine, fine.¡± ¡°That will be five dollars.¡± Lee Fan¡¯s mouth rounded in shock. ¡°That¡¯s outrageous!¡± It was, of course. But Ling always started the bargaining high¡ªand even higher if the request was downright stupid, which Lee Fan¡¯s was. Ling shrugged once more. ¡°You¡¯d spend that for a night at the Fallen Angel.¡± ¡°At least with the Fallen Angel, I know what I¡¯m getting,¡± Lee Fan snarled. Ling concentrated on creasing a napkin seam long and slow with a thumbnail. ¡°Suit yourself.¡± ¡°The dead don¡¯t come cheap,¡± George said, trying for a joke. Page 4 Lee Fan glared at Ling. ¡°You probably make it all up just to get attention.¡± ¡°If you believe it, it will be. If you do not, it won¡¯t,¡± Ling said. Lee Fan slid a dollar across the table. Ling let it sit. ¡°I have to cover my expenses. Make the proper prayers. I could never forgive myself if I brought bad luck on you, Lee Fan.¡± Ling managed a quarter smile that she hoped passed for sincere. Lee Fan peeled off another bill. ¡°Two dollars. My final offer.¡± Ling pocketed the money. ¡°I¡¯ll need something of your grandmother¡¯s to locate her in the dream world.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°It¡¯s like a bloodhound with scent. It helps me find her spirit.¡± With a drawn-out sigh, Lee Fan twisted a gold ring from her finger and scooted it toward Ling. ¡°Don¡¯t lose it.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not the one who seems to be losing things,¡± Ling muttered. Lee Fan rose. She glanced down at her coat, then at George, who jumped to help her with it. ¡°Careful, Georgie,¡± she stage-whispered, nodding toward Ling. ¡°She might curse you. For all you know, she¡¯ll give you the sleeping sickness.¡± George¡¯s smile vanished. ¡°Don¡¯t joke about that.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°It¡¯s bad luck.¡± ¡°It¡¯s superstition. We¡¯re Americans now.¡± Lee Fan marched through the restaurant, slowing to allow everyone to watch her. Through the holes in the screen, Ling watched Lee Fan and her acolytes walking easily into the winter¡¯s night. She wished she could tell them the truth: The dead were easy to talk to; it was the living she didn¡¯t like. The cold wind whistling around the curve of Doyers Street made Ling¡¯s teeth chatter as she and George walked home toward Mulberry Street. The laundries, jewelers, groceries, and import shops were closed, but the various social clubs were open, their cigarette smoke¨Cdrenched back rooms filled with businessmen, old-timers, newcomers, and restless young bachelors all playing dominoes and Fan-Tan, trading stories and jokes, money and ambition. Across the rooftops, the Church of the Transfiguration¡¯s steeple loomed at the edge of the neighborhood, a silent judge. A trio of slightly drunk tourists stumbled out of a restaurant talking loudly of heading over to the Bowery and the illicit delights to be found there in the deep shadows beneath the Third Avenue El. Beside Ling, George jogged up and back, up and back, in little bursts like the track star he was. For a slight boy, he was surprisingly strong. Ling had seen him carry heavy trays without much trouble at all, and he could run for miles. She envied him that. ¡°You charge too much money. That¡¯s your trouble. Other Diviners charge less,¡± George said, panting. ¡°Then let Lee Fan go to one of them. Let her go to that idiot on the radio, the Sweetheart Seer,¡± Ling said. Lee Fan might live it up in nightclubs uptown, but Ling knew she wouldn¡¯t go outside the neighborhood for fortune-telling. ¡°What are you saving money for, anyway?¡± George asked. ¡°College.¡± ¡°Why do you need college?¡± ¡°Why do you let Lee Fan run you like a dog?¡± Ling shot back, her patience at an end. ¡°She doesn¡¯t run me,¡± George said, sulking. Ling rebuked him with a guttural ¡°ack¡± of disappointment. Once upon a time, Ling and George had been close. She¡¯d been his protector of sorts. When the Italian boys from Mulberry Street harassed George on the way to school, it was Ling who had told them she was a strega who would curse them if they didn¡¯t leave George alone, and whether they believed her or not, they didn¡¯t bother him after that. George had thanked Ling with a prune hamantasch from Gertie¡¯s Bakery on Ludlow, the two of them laughing as they picked the tiny seeds from their teeth. But over the past year, Ling had watched George grow moody and restless, chasing after things he couldn¡¯t have¡ªtagging along with Lee Fan¡¯s set as they went to the pictures at the Strand, sitting in on picnics arranged by a local church, or squeezed in the backseat during Sunday drives in Tom Kee¡¯s car, one foot in Chinatown and the other outside, angling for a spot they thought was better, a spot that didn¡¯t include Ling. ¡°She¡¯s changed you,¡± Ling said. ¡°She has not! You¡¯re the one who¡¯s changed. You used to be fun, before¡ª¡± George cut himself off abruptly, but Ling could fill in the rest of his sentence for him. She looked away. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said, chagrined. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean it.¡± Page 5 ¡°I know.¡± ¡°I¡¯m just tired. I didn¡¯t sleep well last night.¡± Ling drew in a sharp breath. ¡°I don¡¯t have the sleeping sickness!¡± George said quickly. He held out his hands. ¡°Look: No burns. No blisters.¡± ¡°So what¡¯s the trouble, then?¡± ¡°I had the oddest dream.¡± ¡°Probably because you¡¯re odd.¡± ¡°Do you want to hear this?¡± ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°It was incredible!¡± George said, his voice hinting at wonder. ¡°I was at one of those mansions like the millionaires have out on Long Island, only it was my house and my party. I was rich and important. People looked at me with respect, Ling. Not like here. And Lee Fan was there, too,¡± George said shyly. ¡°I didn¡¯t realize it was a nightmare,¡± Ling muttered. George ignored her. ¡°It all seemed so real. Like it was right there for the taking.¡± Ling kept her eyes on the uneven edges of the bricks. ¡°Lots of things seem real in dreams. And then you wake up.¡± ¡°Not like this. Maybe it has something to do with the New Year? Maybe it¡¯s good luck?¡± ¡°How should I know?¡± ¡°Because you know about dreams!¡± George said, jogging in front of her. ¡°You can walk around inside them. Come on¡ªit has to mean something, doesn¡¯t it?¡± He was practically begging her to say it was so, and in that moment, she hated George a little bit for being so naive, for thinking that a good dream could mean anything other than a night¡¯s escape from reality until the morning came. For thinking that wanting something so badly was enough to make it come true. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you what it means: It means that you¡¯re a fool if you believe Lee Fan will give you the time of day once Tom Kee comes back from Chicago. You can keep throwing yourself at her, but she¡¯s never going to choose you, George. Never.¡± George stood perfectly still. His wounded expression told her that the words had hurt. She hadn¡¯t meant to be cruel, only truthful. George¡¯s eyes went mean. ¡°I pity the poor soul who takes you for a wife, Ling. No man wants to have the dead in his bed every night,¡± he said, and then he marched away, leaving Ling just short of her building. Ling tried not to take the words inside, but they¡¯d already settled there. Why couldn¡¯t she have just left George alone? For a moment, she had half a mind to call him back, tell him she was sorry. But she knew George was too angry to hear it now. Tomorrow she¡¯d apologize. For now, she had Lee Fan¡¯s money in her pocket and a job to do. Ling moved slowly toward her building, feeling each bump and brick up her spine. Above her, yellow-warmed windows dotted the building facades, forming urban constellations. Other windows were dark. People were asleep. Asleep and dreaming, hopeful that they¡¯d wake in the morning. For all you know, she¡¯ll give you the sleeping sickness. It had started with a group of diggers who shared a room on Mott Street. For several days, the three men lay in their beds, sleeping. Doctors had tried slapping the men, dousing them with cold water, striking the soles of their feet. Nothing worked. The men would not wake. Blisters and weeping red patches appeared all over their bodies, as if they were being consumed from the inside. And then they were dead. The doctors were baffled¡ªand worried. Already the ¡°sleeping sickness¡± had claimed five more people in Chinatown. And just that morning, they¡¯d heard there were new cases in the Italian section of Mulberry Street and in the Jewish quarter between Orchard and Ludlow. A group of bright young things marched arm in arm down the street, laughing and carefree, and Ling was reminded of a dream walk she¡¯d taken a few months ago. In it, she¡¯d suddenly found herself face-to-face with a blond flapper. The girl was clearly asleep, but she also seemed aware of Ling, and Ling had felt both drawn to and afraid of this girl, as if they were long-lost relatives having a chance meeting. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be here! Wake up!¡± Ling had yelled. And then, suddenly, Ling had tumbled down through dream space until she came to rest in a forest where ghostly soldiers shimmered in the spaces between the trees. On their sleeves, they wore a strange symbol: a golden sun of an eye shedding a jagged lightning-bolt tear. Ling often spoke to the dead in dreams, but these men weren¡¯t like any dead she had known. ¡°What do you want?¡± she¡¯d asked them, afraid. ¡°Help us,¡± they said, and then the sky exploded with light. Since then, Ling had dreamed of that symbol a few times. She didn¡¯t know what it meant. But she now knew who the blond girl was. Everyone in New York did: the Sweetheart Seer. Page 6 Feeling a mixture of envy and resentment, she watched the laughing partygoers walk away, then let herself into her building. Ling stole into her room and deposited Lee Fan¡¯s two dollars into the cigar-box college fund she kept hidden in a drawer under her slips. The two dollars joined the one hundred twenty-five she¡¯d already collected. In the parlor, Ling¡¯s uncle Eddie was asleep in his favorite chair. One of his Chinese opera records had come to the end on the phonograph. Ling lifted the needle and covered her uncle with a blanket. Her mother was still at a church quilting bee, and her father would be another hour at the restaurant. This meant Ling finally had control of the radio. Soon, the comforting hum of the Philco warming up chased away Ling¡¯s unease. An announcer¡¯s voice burbled through the speakers, growing louder. ¡°Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of our listening audience. It¡¯s precisely nine o¡¯clock and time for the Pears Soap Hour featuring that fabulous Flapper of Fate, the Sweetheart Seer¡ªMiss Evie O¡¯Neill.¡­¡± ¡°¡­ Miss Evie O¡¯Neill!¡± The announcer, a tall man with a thin mustache, lowered his script. Behind the glass of the control booth, an engineer pointed to a quartet of male singers back in the studio, who crooned into their microphone: ¡°She¡¯s the apple of the Big Apple¡¯s eye. She¡¯s finer¡ªDiviner¡ªand we know why. She¡¯s the Sweetheart Seer of W¡­ G¡­ I!¡± ¡°Yes, gifted with talents from beyond,¡± the announcer purred over the soft hum of the quartet. ¡°A Diviner, she calls herself, like those soothsayers of old, but a modern girl, through and through. Who knew that such gifts lived in the heart of Manhattan¡ªand in the heavenly form of a pretty pixie of a girl?¡± ¡°Oh, Evie, won¡¯t you tell us true? What would fate have us do? Whether watch or hat or band, You hold our secrets in your hand. Revealing mysteries pulled from the sky! You¡¯re the Sweetheart Seer of W¡­ G¡­ I!¡± The orchestra rested. Script in hand, Evie stepped up to her microphone and chirped into it: ¡°Hello, everyone. This is Evie O¡¯Neill, the Sweetheart Seer, ready to gaze into the great beyond and tell you your deepest secrets. So I certainly hope you¡¯ve got something pos-i-tute-ly scandalous for me tonight!¡± ¡°Why, Miss O¡¯Neill!¡± the announcer sputtered. The audience chuckled, covering the sound of Evie and Mr. Forman turning the pages of their scripts. ¡°Oh, now, don¡¯t you cast a kitten, Mr. Forman,¡± Evie reassured him in her upbeat tone. ¡°For if anything can clear away the dirt of scandal, it¡¯s Pears soap. Why, no soap on earth is finer for cleaning up a mess than Pears!¡± ¡°On that we can agree, Miss O¡¯Neill. If you value your complexion, Pears soap is the only soap you will ever need. It¡¯s¡ª¡± ¡°Gee, are you going to talk all night, Mr. Forman? Or can I do a little divining for these fine folks?¡± Evie teased. The audience chuckled again, right on cue. ¡°Very well, Miss O¡¯Neill. Let¡¯s take our first guest, shall we? Mrs. Charles Rutherford, I believe you have something you wish to share?¡± ¡°Yes, I do!¡± Mrs. Rutherford rose from her seat, smoothing her dress on her way to Evie, though there was no one to see it beyond those in the small room. ¡°I¡¯ve brought this money clip.¡± ¡°Welcome, Mrs. Rutherford. Thank you for coming on the Pears Soap Hour with the Sweetheart Seer¡ªPears, the soap of purity. Now, Mrs. Rutherford, tell Miss O¡¯Neill nothing of your object. She will divine your secrets using her talents from beyond the veil.¡± ¡°So if there¡¯s anything you haven¡¯t told Mr. Rutherford, you might want to let him know now,¡± Evie joked. It was a little naughty, but naughty kept people listening. ¡°Oh, dear,¡± Mrs. Rutherford tittered. ¡°And to whom does that money clip belong?¡± Evie asked. Mrs. Rutherford blushed. ¡°This¡­ well, it¡­ it¡¯s my husband¡¯s.¡± Evie didn¡¯t have to be a Diviner to know that. Married women almost always wanted to know about their husbands and whether they were stepping out. ¡°Now, Mrs. Rutherford, one doll to another: What¡¯s the story?¡± ¡°Well, you see, Charles has been so very busy lately, at the office every night with only his secretary for company, and I, I worry that¡­¡± Evie nodded sympathetically. ¡°Don¡¯t you worry, Mrs. Rutherford. We¡¯ll soon get to the bottom of this. If you would place the object in the center of my right palm, please. Thank you.¡± With a magician¡¯s flair, Evie placed her left hand on top of her right and pressed down, allowing the money clip to yield its secrets to her. Page 7 ¡°Oh, dear me,¡± Evie said, coming out of her light trance. ¡°What is it? What do you see?¡± Mrs. Rutherford fretted. ¡°I don¡¯t know if I should say, Mrs. Rutherford,¡± Evie said, drawing out the tension for the radio audience. ¡°Please, Miss O¡¯Neill, if there¡¯s something I should know¡­¡± ¡°Well¡­¡± Evie¡¯s tone was grave. ¡°You do know that the objects never lie.¡± An anticipatory murmur spread through the studio audience. I¡¯ve got them! Evie thought. She lowered her head as if she were a doctor delivering grim news. ¡°Your husband and his secretary are in cahoots, all right.¡­¡± Head still bowed, Evie waited, counting off silently¡ªtwo, three¡ªand then she looked up, grinning triumphantly. ¡°To plan your birthday party!¡± The audience responded with relieved laughter and thunderous applause. ¡°Now it won¡¯t be a surprise any longer, I¡¯m afraid,¡± Evie said. ¡°You¡¯ll have to act like a Dumb Dora about it. And that goes for all of you folks listening in, too!¡± ¡°Thank you! Oh, thank you, Miss O¡¯Neill!¡± The announcer stepped up to his microphone again as Mrs. Rutherford was escorted back to her seat. ¡°Let¡¯s give a warm round of applause to the brave Mrs. Rutherford.¡± When the noise died down, Evie welcomed her second guest. When she¡¯d finished with him, telling him where to find a cache of old war bonds his grandfather had hidden in the house, Evie waited for the Seer Singers to croon the Pears soap jingle, then stepped again to the microphone, the studio lights blazing in her eyes. Even though the home audience couldn¡¯t see her, she knew from her daily elocution lessons that a smile could be communicated through the wires, so she kept hers bright. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, when I finish my radio show, I love nothing more than to relax with a nice hot bath. But when I bathe, I¡¯m not alone.¡± ¡°You¡¯re not?¡± the announcer shot back, shock in his tone. ¡°Oh, no! I have company in my tub.¡± ¡°Why, Miss O¡¯Neill!¡± ¡°Dear me, Mr. Forman! It¡¯s Pears soap, of course! Pears keeps a girl¡¯s complexion smooth and lovely even when the winter winds are howling like a jazz band. Why, it¡¯s so pure, even I can¡¯t see anything in it!¡± ¡°That¡¯s pure, indeed! Choose Pears¡ªthe modern choice for you and your loved ones. Now, Miss O¡¯Neill, before we say good night, can you tell the fine members of our listening audience what you see?¡± ¡°I¡¯d be happy to.¡± Evie let her voice take on a faraway tone. ¡°Yes¡­ I can see into the future and I see¡±¡ªshe let the silence hang for a count of three¡ª¡°that it¡¯s going to be a swell evening here on WGI, so don¡¯t dream of touching that dial! This is Evie O¡¯Neill, America¡¯s Sweetheart Seer, saying thank you and good night, and may all your secrets be happy ones!¡± As Evie passed down the long Art Deco hallway of the radio station, people called out their congratulations: ¡°Swell show, Evie!¡± ¡°Gee, that was terrific!¡± ¡°You¡¯re the berries, kid!¡± Evie drank up their praise like a champagne cocktail. She stopped for a second in the foyer of a large, wood-paneled office with gleaming black-and-gold marble floors. A secretary waved to her from behind a desk. ¡°Great show, Evie.¡± ¡°Thanks, Kaye!¡± Evie said, preening. There were only two rules she followed on her show: One, she never went in too deep. That was what kept the headaches manageable. And two, no bad news. Evie only told the object holder what he or she wanted to hear. People wanted entertainment, yes, but mostly they wanted hope: Tell me he still loves me. Tell me I¡¯m not a failure. Tell me I did right by my dead mother, whom I never visited, even when she called my name at the end. Tell me it¡¯ll be okay. ¡°Loved the way you played with the money clip,¡± the secretary continued. ¡°I sure was nervous for that Mrs. Rutherford.¡± Evie strained to see into the office just beyond the secretary, but the burnished gold doors were shut. ¡°Did¡­ did Mr. Phillips like it?¡± The secretary smiled sympathetically. ¡°Gee, honey, you know how the Big Cheese is: He only shows up for the biggest names. Oh!¡± she said, catching herself. ¡°Gee, I didn¡¯t mean it like that, Evie. Your show¡¯s very popular.¡± Just not popular enough to get the full attention of WGI¡¯s owner. Evie tried not to dwell on that fact as she grabbed her new raccoon coat and gray wool cloche from the coat-check girl and headed out front, where a small but enthusiastic crowd waited in the January drizzle. When Evie opened the door, they surged forward, their umbrellas like fat black petals of the same straining flower. Page 8 ¡°Miss O¡¯Neill! Miss O¡¯Neill!¡± Slips of paper and autograph books were waved at her. She signed each with a flourish before dashing down the alley toward a waiting taxicab. ¡°Where to, Miss?¡± the cabbie asked. ¡°The Grant Hotel, please.¡± The rain was coming down; the taxi¡¯s windshield wipers beat in time to some unseen metronome as they cleared the fogging glass. Evie peered out the taxi window at the study in smoke, fog, snow, and neon that was Manhattan¡¯s Theater District at this late hour. A lightbulb-ringed theater bill featured an illustration of a tuxedoed man in a turban holding out his hands like a soothsayer while comely chorines danced under his enchanting sway. A sash at the top read COMING SOON¡ªTHE ZIEGFELD FOLLIES IN DIVINERS FEVER! A MAGICAL, MUSICAL REVUE! Diviners were big and getting bigger, but so far, no Diviner was bigger than Evie O¡¯Neill. If only James were around to see her now. Evie traced the empty space at her neck where the half-dollar pendant from her brother used to rest, a reflex. A billboard for Marlowe Industries loomed above the jostling cab as they waited for the light to change. The billboard showed a silhouette of the great man himself, his arm gesturing to some nebulous future defined only by rays of sunshine. Marlowe Industries. The future of America. ¡°He¡¯s coming to town soon, you know,¡± the taxi driver said. Evie rubbed her temples to keep the headache at bay. ¡°Who?¡± ¡°Mr. Marlowe.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t say.¡± ¡°I do say! He¡¯s breaking ground out in Queens for that whatchamacallit¡ªthat exhibition he¡¯s planning. Traffic¡¯ll be murder that day. I tell ya, he¡¯s already given us the good life¡ªautomobiles, aeroplanes, medicine, and who knows what else. Now, that¡¯s a great American.¡± The cabbie cleared his throat. ¡°Say, uh, ain¡¯t you the Sweetheart Seer?¡± Evie sat up, thrilled to be recognized. ¡°Guilty as charged.¡± ¡°I thought so! My wife loves your radio show! Wait¡¯ll I tell her I drove you in my cab. She¡¯ll have kittens!¡± ¡°Jeepers, I hope not. I¡¯m all out of cigars.¡± The light changed and the cab turned left off the arterial throughway of Broadway, following the narrow tributary of Forty-seventh Street east toward Beekman Place and the Grant. ¡°You¡¯re the little lady who helped the cops catch the Pentacle Killer.¡± The cabbie whistled. ¡°The way he butchered all those people. Taking that poor girl¡¯s eyes? Stringing that fella up in Trinity Cemetery with his tongue cut out? Skinning that chorus girl and¡ª¡± ¡°Yes, I remember,¡± Evie interrupted, hoping he would take the hint. ¡°What kind of person does that? What¡¯s this world coming to?¡± The cabbie shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s these foreigners coming over, bringing trouble. And disease. You hear there¡¯s some kinda sleeping sickness now? Already got about ten people with new cases every day. Heard it started in Chinatown and spread to the Italians and Jews.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Foreigners. Oughta t¡¯row ¡¯em all out, you want my opinion.¡± I don¡¯t, Evie thought. ¡°There¡¯s talk the killer¡ªthat John Hobbes fella¡ªwasn¡¯t even human. That he was some kinda ghost.¡± The cabbie¡¯s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror for a moment, seeking either confirmation or dismissal. Evie wondered what the cabbie would say if she told him the truth¡ªthat John Hobbes was most definitely not of this earth. He was worse than any demon imaginable, and she¡¯d barely escaped with her life. Evie looked away. ¡°People say all sorts of things, don¡¯t they? Oh, look. Here we are!¡± The driver pulled up to the monolithic splendor that was the Grant Hotel. Through the cab window, Evie spied a scrum of reporters staked out on the hotel steps, smoking and trading gossip. As she exited the cab, they dropped their cigarettes along with whatever gossip du jour held their fickle interest and surged forward to greet her, shouting over one another: ¡°Miss O¡¯Neill! Miss O¡¯Neill! Evie, be a real sweetheart and look this way!¡± Evie obliged them, posing with a smile. ¡°How was the show tonight, Miss O¡¯Neill?¡± one asked. ¡°You tell me, Daddy.¡± ¡°Find out anything interesting?¡± ¡°Oh, lots of things. But a lady never tells¡ªunless it¡¯s on the radio for money,¡± Evie said, making them laugh. One smirking reporter leaning against the side of the hotel called out to Evie: ¡°Whaddaya think about all these Diviners coming forward now that you let the cat out of the bag on your own talents?¡± Page 9 Evie gave the reporter a tight smile. ¡°I think it¡¯s swell, Mr. Woodhouse.¡± T. S. Woodhouse raised an eyebrow. ¡°Do you?¡± Evie fixed him with a stare. ¡°Sure. Perhaps we¡¯ll start our own nightclub¡ªhoofers and hocus-pocus. If you¡¯re nice, we¡¯ll even let you in.¡± ¡°Maybe you¡¯ll have your own union,¡± another reporter joked. ¡°There are some folks who say the Diviners are no better than circus freaks. That they¡¯re dangerous. Un-American,¡± T. S. Woodhouse pressed. ¡°I¡¯m as American as apple pie and bribery,¡± Evie cooed to more laughter. ¡°Love this Sheba,¡± the second reporter murmured, jotting it down. ¡°She makes my job easy.¡± Woodhouse wasn¡¯t giving up. ¡°Sarah Snow, who shares the radio with you, called Diviners ¡®a symptom of a nation that¡¯s turned away from God and American values.¡¯ What do you say to that, Miss O¡¯Neill?¡± Sarah Snow. That small-time, Blue Nose pain in the neck, always looking down at Diviners in general and Evie in particular. She¡¯d like to give that two-bit Bible thumper a kick in the backside. But that kind of publicity Evie didn¡¯t need. And she wasn¡¯t about to give it to Sarah Snow for free by starting a war. ¡°Oh, does Sarah Snow have a radio show? I hadn¡¯t noticed,¡± Evie said, batting her lashes. ¡°Come to think of it, no one else has, either.¡± As Evie bounded up the steps, T. S. Woodhouse sidled up next to her. ¡°You went after me a little hard there, Woody,¡± Evie sniffed. ¡°Keeps things interesting, Sheba. Also keeps anybody from suspecting our arrangement. Speaking of, my wallet¡¯s feeling a little light these days, if you catch my drift.¡± With a careful glance at the other reporters, Evie slipped Woodhouse a dollar. Woodhouse held the bill up to the light. ¡°Just making sure you¡¯re not printing your own these days,¡± he said. Satisfied, he pocketed the bill and tipped his hat. ¡°Pleasure doing business with you, Sweetheart Seer.¡± ¡°Be a good boy, Woody, and go type something swell about me, will ya?¡± Evie said. With a little backward wave, she flitted past, letting the bellhop open the gilded door for her while the reporters continued to shout her name. The lobby of the Grant Hotel was festive chaos. Partygoers of all sorts¡ªflappers, hoofers, gold diggers, Wall Street boys, and aspiring movie stars¡ªdraped themselves over every available inch of furniture while baffled hotel guests wondered if they¡¯d wandered into a traveling circus by mistake. On the far side of the lobby, the angry hotel manager wiggled his fingers up high, trying to get Evie¡¯s attention. ¡°Horsefeathers!¡± Evie hissed. Turning the other way, she squeezed through the tourniquet of revelers on her way toward the Overland Room, where she spied Henry and Theta in a corner. As she shimmied sideways through the swells, past a sad-eyed accordion player singing something doleful in Italian, people turned and pressed closer to her. ¡°Say, I¡¯ve got to talk with you, sweetheart,¡± a good-looking boy in a cowboy hat purred. ¡°See, there¡¯s a little interest in an oil speculation out in Oklahoma, and I want to know if it¡¯s going to pay off.¡­¡± ¡°I can¡¯t see the future, only the past,¡± Evie demurred, pushing on. ¡°Evie, DAAAARLING!¡± drawled a redhead in a long silver cape trimmed in peacock feathers. Evie had never seen the woman before in her life. ¡°We simply MUST talk! It¡¯s URGENT, my dove.¡± ¡°Why, then, I¡¯d best go put on my urgent shoes,¡± Evie called back without stopping, bumping headlong into someone. ¡°Pardon me, I¡­¡± Evie¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Sam Lloyd.¡± ¡°Hiya, Baby Vamp,¡± he said, ever-ready smirk in place. ¡°Miss me?¡± Evie put her hands on her hips. ¡°What crime have I committed that has landed you on my doorstep?¡± ¡°Just lucky, I guess.¡± He stole a canape from a passing waiter¡¯s tray and shoved it in his mouth, rolling his eyes in rapture. ¡°Caviar. Boy, do I love caviar.¡± Evie tried to go around Sam, but he moved with her. ¡°Could you step aside, please?¡± she asked. ¡°Aww, doll. Are you still sore because I told the Daily News that my sleuthing helped you catch the Pentacle Killer and that the reason you never come to the Creepy Crawly is that you¡¯re so crazy about me you have to stay away?¡± Evie put her hands on her hips. ¡°Yes, Sam. I am sore about that.¡± Sam spread his arms wide in a gesture of apology. ¡°It was a charitable act!¡± Page 10 Evie raised an eyebrow. ¡°The museum needed the press, and that story gave us a little razzle-dazzle. It also got me a date with a chorus girl. A blond named Sylvia. You would not believe what that girl can do with¡ª¡± ¡°Good-bye, Sam.¡± Evie tried to push her way through the crowd but got stuck again. Sam followed her. ¡°Aww, c¡¯mon, doll. Let¡¯s let bygones be bygones. Did I get mad when you told them I was¡­ how¡¯d ya put it again?¡± ¡°A liar, a cheat, and the sort of scum the other pond scum try to swim away from?¡± ¡°That was it.¡± Sam looked at her with big peepers. ¡°Great to see you again, Sheba. Say, why don¡¯t we find some little corner and catch up over a sloe gin fizz?¡± ¡°Holy smokes!¡± Eyes wide, Evie pointed across the room. ¡°Is that Buster Keaton?¡± Sam whirled around. ¡°Where?¡± Quickly, Evie ducked past him and pressed through the throng. Behind her, she could hear Sam calling: ¡°Was that nice?¡± At last, Evie collapsed into a seat beside Theta, who blew smoke from a cigarette perched at the end of a long ebony holder. ¡°Well, if it isn¡¯t the Sweetheart Seer herself. Was that Sam?¡± Theta asked. ¡°Yes. Every time I run into him, I have to remind myself that murder is a crime.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know, Evil. He sure is handsome,¡± Henry teased. Evie glowered. ¡°He¡¯s trouble. And he still owes me twenty clams.¡± ¡°Say,¡± Henry asked, ¡°how about that party you went to last week at the Egyptian Palace Room? On the level: Do they really have live seals in the lobby fountain?¡± ¡°Occasionally. When the residents don¡¯t steal them for their own bathtubs. Oh, daaarlings, next time there¡¯s a party there, you must come!¡± ¡°Daaahlings, you maahhst cahhhme,¡± Theta mimicked. ¡°Those elocution lessons are turning you into a regular princess, Evil.¡± Evie bristled. ¡°Well, I can¡¯t very well be on the radio sounding like a hick from Ohio.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t get sore, Evil. I¡¯d like you even if it sounded like you¡¯d swallowed a whole bag of marbles. Just don¡¯t forget who your friends are.¡± Evie put her hand on Theta¡¯s. ¡°Never.¡± There was a loud crash as a monkey trailing a leash knocked a vase off a table. It leaped from the bald head of a very surprised man and onto a drapery panel, where it now clung, screeching. A girl wearing a puffy feather boa pleaded with the monkey, but it would not be wooed. The animal held tight, squawking and hissing at the crowd. ¡°Where¡¯d they come from?¡± Henry asked. Evie shot her eyes heavenward, trying to remember. ¡°I think they¡¯re with a circus from Budapest. I met them in Times Square and invited them along. Say, did you hear what Sarah Snow said about Diviners?¡± ¡°Who¡¯s Sarah Snow?¡± Theta said on a stream of cigarette smoke. ¡°Exactly my point,¡± Evie said, triumphant. ¡°Well, anyway, she said Diviners were un-American is what.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t let it bother you, darlin¡¯,¡± Henry said. ¡°You¡¯ve got bigger problems.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± Henry jerked his head in the direction of the scowling hotel manager walking briskly toward their table. Quickly, Evie slipped her flask into her garter. ¡°Oh, applesauce. Here comes Mr. Killjoy.¡± ¡°Miss O¡¯Neill! What is going on here?¡± the hotel manager thundered. Evie smiled brightly. ¡°Don¡¯t you just adore parties?¡± The manager¡¯s lip twitched. ¡°Miss O¡¯Neill, as the manager of the Grant Hotel, what I adore¡ªnay, demand¡ªis an end to this nightly chaos. You have made a mockery of a venerable New York institution, Miss O¡¯Neill. There are reporters camped outside the premises every night just to see what fresh madness will erupt¡ª¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t it mahhh-velous?¡± Evie drew the word out. ¡°Think of how much publicity the hotel¡¯s getting for free!¡± ¡°This is not the sort of notoriety the Grant wants, Miss O¡¯Neill. This behavior is intolerable. The party in the Overland Room, as well as the one currently occupying the lobby, is now over. Do I make myself clear?¡± Brows knitted together in concern, Evie nodded. ¡°Perfectly.¡± She positioned two fingers between her teeth and let loose a piercing whistle. ¡°Dolls, the lobby¡¯s become abso-tive-ly murder. We can¡¯t stay here any longer, I¡¯m afraid.¡± The hotel manager nodded curtly in appreciation. Page 11 ¡°So everybody up to my room!¡± Evie shouted, and the stampede began. The Hungarian girl in the feather boa handed the monkey¡¯s leash to the hapless hotel manager, who stood paralyzed as the partygoers swarmed the elevators and stairs. ¡°You looking to get evicted again, Evil?¡± Theta asked as they dashed up the gleaming wooden staircase. ¡°What is this, hotel number two?¡± ¡°Three, but who¡¯s counting? Besides, they won¡¯t evict me. They love me here!¡± Theta looked back down at the hotel manager, who was shouting at a bellhop who was trying to distract the screeching beast with a broom while a telephone operator frantically connected cables in search of someone, anyone, who could remove a monkey from the Grant Hotel. Theta shook her head. ¡°I¡¯ve seen that look before. It ain¡¯t love, kid.¡± Evie¡¯s room was so thick with people that they spilled out into the elegant damask-papered hallways of the Grant¡¯s third floor. Evie, Theta, and Henry took refuge in the bathroom¡¯s claw-foot tub, leaning their backs against one side of it and resting their legs across the other. In the room just beyond, the accordionist launched into the same doleful number he¡¯d played twice before. ¡°Not again!¡± Evie growled and drank from her flask. ¡°We should get him to play one of your songs, Henry. You should write for the accordion. An entire accordion revue! It¡¯ll be a sensation.¡± ¡°Gee, why didn¡¯t I think of that before? Henry DuBois¡¯s Accordion Follies! The Ins and Outs of Love¡­¡± Henry sighed. ¡°That¡¯s almost bad enough to be a Herbert Allen song.¡± ¡°Herbert Allen! I¡¯ve heard his songs on the radio!¡± Evie said. ¡°I like the one that goes, ¡®I love your hair / I love your nose / I love you from your head to toes, My daaaaarling girl!¡¯ Or the one that goes, ¡®Daaarling, you¡¯re top banana / Baaaby, you¡¯re my peaches and cream / Orange you gonna be my Sherbet¡ª¡¯¡± ¡°For the love of Pete, please stop,¡± Henry groaned, cradling his head in his hands. Theta poured the rest of her booze into Henry¡¯s glass. ¡°Herbert keeps getting his rotten songs in the show over Henry¡¯s just because he¡¯s published,¡± she explained. ¡°It¡¯s all the same song. The same horrible song.¡± ¡°Gee, they do sort of sound alike, now that you mention it,¡± Evie said, thinking it over. ¡°Every time I play something for Wally, Herbert finds a way to sabotage it,¡± Henry said, picking up his drink again. ¡°I tell you, if Herbie Allen fell off an apple truck tomorrow, I wouldn¡¯t cry.¡± ¡°Well, then we hate Herbert Allen,¡± Evie said. ¡°I¡¯m sure whatever you write will be dreamy, Hen. And then we¡¯ll all be singing your songs in hotel bathrooms.¡± Theta appraised Evie coolly through her cigarette haze. ¡°Jericho asked after you.¡± ¡°Oh? And how is dear old Jericho?¡± Evie kept her voice even, though her heart beat faster. ¡°Tall. Blond. Serious,¡± Theta said. ¡°If I didn¡¯t know better, I¡¯d swear that big lug is sweet on you. And you on him.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t know better!¡± Evie mumbled. ¡°You don¡¯t know at all.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t stay away from the Bennington forever, Evil.¡± ¡°I can so! May I remind you that Uncle Will wanted me to keep my talent under lock and key? Why, if I¡¯d listened to him, I wouldn¡¯t have any of this,¡± she said, throwing her arms wide and nearly knocking Henry¡¯s drink from his hands. ¡°We¡¯re in a bathtub, Evil,¡± Theta said. ¡°And snug. As. Bugs.¡± Evie knocked back more gin. A warm buzz was starting to take the edge off the headache from her object reading and she wanted it to stay that way. ¡°I refuse to become morose! This is a party. Tell me something happy.¡± ¡°Flo¡¯s calling a press conference next week announcing our new act and letting me give my first interview as Theta St. Petersburg-ski, smuggled into this country by loyal servants during Revolution,¡± Theta said, in an exaggerated Russian accent. She scoffed. ¡°What a load of bunk. And I gotta sell that act to those tabloid jackals.¡± ¡°Well, it¡¯s not like they can prove otherwise. For all you know, you could be a Russian aristocrat. Right, Henry?¡± ¡°Right,¡± Henry said, staring at his drink. Evie squinted at Henry. It wasn¡¯t like him to be so solemn. ¡°Henry, you¡¯re very quiet this evening.¡± She put her face up to his. ¡°Is it because you¡¯re an artiste? Is this what artistes do? Get sad and quiet in party bathtubs?¡± Page 12 ¡°Mostly, we take baths in bathtubs.¡± ¡°You are sad. Is it because of this Herbert Sherbet fellow?¡± Henry pasted on a smile. ¡°Just beat.¡± A girl and her fella stumbled into the bathroom. ¡°When will these accommodations be available?¡± the girl slurred. Her date held her up. ¡°I should like to make a resh¡­ reservation.¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid this booth has been reserved indefinitely,¡± Henry said with an apologetic bow of his head. The girl peered at him through smeary eyes. ¡°Huh?¡± ¡°Scram!¡± Theta yelled. The girl pulled up the strap of her gown with as much dignity as she could muster. ¡°I shall complain to the management,¡± she said and slammed the door behind her. ¡°I think that¡¯s my cue,¡± Henry said, pushing out of the bathtub. ¡°Thanks for a swell party, Evie.¡± ¡°Oh, Henry! You¡¯re not leaving yet, are you?¡± ¡°Forgive me, darlin¡¯. I have a pressing engagement. With sleep.¡± ¡°Henry,¡± Theta said. Her voice carried a hint of warning. ¡°Not too long.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry about what?¡± Evie asked, swiveling her head from Henry to Theta and back again. ¡°Anything,¡± Henry said, giving a courtly bow. ¡°Ladies, I¡¯ll see you in my dreams.¡± ¡°What was that about?¡± Evie asked once Henry had gone. ¡°It¡¯s nothing,¡± Theta answered. ¡°Uh-oh. I know that face. That isn¡¯t a happy Theta face,¡± Evie said, sitting up so suddenly she sloshed the contents of her flask onto her dress. Theta took the flask away. ¡°That¡¯s not fair,¡± Evie groused. ¡°I shall report you to the authorities for the crime of gin-napping!¡± ¡°You can have it back in a sec. I got something I wanna talk about.¡± Evie rolled her head left toward Theta and sighed heavily. ¡°Oh, all right.¡± ¡°I wanna talk about what happened to us. I wanna talk about the Pentacle Killer.¡± Evie pouted. ¡°That is pos-i-tute-ly the last topic I wish to discuss.¡± ¡°You say that every time I bring it up. I know you told the papers that John Hobbes was a crazed madman. But you and me, we both know that ain¡¯t the truth. That night, when I was trapped with Hobbes in the theater, I felt something I¡¯d never felt before.¡± ¡°What was that?¡± Theta took a deep breath and let it out. ¡°Evil.¡± ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°Not you. I meant I felt the presence of evil.¡± ¡°Well. It¡¯s over now,¡± Evie said, hoping Theta would take the hint. ¡°Is it?¡± ¡°Well, sure. He¡¯s gone,¡± Evie said a little defiantly. ¡°It¡¯s all going to be the berries from now on. Nothing but blue skies. Just like the song.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know about that,¡± Theta said, leaning her head back against the cool bathroom tiles. ¡°You still dreaming about that eye symbol?¡± ¡°No. I¡¯m not. My dreams are pos-i-tute-ly the swellest,¡± Evie said, but she didn¡¯t look at Theta when she said it. ¡°It just seems like something¡¯s bubbling up. Something bad.¡± Evie slung an arm around her pal¡¯s shoulders. ¡°Darling Theta. There¡¯s no need to worry,¡± Evie said, expertly stealing her flask back from Theta. ¡°Do you know, in the taxi on the way here, I saw a billboard for Marlowe Industries. It said ¡®The future of America.¡¯ The future is now, and we¡¯re on the tippy-top of the world. Our best lives are waiting for us around that next bend. We just have to reach for them. Forget bad dreams. They¡¯re just dreams. Let¡¯s drink to the future of America. The future of us. Long may we both reign.¡± Evie clinked her flask against Theta¡¯s glass. The bathroom blurred a bit, giving it a soft glow. Evie liked it blurry. ¡°There¡¯s something else I gotta ask you,¡± Theta said softly. ¡°It¡¯s about this whole Diviners business¡ª¡± ¡°Most of them hocus-pocus phonies,¡± Evie warned, holding up a finger. ¡°What I wanna know is, you ever hear of somebody who had a power that was dangerous?¡± ¡°Whaddaya mean?¡± Evie asked. ¡°Dangerous how?¡± They were interrupted by a sharp pounding on the hotel room¡¯s door, followed by a gruff voice calling, ¡°Open up. Police.¡± ¡°Horsefeathers!¡± Evie launched herself from the tub, poured her gin into the mouthwash tumbler, and stumbled woozily across the room, exhorting everyone to hide their booze. She spied Sam in the corner avidly kissing the Hungarian circus performer. Page 13 ¡°No class a¡¯tall,¡± Evie tutted on her way past. She threw open the door. Two policemen flanked the hotel manager. Evie managed a big smile even though her head ached. ¡°Oh, hello! I hope you¡¯ve brought ice. We¡¯ve run out.¡± The manager muscled his way in. ¡°The party is over, Miss O¡¯Neill,¡± he said with barely suppressed fury. ¡°Everyone out! Now! Or I¡¯ll have you all thrown in jail.¡± A boozy exhale escaped Evie¡¯s lips, momentarily lifting a curl that immediately fell into her eyes again. ¡°You heard Papa. Better get a wiggle on, everybody.¡± Drunken party guests gathered misshapen hats, loose shoes, bow ties, and stockings, and shuffled through the door after the police. Sam left with the Hungarian circus girl in tow. ¡°She¡¯s too tall for you,¡± Evie hissed. ¡°I¡¯ll bet she can bend,¡± Sam shot back with a grin. Evie kicked him in the behind. The manager handed Evie a folded note. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± she asked. ¡°An eviction notice, Miss O¡¯Neill. You have until eleven o¡¯clock tomorrow morning to vacate these premises permanently.¡± ¡°Eleven o¡¯clock? Gee. But that¡¯s before noon!¡± ¡°I weep,¡± the manager said, turning on his heel. ¡°Sleep tight, Miss O¡¯Neill.¡± Theta grabbed her wrap and headed for the door, shaking her head. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, pal, she¡¯s well on her way to being tight.¡± At the door, Evie grabbed Theta¡¯s arm. ¡°Say, Theta, what were you telling me before the cops came?¡± Theta¡¯s big brown eyes showed worry for just a second. Then she let the tough-girl mask slide back into place. ¡°Nothing, Evil. Just hot air. Get some sleep. I¡¯ll tell Jericho you say hello.¡± When the last guest had cleared out, Evie stumbled to the window and opened it, breathing in the cold night air as she stared at the neat window squares of light and thought of all the lives taking place behind them. Why did Theta have to mention Jericho? Evie had petted with lots of boys. Her world was good times. It spun like a roulette wheel. Boys were fun. Boys were playtime. Boys were distractions. Jericho was not a boy. Just now, with the room emptied of revelers and the prospect of the long, hollow night looming, Evie craved the comfort of another human being. It wouldn¡¯t hurt to talk to him, would it? she reasoned as she fumbled the hotel phone from its cradle. ¡°Good eee-ve-ning,¡± she said to the operator, the alcohol suddenly thickening her tongue so that she had to work to sober up her speech. ¡°I¡¯d liiike to place a caaall to Bradford¡­ eight-ohhh-five-niiine, pleeease.¡± Evie wrapped the telephone cord around her index finger as the operator made the connection. Probably Jericho was sleeping, or perhaps he was out with another girl having the time of his life, not thinking about her at all. What if Uncle Will answered the phone? What was she doing? Evie slurred into the receiver, ¡°Nev¡¯r mind, op¡¯rator. Cancel this call, please,¡± and quickly hung up. A collection of spent bootleg bottles, half-spilled cups, and overflowing ashtrays covered the top of the bed. Evie was too tired to clean it up. Instead, she grabbed the silk coverlet from the chaise and curled up on the floor like a child. She¡¯d lied to Theta about the dreams. They still came, bewildering, stained in horror. The soldiers. The explosions. The strange eye symbol. And on the worst nights, Evie dreamed she was still trapped in that house of horrors with John Hobbes whistling down the stairs while the wraiths of the Brethren poured from the walls. ¡°Ghosts. Hate ghosts. They are terrible¡­ terrible people,¡± Evie mumbled sleepily, her head spinning as it rested on the rug. For a moment, her hand strayed to her neck again, searching for a comfort that was no longer there. After leaving the Grant, Henry had found a little club, where he played piano until the wee hours. It was inching toward three by the time Henry let himself into the tiny flat he shared with Theta at the Bennington Apartments. He peeked through the crack in Theta¡¯s bedroom door and saw that she was fast asleep with her silk mask over her eyes to block out the haze of city bright that crept through the windows despite the shades. Henry shut her door and made his way to the small card table awash in onionskin sheet music filled with his blotchy notations and unfinished lyrics. In the center of the table was an old coffee can marked HENRY¡¯S PIANO FUND. For well over a year, Theta had been stuffing it with every dollar and bit of change she could spare to pay Henry back for taking care of her when she had needed it most. He stared at the song he¡¯d been trying to get right for the better part of a week, then slumped into his chair. Page 14 ¡°This is a sorry affair,¡± he grumbled, crumpling the page and tossing it onto the floor, which was already littered with his previous attempts. Back in New Orleans, on the riverboat, when someone played a wrong note, Louis would grin and say, ¡°What that cat ever do to you, you gotta make it cry like that?¡± Louis. Henry pushed aside the music and set a metronome in the center of the table. Then he wound the arm of his alarm clock and placed the clock on the windowsill, dangerously close to the edge. Henry released the metronome¡¯s pendulum and settled his lanky frame into a worn chair beside a hissing radiator. For comfort, he put his straw boater on his head. The metronome¡¯s steady ticking grew louder, drowning out the soft bleating of New York City street life, lulling Henry into a hypnotic state. His eyelids fluttered¡ªonce, twice. ¡°Please,¡± he said softly. And then he was under. Henry came alive inside the dream world with a choking gasp, as if he¡¯d been holding his breath underwater. For the first few seconds, there was only panic as his confused brain sought to make sense of what was happening. Slowly, his heartbeat settled. His breathing relaxed. Henry blinked, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the dream light. Sharp and unforgiving, it rendered ordinary objects¡ªa haystack, a wagon, a face¡ªstarkly beautiful or, at times, slightly ghoulish. Right now, that strange brightness caught the faces of a herd of buffalo whose deep, dark eyes watched Henry impassively. ¡°Hello,¡± Henry said to the majestic beasts. The buffalo opened their mouths, and music poured out as from a radio. Henry grinned. ¡°Shall we dance? No? Next time.¡± Stretching behind Henry was a tall, snowy hillside whose top disappeared into a cloud bank. Theta sat on a rock nearby, watching the village below, where ropes of smoke twisted up from a row of floating, houseless chimneys. ¡°Hey, darlin¡¯,¡± Henry said, standing beside her. The brightness of the dream gave her cheekbones a cliff¡¯s-edge sharpness, like a German film star. She seemed agitated. ¡°Bad dream?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Theta said in an eerily flat voice. ¡°I don¡¯t like the looks of those red flowers over there.¡± Henry followed Theta¡¯s gaze. Where the buffalo had been was now a field of poppies. As he watched, the flowers trembled into flames and melted into thick red pools. Theta¡¯s breathing quickened, signaling the descent into nightmare. Henry¡¯s voice was soothing. ¡°Listen, Theta, why don¡¯t you have another dream? How about the circus? You like the circus, don¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Sure,¡± Theta said, smiling slightly. When Henry looked again, the flames had been transformed into a funny little juggler who kept dropping his pins on purpose. ¡°I gotta look for Louis now, Theta.¡± ¡°Sure, Hen,¡± she said, and then Theta was gone. Majestic pines shot up from the ground. Their gray shadows spilled boldly across the white floor of the forest. On a tree stump, the needle of an old Victrola caught again and again on the damaged grooves of a slightly warped record, distorting the song: ¡°Pa-uu-ck up your trou-u-u-u-bles in your o-oold kit b-u-ag and s-uu-mile, smile, smi-i-ile.¡­¡± Beside the Victrola, a soldier mimed the words as he danced a little soft shoe. His smile was unnerving. Nearby, a group of soldiers sat at a table, playing cards. The cards all carried the same painted image of a macabre man in a long, dark coat and a stovepipe hat. The man¡¯s black eyes were bottomless. ¡°We¡¯re about to get started, old boy. You¡¯ll want to take cover,¡± one of the soldiers said before securing his gas mask, the side of which had been stamped with an eye and a lightning bolt. That same symbol shimmered on the foreheads of the soldiers, a ghostly tattoo. ¡°The time is now!¡± a sergeant barked. The soldiers quickly fell into position. The phonograph¡¯s needle skipped: ¡°Pa-uu-ck up your troubles¡­ troubles¡­ trou-u-u-u-bles¡­ troubles.¡­¡± The smiling, dancing soldier faced Henry once more, but this time half of his face had been eaten away. Flies swarmed the rotting flesh along his jaw. With a gasp, Henry stumbled backward, scrambling up the hill and into the forest, away from the camp. Beneath his feet, the snow vanished like a tablecloth snatched from under a place setting by a skilled magician¡¯s hands. Now he stood on a weather-cracked road that stretched out toward a horizon line so sharp it seemed painted. Wheat fields lay on either side. The sky churned with storm clouds. On the windswept prairie, his mother sat in an enormous red velvet chair. The wind whipped her silver-threaded hair across her delicate face. Henry couldn¡¯t feel the wind or smell the dust¡ªhe never could on a dream walk, just as he couldn¡¯t touch people or objects¡ªbut he was aware of the idea of both. Henry¡¯s father stood behind his wife, one hand on her shoulder as if to keep her from flying away. His father¡¯s face was stern, disapproving. Page 15 ¡°Saint Barnabas told me the truth,¡± his mother said, wide-eyed. ¡°It was the vitamins. The vitamins did this to you. I should never have taken them.¡± His mother began to cry. ¡°Oh, why did you leave me, Bird?¡± ¡°Please don¡¯t cry, Maman,¡± Henry pleaded, his heart sinking. Even in dreams, a fellow wasn¡¯t safe. ¡°What is this filth?¡± his father¡¯s voice boomed. In one hand he held a letter, which grew so big it blocked out the sun. Henry¡¯s heart pounded against his ribs. ¡°It was the vitamins,¡± his mother said again, and she held out her bleeding wrists. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m sorry.¡± ¡°Stop. Please,¡± Henry said. He shut his eyes and tried to seize control of the runaway dream. Why could he change dreams for others, but never for himself? ¡°Louis! Louis, where are you?¡± The wind kicked up dust on the road, and in the dust, Henry could make out faint figures, as transparent as Irish lace at a sunstruck windowpane. Leading them was the man he¡¯d seen on the tarot cards¡ªthe thin man in the tall black hat. Henry started toward them, but a crow darted in front of him with a great flapping of feathers, as if urging him away from this place, ahead of the dust and the things moving inside it. And so Henry ran after it, deeper into the wheat field. Ling¡¯s eyes fluttered open inside the dream to a flurry of pink-white petals falling down around her. Sitting up, she found herself in a garden of cherry trees in full bloom. The place had no meaning for Ling, so she surmised that it must have had meaning for Lee Fan¡¯s grandmother. Often when she conjured the dead, they returned to a place they¡¯d loved in life¡ªor a place of trouble they revisited in order to put that trouble to rest. Before sleep, Ling had offered prayers and joss money out of respect. She¡¯d put Mrs. Lin¡¯s ring on the index finger of her right hand. Now, as respectfully as possible, she called for Mrs. Lin and waited. Ling didn¡¯t know why she had the power to manifest the spirits of the dead inside dreams. They didn¡¯t come for long¡ªusually just long enough to answer the question posed to them, and then they were gone, back to wherever their energy was scattered. Another person might¡¯ve seen the power to dream walk and speak to the dead as a spiritual gift. Ling had no such sentimentality. To her, it was a scientific puzzle, a great ¡°Eureka!¡± moment waiting to be explored, examined, quantified. Was a visit from the dead proof that time was merely an illusion? Was there something about Ling observing the dead that made it happen, as if the dead needed her consciousness in order to take form? Where did the dead come from? Where did their energy go afterward? What was that energy? Did the existence of ghosts mean that there might be more than one universe, and dreams were the beginning of a way into them? With every dream walk, Ling searched for clues. Soon, Lee Fan¡¯s grandmother appeared. A subtle, shimmery aura fuzzed the edges of her. This was how Ling knew the dead. She paid attention to the golden glow, making mental notes like a scientist would: Was Mrs. Lin¡¯s aura stronger? Brighter? Did it waver or hold other colors? Did she appear more like a solid or a wave? Did any event precede her appearance? ¡°Why do you disturb my rest?¡± Mrs. Lin demanded, snapping Ling back to the task at hand. ¡°Auntie, I¡¯ve come with a request from your granddaughter, Lee Fan. She can¡¯t find the blue dress made for her in Shanghai and wondered if you might help her find it. She¡¯s afraid of offending her aunt and uncle, and wishes¡ª¡± ¡°She isn¡¯t afraid of offending anyone,¡± Mrs. Lin interrupted sharply. ¡°Tell my granddaughter that I am not to be summoned for such trivial concerns and that if she cannot keep up with her things, I don¡¯t know why she expects me to do so from beyond the grave.¡± Ling suppressed a smile. ¡°Yes, Auntie. I will tell her.¡± ¡°She is a foolish girl who¡ª¡± Mrs. Lin cut off abruptly, her expression shifting from irritation to fear. ¡°It isn¡¯t safe,¡± she whispered, making Ling¡¯s pulse quicken. ¡°What do you mean, Auntie?¡± Ling asked. Already she was losing her connection to Lee Fan¡¯s grandmother, who began to fade. The unseen machinery of the dreamscape lurched into motion, and Ling felt herself falling. She landed on a dirt road that seemed to stretch on forever. To her left, a swath of ripe wheat rippled like a burnished sea under a daytime sky. To her right stretched the long twilight expanse of the city, heavy with smoke and fog. ¡°Hey! You there!¡± A sandy-haired boy wearing an old straw boater hat waved to Ling from the edge of the wheat field. Ling was so startled she couldn¡¯t speak. This boy wasn¡¯t a part of the dream. Page 16 This boy saw her. He was awake¡ªawake and walking, just like Ling. All of Ling¡¯s scientific curiosity left her. For the first time on a walk, she was afraid. ¡°Hey!¡± the boy shouted and moved toward her. And all Ling could hear in her head were the words of Lee Fan¡¯s dead grandmother: It isn¡¯t safe. Ling turned and ran as fast as she could toward the city. ¡°Wait!¡± Henry called, but the girl was swift. She folded into the fog of the city. Another walker! Henry had never come across anyone who could do what he did. He needed to catch up to this girl. He had to talk to her. Maybe she could help him find Louis somehow. Buildings appeared like dark handprints of paint against a primed canvas: apartment buildings, shops, and restaurants. The distant scaffolding of the elevated train. Banners lettered with Chinese characters rippled in the breeze. Henry knew this place. He was in Chinatown. He spied the girl standing in front of a restaurant with an upper balcony that reminded him a little of the houses on Bourbon Street. A neon sign blinked out THE TEA HOUSE. ¡°Wait! Please!¡± Henry called as she again took off running, this time down an alley thick with fog. On the other side of the alley, the fog thinned. Henry whirled around, trying to get his bearings. He could just make out a line of ramshackle buildings hiding in the gloom. He didn¡¯t see the other dream walker, nor did he see Louis. Henry was so frustrated he wanted to punch something. ¡°Louis!¡± he screamed. ¡°Where are you?¡± ¡°What are you doing?¡± It was the girl, shouting at him. She was close enough that he could see the green of her eyes. She seemed both angry and frightened. ¡°Get out of my dream! I don¡¯t want you here!¡± ¡°Your dream? Now, wait just a minute¡ª¡± Henry moved toward the girl and she stumbled backward. On instinct, Henry grabbed hold of her arm to keep her from falling and was shocked when he made contact. Electrical sparks danced along their skin. With a yelp, Henry yanked his hand away, shaking it out. The air smelled strongly of ozone. Pop-pop-pop! Fireworks exploded over the rooftops, faint sketches of light. Sounds echoed on the cobblestone streets: The clip-clop of horses. The squeak of wooden wheels. Angry shouts and raucous laughter. Crowd noises. Ghostly figures moved inside the fog, too. It was as if the dream itself had been sleeping and now it was coming to life. And then, faintly, Henry heard fiddle music. It was a song so familiar his body knew it before his brain¡ª¡°Rivi¨¨re Rouge,¡± an old Cajun song, Louis¡¯s favorite. Whoever was playing the song played it exactly the same way Louis did, jazzed up, Delta style. ¡°Louis,¡± Henry whispered. He whirled around, searching for the source of the music. It seemed to be coming from behind the facade of an old limestone building with the words DEVLIN¡¯S CLOTHING STORE whiskered across the front. ¡°Louis!¡± Henry called, running for the building. ¡°Wait!¡± the girl called, startling. A woman¡¯s shriek pierced the dream: ¡°Murder! Murder! Oh, murder!¡± Something was moving in the fog, coming closer. A church bell tolled, growing louder and louder. Suddenly, the distant roofs of Chinatown, the impressionistic streets of the old city, the limestone building¡ªall of it curled up as if the dream been thrown into the fire. ¡°No! Not yet!¡± Henry cried, but it was too late. The last thing he saw was the girl dream walker¡¯s bright green eyes, and then he woke to the clang of his alarm clock as it tumbled from the windowsill and landed on the floor with a clatter. On the table, the metronome ticked away. His watch showed one minute till four. He¡¯d been under for fifty-nine minutes. ¡°Horsefeathers, Henry!¡± Theta marched into the room with her sleep mask pushed up over her short dark bangs and shut off the alarm. ¡°S-sorry, Theta.¡± Sighing, Theta silenced the metronome. ¡°You went looking again?¡± ¡°Theta, I think I found him.¡± ¡°You did? Oh, Hen!¡± Theta covered the shivering Henry with a blanket and pulled a chair for herself next to his. ¡°Go on. Spill.¡± Henry told Theta about hearing Louis¡¯s fiddle. ¡°Maybe he¡¯s trying to find me, too.¡± ¡°Gee, that¡¯s swell news. Hen,¡± Theta said, sounding worried, ¡°can you move yet?¡± For at least five minutes after a dream walk, Henry remained paralyzed, as if his body were still in that other world. With effort, he lifted his arm a fraction, wincing as he worked movement back into the muscles. ¡°See? Good as new.¡± Page 17 ¡°You know it scares me when you do this. What if one time you can¡¯t move? What if you don¡¯t come back?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry, darlin¡¯. I don¡¯t overdo it.¡± ¡°Only one night a week,¡± Theta reminded him. ¡°Only for an hour.¡± ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± Henry said. ¡°I haven¡¯t even told you the strangest part: I wasn¡¯t the only one walking around tonight.¡± ¡°There¡¯s somebody else like you?¡± ¡°Yes! A girl. When she showed up, I heard the song. Maybe she knows something about Louis. Maybe she can help me find him, Theta.¡± ¡°Well, did you get anything from her? A name?¡± ¡°No,¡± Henry said mournfully. ¡°But it¡¯s the first bit of luck I¡¯ve had.¡± ¡°We¡¯d better get some sleep or we¡¯ll be dragging through rehearsal tomorrow.¡± Henry rolled his eyes. ¡°Florenz Ziegfeld presents: Hocus-Pocus Hotcha! An all-new Diviners revue filled with magic and mysticism in song and dance!¡± ¡°So it¡¯s a lousy show. We¡¯ll make it better. It¡¯s the one that¡¯s gonna take us to the top, kid.¡± ¡°Take you to the top, you mean. You¡¯re the one Flo¡¯s grooming to be a star.¡± ¡°We¡¯re a team. You take one, you gotta take the other.¡± ¡°Who¡¯s my best girl?¡± Henry asked. ¡°I am. And don¡¯t you forget it.¡± Theta let out a long sigh and snuggled next to her best friend, resting her head on his chest. Her sleek dark bob still smelled like cigarette smoke. ¡°Maybe we¡¯re all going crazy.¡± ¡°Maybe.¡± Henry kissed the top of Theta¡¯s head, and she put her arm across his stomach. ¡°Hen?¡± ¡°Yeah, darlin¡¯?¡± ¡°Can I sleep in your bed with you?¡± ¡°If you can get me there.¡± Theta helped Henry to his feet and then to his room, where the two of them fell asleep side by side, arms entwined like two halves of the same whole. In his dream, George Huang stood under the hazy sun at a late-afternoon party wearing a cream-colored suit and a striped silk shirt with fancy French cuffs of the sort he¡¯d stared at in shop windows where they didn¡¯t welcome people like him. The bright, fast rhythms of a jazz band echoed through the dream. Up on the hill, a sprawling white house loomed, casting sharp blades of shadow across the summer-green lawn. George smiled, ecstatic. His good dream! Somehow, he¡¯d made it back here. Men nodded solemnly as George walked by. He was important here. Respected. Photographers took his picture for the papers. As George smiled and posed, he saw the boys who¡¯d bullied him and the customers who ordered him around as if he were barely human huddled together on the other side of a tall picket fence, watching, envying. George raised his champagne glass. How do you like me now? he thought. ¡°Georgie! Over here! Hey!¡± Several pretty girls waved to him as they peeled off their stockings and jumped into a champagne fountain, giggling and splashing with abandon. George threw his head back and laughed. Oh, this was the best dream in the world! He never wanted to wake up. On the edge of the lawn, Lee Fan appeared wearing a red cheongsam, the wind whipping her hair across her rouged cheeks. ¡°Dream with me¡­¡± she whispered. She turned and walked inside the tall white house. That whisper ignited a new fire in George. He¡¯d never wanted anyone or anything so desperately. His ancestors shimmered on the edges of the party like images fading from a photograph. Some of them seemed to be reaching out, as if they could grab hold of him, as if they wanted to tell him something important, but George didn¡¯t want to lose sight of his dream. So he raced ahead, leaving them behind. He ran past the fountain, where the dripping girls eyed him hungrily. Their voices swirled, a seductive, whispering chorus: ¡°Dream with us, dream with us, us, us, the dream wants you wants you wants you to dream to dream to dream with us.¡± Lee Fan stood just inside the darkened doorway of the house in her red dress. She waved her arm, and behind her the dark lit up like a movie screen, showing a film in which the two of them danced close while an orchestra played and a girl singer crooned, ¡°Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me. Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee.¡­¡± On-screen, Lee Fan angled her face toward George¡¯s for a kiss, and his heart fluttered. But just before the actual kiss, it all went dark again, like a nickelodeon cutting out at the good part so you¡¯d keep putting in nickels. In the doorway, Lee Fan crooked a finger, beckoning George as she backed in, letting the gloom swallow her whole. Everything George wanted was waiting there in the dark, so he went inside. Page 18 Above him, the ceiling winked with a soft phosphorescence. The shivery coolness was an unwelcome surprise, though. And there were sounds¡ªlow growls and scratchings that gave him pause. He glanced back through the open door at the sliver of sunshine he¡¯d left behind, then pressed on, walking deeper into darkness. ¡°Lee Fan?¡± he called. No answer. Shadows moved across George¡¯s hands, and he looked up toward the flickering ceiling. No, not flickering. Moving. The low growls he¡¯d heard swelled into a bone-chilling chorus, and George had only one thought: Wake up NOW. He ran back toward the hazy circle of daylight. Back to where everything was good. But every time he got close, the sunlight drew farther away. At last, George pushed free, tumbling down onto the lawn. The summer grass had gone brittle; it twisted with snakes. The champagne fountain ran red with blood. The half-dressed girls slurped up handfuls of the stuff, and when they opened their rotting mouths, they had teeth as sharp as a razor¡¯s edge. ¡°More!¡± they cried. ¡°More!¡± ¡°Promise¡­¡± the dream demanded. ¡°Wake up. Wake up wake up wake up,¡± George whispered to himself. He shut his eyes, but it didn¡¯t matter; the dream pushed further and further into his mind until his head was filled with the most terrible images: demons eating his entrails, tearing at his neck with their teeth. He couldn¡¯t take another second. ¡°I promise!¡± he cried, opening his eyes again. There was a sharp prick of pain, then an icy cold spreading through him. Far off, Lee Fan waved to him. He could not reach her. He would never reach her. His lips opened to let out one last cry for help. But it never came. The dull gray morning parceled out a meager portion of winter sun to the immigrant neighborhoods of Manhattan¡¯s Lower East Side. Merchants rolled up window shades for another day of business. Tailors who¡¯d escaped pogroms in the Pale readied their sewing machines on Ludlow and Hester Streets while steam rose from the basement grates of the Chinese-run laundries lining Pell and Bayard. The Italian bakeries on Mulberry Street stocked their front windows with golden loaves of bread; the yeast scented the winter air, mixing with the savory tang of chow fan, the tart brine from the pickle barrels, and the cinnamon sweetness of rugelach, a true melting pot of smells. Wind whipped over synagogues, churches, and temples and clanged through the zigzag of metal fire escapes, but it was no competition for the rumble and squeal of the Third Avenue El on the Bowery, the towering dividing line between the Lower East Side and the rest of New York City. From her bed, Ling peered out at the gray-wool clouds threatening to muzzle the paltry sun above Chinatown and made a growl of contempt low in her throat, as if the winter sky were out to get her personally. Fiery spasms rippled across the nerve endings of her legs, and Ling bit down against the pain just as her mother¡¯s voice sounded on the other side of the door: ¡°Rise and shine, Ling!¡± Her mother poked her freckled face in, frowning. ¡°You¡¯re not even dressed, my girl. What¡¯s the matter? Are you feeling all right?¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine, Mama,¡± Ling managed to say. ¡°Here. Let me help you.¡± ¡°I can do it,¡± Ling said, trying to conceal both her pain and her irritation. Her mother hovered in the doorway. ¡°I laid out your slip and dress for you last night. And the wool stockings¡ªit¡¯s terrible cold out.¡± Ling flicked her eyes toward the end of the bed. Her mother had chosen the peach dress Ling hated, the one that made her look like a sad fruit salad. ¡°Thank you, Mama.¡± ¡°Well,¡± her mother said at last, ¡°don¡¯t dally. Breakfast will get cold, and I won¡¯t be hearing a word about that.¡± Only when the door had closed did Ling let out the grunt she¡¯d held back as the tightness loosened its grip on her legs. She lay in bed a moment longer, mulling over last night¡¯s strange dream walk. She¡¯d never met anyone else who could do what she could, which was how she liked it. Her nighttime wanderings were private. Sacred. But that spark¡­ Ling sat up. With a sigh, she reached for the metal braces propped against her nightstand and slid them on over the useless muscles of her calves, cinching the buckles of the leather straps just below and above her knees. Using both hands, she swung her caged legs over the side of the bed, grabbed her crutches, and shuffled stiffly to her cupboard, tugging on a dark blue dress that didn¡¯t make her feel as if she were an item on a summer picnic table. She tied the laces on her black orthopedic shoes. In the mirror, Ling took a last look at herself. What she saw was metal, buckles, and ugly black shoes. Page 19 ¡°Ling!¡± Her mother¡¯s voice again. ¡°Coming, Mama!¡± She squinted at her reflection until she was nothing but a blue blur. In the dining room, the radio played a Sunday-morning program of hymns while her mother poured tea into delicate china cups. Ling took her silent place at the table beside her father and examined the spread before her: fried eggs, bacon, noodles with pork fat, shrimp dumplings, porridge, and toast. The eggs, she knew, would be slightly slimy¡ªher father was the real cook, not her mother¡ªand the porridge was out of the question, so she settled for the toast. ¡°That isn¡¯t all you mean to eat,¡± her mother said with a tsk. Her father maneuvered a dumpling onto Ling¡¯s plate. Ling scowled at it. ¡°You¡¯ve got to keep your strength up, my girl,¡± her mother said. ¡°Your mother is right,¡± her father agreed automatically. Ling turned toward her great-uncle. He was the eldest; his opinion mattered most. ¡°If she wants to eat, she¡¯ll eat,¡± he said, smiling at her, and Ling could¡¯ve hugged him. If she¡¯d been the hugging sort. ¡°At least have some tea.¡± Ling¡¯s mother placed the steaming cup down at Ling¡¯s plate. She poured tea for Ling¡¯s father, too, and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Mr. Chan smiled up at his wife. Twenty years ago, when both of them had newly emigrated¡ªher father from China and her mother from Ireland¡ªher parents had met at a church social. They¡¯d married six months later, and sometimes they still looked at each other like shy, smitten kids at their first dance. Ling found it hideously embarrassing, so she angled her head away from them and toward the newspaper tucked against her father¡¯s plate. An article bore the headline JAKE MARLOWE ANNOUNCES FUTURE OF AMERICA EXHIBITION. ¡°It might be easier to read this way,¡± her father said. He smiled as he handed the newspaper to her. ¡°Thank you, Baba.¡± ¡°Read while you eat,¡± her mother pleaded. ¡°Or we¡¯ll be late for Mass.¡± Ling nibbled a corner of her toast as she skimmed the article: Jake Marlowe to break ground in Queens, New York, for his Future of America Exhibition. Celebrating ¡°The Brave New Age of the Exceptional American,¡± the fair will highlight America¡¯s best and brightest, showcasing achievements and advances in the sciences, agriculture, mathematics, eugenics, robotics, aviation, and medicine. ¡°I suppose you¡¯ll want to go,¡± her father said, his eyes twinkling. Ling knew it was a long shot. Life in the restaurant was all-consuming. For her parents to drive her out to Queens for the groundbreaking ceremony would be precious time away. ¡°Could I, Baba?¡± ¡°We¡¯ll see what we can do.¡± Ling gave a half smile. Another, smaller headline caught her attention, and the smile was replaced by a frown. MYSTERIOUS SLEEPING SICKNESS BAFFLES HEALTH OFFICIALS The sleeping sickness that has bedeviled the residents of Chinatown is now the scourge of other New York City neighborhoods. Four new cases have been reported on the Lower East Side, and one case has been documented as far north as Fourteenth Street. Health officials who remember all too well the devastation of the Spanish Influenza Pandemic in 1918 assure the public that they are investigating with rigor and will ensure the safety of all New Yorkers. ¡°I heard there¡¯s a new case on Mulberry, an Italian girl. And possibly another on Hester Street,¡± Uncle Eddie said. ¡°You know they¡¯re calling it the Chinese Sleeping Sickness.¡± Ling¡¯s father continued sipping his coffee, but she could see from the set of his jaw that the illness¡¯s name registered. ¡°But this sleeping sickness isn¡¯t just here in Chinatown,¡± Mrs. Chan said, wiping her pink, freckled hands on her apron. ¡°All it takes is someone to say it started here and we¡¯re to blame. I hear the city might even cancel our New Year¡¯s celebrations,¡± Uncle Eddie said. ¡°Baba, would they really?¡± Ling asked. The Year of the Rabbit was only a few weeks away. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. The Association will make certain the celebrations go on as planned,¡± Ling¡¯s father said. ¡°Not if they don¡¯t stop this sickness soon.¡± Uncle Eddie sighed. ¡°Already business is down. Fewer tourists come every day.¡± ¡°It will be fine,¡± Mr. Chan said. Uncle Eddie shook his head and turned to Ling. ¡°Your father. Ever the optimist.¡± ¡°And what¡¯s the matter with that?¡± Mrs. Chan tutted. Page 20 ¡°If you believe it, it will be,¡± Mr. Chan said. ¡°If you do not¡­¡± ¡°It will not,¡± Ling finished. She bit down as another spasm gripped her left leg. ¡°Ling! Are you all right?¡± ¡°Yes, Mama,¡± Ling managed to say. ¡°Perhaps you oughtn¡¯t go to Mass this morning.¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Ling said. It wasn¡¯t so much that she wanted to go to church as it was that she was desperate to get out of the house. If her mother thought the spasms weren¡¯t improving, she¡¯d make her stay in bed. Ling felt guilty enough that she wasn¡¯t pulling her weight at the restaurant, and Sunday was the busiest day of the week at the Tea House. Her mother sighed. ¡°All right, my stubborn lass. I can¡¯t fight you on everything. Put your coat on.¡± Church bells sang a Sunday-morning city hymn as Ling and her parents strolled past the pushcart vendors, the greengrocers, and the fish sellers setting up for another day. The occasional automobile honked its way up the narrow street, threading around people dressed in their Sunday best and people dressed for work. As they walked, Ling¡¯s mother nodded and smiled and chatted with neighbors who averted their eyes at the sight of Ling¡¯s braces, as if she only existed from the waist up, as if they could catch the bad luck of her illness simply by looking. Ling would have to force a smile and feign interest in what was being said while thinking, If only I were asleep. If only I were dreaming. Everyone fell silent as they passed an apartment building where a yellow sign had been pasted across the front doors: CITY OF NEW YORK DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH. THESE PREMISES ARE UNDER STATE QUARANTINE REGULATIONS. SLEEPING SICKNESS: KEEP OUT. The streets of Chinatown seemed charged, the scent of iron before the storm. The doors to the quarantined building opened. Masked members of the Chinese Benevolent Association dragged infected bedding into a nearby alley, where other men waited with pails of water. They set the bedding alight. Everyone stopped to watch it burn. The wind blew soot into Ling¡¯s eyes. She turned her head away from the flames and gritty air and, for a second, she saw George, chalk-pale, without a coat, standing just beyond the crowd on the edge of Columbus Park. Ling rubbed at her tearing eyes, and when she opened them again, there was no sign of George anywhere. ¡°It¡¯s terrible, isn¡¯t it?¡± Lee Fan had sidled up next to Ling. They watched as the men in masks doused the fire with the pails of water. ¡°Yes,¡± Ling said, trying not to cough at the acrid air. Lee Fan smiled at Ling¡¯s mother. ¡°I¡¯ll walk Ling to church, Mrs. Chan. She and I have so much to catch up on!¡± Mrs. Chan smiled. ¡°Well, that¡¯s awfully nice of you, Lee Fan. You¡¯ve a good soul.¡± You are leaving me with the Devil! Ling wanted to shout after her mother. Lee Fan waited until Ling¡¯s mother had moved several paces ahead. She looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. ¡°Did you speak to my grandmother?¡± Lee Fan could call herself Lulu and dress like a flapper, but Ling knew that, deep inside, Lee Fan carried the same superstitions, the same fears about offending ancestors, as those around her. It was a thread of obligation sewn into the lining of all of them. It bound them tight. Ling nodded, and Lee Fan¡¯s face lit up. ¡°Well, what did she say? Does she know what happened to my dress? Or did she have something even more important to tell me? Did she mention Tom Kee or a wedding date? Did she have any advice for me at all?¡± ¡°Yes¡± was all Ling said. She¡¯d decided to make ¡°Lulu¡± work for it. ¡°Well? What was it?¡± Lee Fan demanded. Ling could¡¯ve told her anything: Shave your head and live as a nun. Give me the blue dress. Every morning at dawn, you are to leave three shelled walnuts on a linen napkin for the squirrels of Columbus Park. ¡°She said you were a foolish girl and to stop bothering her rest,¡± Ling said. For a split second, Lee Fan was too shocked to say anything. But then her mouth tightened as she spat the words out: ¡°You¡¯re a liar! My grandmother would never say such a thing. I¡¯ll bet you can¡¯t walk in dreams or talk to the dead at all. You¡¯re just a pathetic little fool trying to get attention. I want my two dollars back!¡± ¡°We had a deal. Are you going back on your word?¡± ¡°How do I know if you even spoke to my grandmother? There¡¯s no proof! You¡¯re not even fully Chinese,¡± Lee Fan scoffed. ¡°Why would any of our ancestors want to talk to you?¡± Some of Lee Fan¡¯s crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle. No doubt they¡¯d be whispering about this for days to come. Ling¡¯s cheeks burned. Page 21 ¡°To think I used to feel sorry for you about what happened.¡± Lee Fan glanced quickly at Ling¡¯s leg braces. The girls were all staring now, gossiping and gawking, and Ling wanted nothing more than to turn and walk back toward home, to go to sleep and slip into a dream where she could do anything she wanted¡ªwhere she could run far away. In a wail of sirens, an ambulance roared past. The street was abuzz with nervous speculation. A moment later, Gracie Leung was hurrying toward the girls, calling Lee Fan¡¯s name. ¡°What is it? What¡¯s happened?¡± Lee Fan asked. Gracie was breathless and her eyes brimmed with tears. ¡°Did you hear? Did you hear?¡± ¡°Hear what?¡± Lee Fan said, exasperated. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s too awful!¡± Gracie mewled. ¡°Honestly, Gracie Leung, if you don¡¯t tell me right this instant¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s George Huang!¡± ¡°What about George?¡± Ling cut in. Gracie seemed to register Ling¡¯s presence for the first time. ¡°His mother went to wake him this morning and she couldn¡¯t. She tried and tried. They brought in Dr. Hsu.¡± Gracie took a deep breath. ¡°They think George has the sleeping sickness!¡± The noise in the street crescendoed. The news was spreading quickly from person to person, an infection of gossip. It felt as if a hole had opened in Ling¡¯s stomach. But I just saw him. ¡°Ling! Ling!¡± Her mother was suddenly at her side, a protective arm wrapped around her daughter¡¯s shoulders, as if she could keep her safe forever. For once, Ling didn¡¯t want to push her away. She let her mother hold on tightly, but her eyes searched Pell Street frantically. Yes, the sun had been strong. Yes, there¡¯d been grit in her eyes. But she could¡¯ve sworn that for just a few seconds, it had been George she¡¯d seen standing at the edge of the crowd under a winter sky, shimmering ever-so-faintly around the edges like the dead, his mouth opening and closing in a silent scream. Dr. William Fitzgerald entered the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult, walking briskly toward the museum¡¯s library. As he passed the collections room, his assistant, Jericho Jones, called after him, but Will did not break stride, forcing Jericho to catch up. ¡°A club on Long Island, the Spiritual Divine, has asked you to speak at its hall in two weeks. And the Ladies Ghostly Sunday Supper Club has also requested an appearance.¡± ¡°No and no,¡± Will said. ¡°You¡¯ve also received a request to entertain at little Teddy Sanderson¡¯s tenth birthday party in Brooklyn.¡± Will stopped short, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. ¡°A child¡¯s birthday party? I¡¯m a curator, for heaven¡¯s sake, not a performing circus clown.¡± Jericho shrugged. ¡°They were offering five dollars.¡± ¡°Tell them no.¡± ¡°Of course. Oh, and Miss Walker called. She said to tell you that she¡¯ll come for you at two o¡¯clock sharp tomorrow and not to be late. She said, and I quote, ¡®Tell Dr. Fitzgerald that we¡¯ll be taking my car, as I refuse to ride in that ancient, death-trap Tin Lizzie of his.¡¯¡± Will¡¯s face registered nothing. ¡°Thank you. Anything else?¡± Jericho winced. ¡°Your lecture group is waiting for you in the library. The Mystical Mediums for Peace Between the Dead and the Living?¡± Will¡¯s shoulders sagged. He let out a long sigh. ¡°It¡¯s official. I am a circus clown.¡± With Jericho keeping pace, Will marched into the library, where the ten ¡°Mystical Mediums¡± sat in a neat row wearing identical headbands featuring a third eye emblem affixed to the front. Will gestured vaguely to the headband. ¡°What is, um¡­ that for?¡± A woman in a beaded turban smiled knowingly. ¡°It increases our contact with the spiritual plane!¡± Will shot a withering glance at Jericho, who waved all five of his fingers¡ªfive dollars¡ªand retreated to the second floor, hiding out in the rows of bookshelves as Will¡¯s voice floated up from below: ¡°Good afternoon. I¡¯m Dr. William Fitzgerald, curator of this museum. Let¡¯s begin, shall we? The history of Diviners is aligned with the history of our country, starting with the indigenous population.¡­¡± Up in the stacks, Jericho whispered to Sam, ¡°He can¡¯t keep giving these lectures.¡± ¡°He can if he wants to keep heating the museum,¡± Sam answered. ¡°Did you ask him about you-know-what?¡± ¡°Not yet.¡± ¡°Aww, c¡¯mon, Freddy! That was s¡¯posed to be your job.¡± Page 22 ¡°He¡¯ll say no.¡± ¡°Then we gotta convince him,¡± Sam said. Down below, one of the Mystical Mediums had interrupted Will. ¡°Dr. Fitzgerald, what with all these reports of Diviners these days, wouldn¡¯t you say, then, that it is proof that God Almighty has singled out America as a place for the Divine? For the exceptional, just like Jake Marlowe says?¡± ¡°I suppose that depends upon your definition of exceptional.¡± ¡°I mean exceptional, sir! The exceptional nation built upon ideals of peace, fairness, and the promise of prosperity.¡± Will glanced up at the ceiling mural of beautiful hills, the railroad crisscrossing the verdant nation, the rivers with their original names long forgotten. ¡°I would argue that every country is built upon dreams and violence. Both leave scars. America is certainly no exception to this.¡± ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound very patriotic to me,¡± a woman grumbled to her seatmate. ¡°Dr. Fitzgerald, what do you think of your niece¡¯s radio show?¡± a man asked, and everyone fell into excited whispers. ¡°Did you know she was a Diviner all along? How, exactly, were her talents employed to catch the Pentacle Killer?¡± ¡°Yes, tell us about the Pentacle Killer!¡± the Mystical Mediums begged. ¡°I¡¯m afraid that¡¯s all for today,¡± Will said abruptly and walked out. ¡°Uh-oh,¡± Sam said. ¡°Not again.¡± ¡°Go!¡± Jericho hissed, practically pushing Sam ahead of him on the spiral staircase. ¡°I thought the lecture was an hour,¡± a tweedy gentleman protested. ¡°We paid for an hour!¡± ¡°Careful there, pal,¡± Sam said. ¡°You don¡¯t wanna make your third eye all weepy. Listen, how would you folks like an exclusive look at the diary of Liberty Anne Rathbone, the fabled Diviner sister of the great Cornelius Rathbone, huh? If you would kindly follow me to the collections room. This way, please.¡± While Sam tended to the tour, Jericho let himself into Will¡¯s office. Will stood facing one of the tall windows, staring out at the wintry street. Jericho cleared his throat. ¡°Will, they paid in advance.¡± ¡°I know.¡± Will pinched the bridge of his nose. ¡°Give them a free tour or something.¡± ¡°Sam¡¯s doing just that.¡± ¡°I am indebted to you both,¡± Will said, turning toward Jericho. ¡°Do you have those articles I asked for?¡± Jericho tapped the folder on Will¡¯s desk. ¡°Everything from the past week regarding supernatural sightings, along with today¡¯s newspapers.¡± He took a deep breath. ¡°And this came for you as well.¡± He handed an official-looking envelope to Will, who glanced at the return address¡ªNew York State Office of Taxation¡ªwith its large red letters stamping out FINAL NOTICE, and put it aside. ¡°Ah. Thank you, Jericho. Well. Let¡¯s see what we have today.¡­¡± Will took a seat at his desk, wiped his spectacles clean, hooked them over his ears again, and dove into the clippings. From the pile he selected four that caught his attention. Next he gave a cursory glance to the day¡¯s headlines, flipping through the pages till he came to a picture of Evie smiling out from under a fashionable hat. SWEETHEART SEER HOSTS WILD PARTY AT GRANT HOTEL Nothing could be ¡°DIVINER¡± than a night with Evie O¡¯Neill BY T. S. WOODHOUSE ¡°It¡¯s a nice picture,¡± Jericho said, standing beside Will. Will peered up at him. ¡°Didn¡¯t anyone ever tell you it¡¯s rude to read over someone¡¯s shoulder?¡± Jericho¡¯s face remained impassive. ¡°Didn¡¯t anyone ever tell you it¡¯s rude to be rude?¡± ¡°Sorry,¡± Will said, chastened. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Jericho.¡± ¡°It¡¯s all right.¡± Jericho tapped the clippings Will had put aside. ¡°Why these?¡± ¡°They¡¯re all upstate, within a hundred-mile radius of one another.¡± ¡°Brethren isn¡¯t too far from that path,¡± Jericho noted. ¡°Mmm.¡± ¡°That night, when you¡ªwhen I was shot and you had to administer so much serum at once, was my behavior¡­ what I mean is¡­¡± God, what was the matter with him? He could barely get the words out. ¡°Did I frighten Evie?¡± ¡°Pardon?¡± ¡°Evie. Was she frightened, seeing me like that, with all those tubes and gears inside, knowing what I am?¡± ¡°It wasn¡¯t the only unusual circumstance she¡¯s faced in the past few months. She appeared none the worse for it.¡± Page 23 Jericho nodded, letting his breath out slowly. Maybe there was hope after all. ¡°None the worse for what?¡± Sam said, pushing through Will¡¯s office door. ¡°Nothing,¡± Jericho said, his brows sharpening. ¡°Where are the Mystical Mediums?¡± ¡°The Third Eyes? I left ¡¯em to play with the tarot cards.¡± ¡°You what?¡± Jericho said. ¡°Relax, Freddy. I told ¡¯em the tarot cards can only be read by special people with special powers. Naturally, they think that¡¯s them. Trust me: They¡¯re as happy as clams.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a ridiculous analogy. As if someone could gauge the happiness of a mollusk,¡± Will grumbled, pawing at his messy desk till he found his cigarettes. What¡¯s eating him? Sam mouthed to Jericho. Jericho slid out the ominous tax letter, and Sam acknowledged it with a curt nod. During the Pentacle Murders, the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult had drawn sizable crowds. Everyone wanted a look at the professor of the supernatural who was helping the police hunt down the gruesome, occult-obsessed killer. But then the murders stopped. Manhattan¡¯s frenzied pulse beat for other crimes and scandals, and now, once again, the museum had been forgotten by most everyone except the taxman. Sam cleared his throat. ¡°Professor, if you don¡¯t mind my two cents¡­¡± ¡°I¡¯m fairly sure that I will,¡± Will said, his eyes on his papers. Jericho gave Sam a Let it go look, but Sam ignored his warning. ¡°We¡¯re barely hanging on. A lecture here, a group of self-appointed mystics there. A coupla curious tourists. It¡¯s not enough to keep us off the auction block.¡± ¡°We¡¯ve always managed to pull through.¡± ¡°Not this time, Professor. That¡¯s a final notice. We need a surefire moneymaker. What¡¯s the biggest thing to hit the city since Chock full o¡¯Nuts started roasting peanuts?¡± Will looked up, perplexed. ¡°Chock¡­ full¡ª¡± ¡°Diviners! You can¡¯t pick up a newspaper, turn on the radio, or see an advertisement for chewing gum without bumping up against Diviners fever. Seems to me we¡¯re overlooking an obvious gold mine.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Sam. I don¡¯t follow.¡± ¡°We put together a Diviners exhibit. Capitalize on the fever while everybody¡¯s feverish. Heck, half the loot in here is about or from Diviners already. Just make sure you add some razzmatazz, and you¡¯re in business.¡± ¡°Will, it¡¯s a good idea,¡± Jericho said. ¡°See? Even the nihilist agrees. And he likes nothing.¡± Sam grinned at Jericho, who rolled his eyes. ¡°And¡­ we could get a big name in to draw a crowd. Somebody people would pay to see.¡± ¡°Who, pray tell, would that be?¡± Sam paused. ¡°Evie.¡± The muscles along Will¡¯s jawline tightened. ¡°No.¡± ¡°C¡¯mon, Professor. You two can¡¯t be on the outs forever. You gotta break the ice sometime. I saw her last night and¡ª¡± ¡°Wait a minute: You saw Evie?¡± Jericho interrupted. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s what I said. Professor, I¡¯m telling ya, one word from her on the radio and we¡¯re made. And if she agrees¡ª¡± ¡°Where did you see Evie?¡± ¡°The Grant Hotel¡­ If she agrees¡ª¡± ¡°But how did¡ª¡± ¡°Settle down there, Freddy,¡± Sam said. ¡°Like I was saying, if she agrees to be our special guest for the Diviners exhibit party, everything¡¯s jake.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll come up with the money for the taxes without having to sully the ideals of this institution,¡± Will said sharply. ¡°So you won¡¯t make nice with her? Not even to save the museum?¡± Sam held up the notices. ¡°We¡¯ve only got until March before the city takes this place, Professor.¡± Will shoved the tax letter beneath the stack of clippings on his desk. ¡°We¡¯ll pull through. As for these sightings, there are more of them in the past couple of months, ever since John Hobbes. Have you noticed?¡± And just like that, the topics of a Diviners exhibit, the party, and Evie were dismissed. Will tapped a fountain pen in a slow rhythm against the desk. ¡°There¡¯s something there. Somehow I sense that it¡¯s all connected.¡± ¡°How?¡± Jericho asked. Will was up and pacing. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Yet. But I don¡¯t think I¡¯m going to find out by staying here.¡± Will stopped beside the tall globe stand. He gave the world a spin, trailing a finger over its curved surface. ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m considering going out into the field, like in the old days when I was a researcher. Do you think the two of you could run the museum while I look into a few of these cases? I¡¯d only be gone for a short while. Ten days. A few weeks at most.¡± Page 24 Jericho shook his head. ¡°Will, I don¡¯t think¡ª¡± Sam stepped on Jericho¡¯s foot, cutting him off. ¡°Of course we could! Why, the giant and I are a terrific team!¡± ¡°Very well, then. It¡¯s settled. I¡¯ll leave tomorrow around two o¡¯clock.¡± Suddenly, Miss Walker¡¯s mysterious telephone message made sense to Jericho. Will had decided to leave long before he brought up the idea. This conversation they were having now was strictly a formality. ¡°Well then,¡± Will said abruptly, ¡°I believe I¡¯ll take a walk, if you don¡¯t mind.¡± Sam followed Will down the museum¡¯s long hallway. ¡°Don¡¯t you worry about a thing, Professor. I¡¯ve got this all under control.¡± ¡°That is precisely the statement that makes me worry,¡± Will said, throwing wide the front door. The morning sun had given way to the first warning drops of what surely would become a dismal drizzle. He shook out his umbrella. ¡°Don¡¯t open that in here, Doc,¡± Sam cautioned. ¡°Why not?¡± Sam shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s bad luck. Everybody knows that.¡± ¡°We make our own luck.¡± Will released the black spiderlike canopy, angling its full bonnet through the door like a shield. After seeing the Mystical Mediums out, Sam returned to the library to find Jericho perched at a long table, reading as usual. ¡°I¡¯m back. Did you miss me?¡± he said, dropping into Will¡¯s chair. Jericho didn¡¯t look up from his book. ¡°Like typhoid. By the way, as regards the party, I told you so. And that¡¯s Will¡¯s chair.¡± ¡°Yeah. Comfy. I had no idea it was so soft.¡± ¡°Out.¡± ¡°C¡¯mon, Freddy. Dad¡¯s not home.¡± ¡°Out.¡± With a sigh, Sam moved to the Chesterfield. He put his feet up on the table near Jericho¡¯s hands just to annoy him. ¡°Pal, we gotta pull off this Diviners exhibit. We can¡¯t let Will lose the museum.¡± Jericho gave Sam a dubious glance as he turned the page. ¡°Since when did you become so invested?¡± ¡°I¡¯m a caring fella. Can¡¯t a fella want to do a good turn for another?¡± ¡°There¡¯s gold buried in the walls, isn¡¯t there?¡± ¡°Look, I got it good here. If the museum goes under, so do I.¡± ¡°And there we have it.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not just me, pal. You¡¯ve got a square deal, too. How many jobs out there for fellas who read Nietzsche and catalog gris gris bags? We need a plan if we both want to stay employed. This Diviners exhibit is just the ticket. With the professor on the road, we¡¯ve got two solid weeks to put this thing together without him interfering.¡± ¡°He won¡¯t like it.¡± ¡°He won¡¯t be around to stop it, and once we put the plan in motion, what¡¯s he gonna do? Bold action, Jericho.¡± Jericho leaned back in his chair, his eyes on Sam. ¡°So what¡¯s your brilliant plan to get Evie to host the party? She and Will haven¡¯t spoken since she told all of New York that she¡¯s a Diviner.¡± ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sure I can persuade Evie,¡± Sam said, hooking his hands behind his head. Jericho turned back to his book. ¡°Yeah? Did you discuss that last night at the Grant?¡± ¡°You¡¯re really put out about that, aren¡¯t you?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t say that.¡± Jericho flipped the page. ¡°So¡­ how is she? Did she seem happy?¡± Sam shrugged. ¡°Sure. It was a party. You know how those things go. Or no, you don¡¯t, do you?¡± Jericho ignored Sam¡¯s jibe. ¡°Do you see each other often?¡± Sam could tell Jericho the truth, that Evie had practically kicked him out of her party. But it was more fun to let the giant think otherwise. ¡°Oh, gee. As a gentleman, I probably shouldn¡¯t say more than that.¡± ¡°Fine. Don¡¯t tell me.¡± Jericho glanced at the clock. ¡°It¡¯s almost time. Go open up.¡± ¡°Me? How come I gotta go? C¡¯mon, Freddy. It¡¯s cold out there. If I get sick, half the girls in New York will be crying their eyes out.¡± ¡°No doubt the other half will volunteer to dig your grave.¡± ¡°Aww, Freddy. That hurts my heart.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t have a heart. It¡¯s your turn. Go.¡± ¡°But¡ª¡± Without looking up, Jericho pointed to the door. ¡°You are banished. I banish you.¡± ¡°Fine,¡± Sam grunted. ¡°I¡¯ll go hang out the ¡®open¡¯ shingle. Not that it matters.¡± Page 25 ¡°Now who¡¯s the nihilist?¡± Jericho waited until Sam had gone. Then he slid the newspaper out from under his book and opened it to the article on Evie. Over the past few months, he¡¯d sent her two letters and composed at least two dozen more that he hadn¡¯t sent. The letters were all the same: Dear Evie, I hope you¡¯re doing well. I really enjoyed your radio show. The Bennington isn¡¯t quite as interesting since you left. But he was fairly certain she could read between the lines: Dear Evie, I miss you. Do you ever think of me? Together, he and Evie had lived through their own small war of a night. No one else truly understood the pure evil they¡¯d faced in that house with John Hobbes. A few days later, as the morning light crept over the city, he¡¯d kissed her for the first time. How often he relived that moment¡ªthe taste of Evie¡¯s mouth, the feel of her body against his, the comfort of her arms around his back. It had been the best few hours of his life. And then it was over. Evie had come to his room that night, and all he wanted was to kiss her again. I can¡¯t, she¡¯d said quietly as she pushed his hands away. It¡¯s no good. It¡¯s Mabel, you know. She adores you. And she¡¯s my dearest friend in this world. I can¡¯t, Jericho. I¡¯m sorry. She¡¯d left him sitting in his room in the dark. But she¡¯d never left his thoughts. Jericho tore Evie¡¯s picture neatly from the paper and slipped it into his pocket even though he¡¯d promised himself he¡¯d stop doing that. ¡°What a chump,¡± he said¡ªa phrase he¡¯d gotten from Evie. Then he closed the book and set about his work in the empty museum. Sam peeked his head out the museum¡¯s front doors. Nothing. Not a soul. With a sigh, he sauntered down the steps in the light rain and slid open the wooden panel that read CLOSED, exposing the OPEN sign. He couldn¡¯t tell Jericho the real reason he needed to keep the museum alive. Two months ago, he¡¯d asked his informant for a tip about Project Buffalo¡ªa place to start. The contact had written down a name: William Fitzgerald. It had seemed like a joke. What could the professor of the world¡¯s dullest museum know about a secret government project during the war that had taken Sam¡¯s mother away from him? But it was the only lead he¡¯d gotten in a very long time, and so even though it made him feel like an ungrateful heel, any chance he got he searched every drawer, cabinet, crevice, and corner of the place for clues that might lead him to the truth. So far, his search had yielded bupkes. He couldn¡¯t let the museum be sold off until he¡¯d found what he was looking for or proved that his contact had been wrong and that Will was in the clear. At times, he wasn¡¯t sure which of those scenarios would be best. Sam craned his neck, looking for signs of possible visitors. A mother pushing a carriage. A window washer packing up his supplies. Two men in dark suits waiting out the rain in their sedan. And one fellow in a Harvard letter sweater striding up Sixty-eighth Street. Sam smirked. ¡°Perfect,¡± he said under his breath. He bounded down the steps toward the fella, smiling and waving. ¡°Buckwald? Buck Macy, is that you, you son of a gun?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry. You must have me confused with someone else¡ª¡± ¡°Do I?¡± Whip-fast, Sam stuck out a hand. ¡°Don¡¯t see me,¡± he intoned, and the college boy¡¯s eyes glazed over. Sam reached into the fella¡¯s jacket, found his wallet, removed five dollars, and placed the wallet back inside, all in the space of six seconds. ¡°Nine, ten, eleven, twelve¡­¡± Sam counted. When Sam hit fifteen, the man came out of his hypnotic trance, blinking and befuddled. Not bad, Sam thought. Fifteen seconds was the longest he¡¯d ever been able to put somebody under. ¡°Are you all right, pal?¡± Sam said, all concern. ¡°You got a little woozy there.¡± ¡°Must¡¯ve been that party last night at the Harvard Club,¡± the college boy said, still a little dazed. ¡°Must¡¯ve been that,¡± Sam agreed. ¡°Sorry that I had you confused with somebody else. A Yalie,¡± he whispered. ¡°Well. It¡¯s¡­ I¡¯m fine now. Yes,¡± the fella mumbled. ¡°Thanks, old boy.¡± ¡°Anytime, old boy,¡± Sam parroted and sent the still-wobbly fella on his way. He kissed the five bucks he¡¯d stolen and shoved it into his pocket. ¡°The Museum of the Creepy Crawlies thanks you for your generous donation, sir,¡± he said to himself, then hurried up the steps into the museum. ¡°Did you see that, Mr. Adams?¡± the driver of the sedan asked, breaking the silence in the car. Page 26 The man in the passenger seat retrieved a pistachio from the oil-stained bag in his hand and maneuvered it into his mouth, cracking the shell with his back molars. But he kept his eyes on the museum the whole time. ¡°I did indeed, Mr. Jefferson,¡± he answered at last. The wind whipping down 125th Street in the wake of the zippering trolleys was brisk, and Memphis Campbell blew on his hands for warmth. A tall ladder leaned against the outside of a brownstone where two men hoisted a banner above a second-floor window: MISS CALEDONIA: READER OF OBJECTS, HEALER OF MALADIES, DIVINER EXTRAORDINAIRE. Memphis shook his head. Everywhere he looked, it seemed people were trying to cash in on the Diviners craze. As he walked with his younger brother, Isaiah, and old Blind Bill Johnson, Memphis counted the signs hanging from doorways or posted in windows up and down the streets of Harlem: FATHER FORTUNE WILL FREE YOU FROM HARM. MYSTICAL MOHAMMED, TELLER OF TRUTHS FROM BEYOND. OBEAH MAN: PALMS READ, FORTUNES TOLD, CURSES LIFTED. Most of them couldn¡¯t tell a crystal ball from a bowling ball. And the only fortunes were the ones they were collecting from gullible clients. None of them had half the stuff Isaiah did, and Memphis knew it galled his little brother not to be lapping up the attention. Ever since Isaiah had gotten sick, their aunt Octavia had kept a watchful eye on him, preaching about ¡°the dangers of the Devil¡¯s business.¡± ¡°You remember what happened? How you lay in that bed for three days?¡± she¡¯d said, pronouncing each word as if she were spitting it into stone to stand the test of time. ¡°Jesus healed you, so don¡¯t you go throwing his blessings away. This family has no business with Obeah men, mambos, houngans, and card readers. And we certainly don¡¯t have business with Miss Margaret Walker. Never again.¡± But it hadn¡¯t been Jesus who¡¯d healed Isaiah. It had been Memphis himself. He¡¯d never told his aunt that he¡¯d gone to his brother¡¯s bedside as Isaiah lay in that sleep between life and death. In secret, he¡¯d put his hands on his brother, and the power he¡¯d thought had left him forever the night he tried to cure his dying mother had rushed through him once more, just as it used to do back when he was the Harlem Healer, curing the sick in a storefront church with his mother looking on and praising God. It seemed that Memphis had been given a second chance at his gift. He didn¡¯t know why. But he did know that this time, he¡¯d figure it out on his own terms. And no one, except for Theta, would need to know until he was ready. ¡°You awful quiet back there, Isaiah,¡± Blind Bill said, breaking Memphis out of his reverie. ¡°I hate this stupid tie,¡± Isaiah grumbled, pulling at his collar, and Memphis knew it wasn¡¯t the suit that was bothering him. He put a hand on Isaiah¡¯s shoulder, but Isaiah shrugged it off. ¡°I have powers bigger¡¯n a lotta these fool Diviners making money now. I coulda had a radio show, too!¡± Isaiah said and kicked a small rock down the street. ¡°No, you couldn¡¯t. Too shrimpy to reach the microphone,¡± Memphis said, hoping to tease Isaiah out of his mood. It didn¡¯t take much to set his brother off these days. Not being able to use his clairvoyant gift was like keeping him inside the house when there was a warm, sunny day taunting him on the other side of the window. Lately, he¡¯d been talking in his sleep again. Nightmares. ¡°I liked going to Sister Walker¡¯s house. She was a nice lady. She was good to me,¡± Isaiah grumbled. ¡°Now, now, now. I can feel you pouting clear over here, little man. Gonna get your face stuck like that,¡± the bluesman said. These days, Bill seemed to be the only one who could calm Isaiah when he was in a mood. For the past month, Bill had been a boarder in Octavia¡¯s house. ¡°Can¡¯t let the man who saved my nephew live in some flea-ridden flophouse,¡± she¡¯d said as she readied the small room off the parlor that wasn¡¯t big enough to hold anything other than a cot, but Bill insisted he didn¡¯t need more than that, anyway. ¡°This is like a king¡¯s room to me, Miss Octavia,¡± he said, smiling as he patted the cot with a rough, scarred hand. It seemed like no time at all before Bill was part of their family¡ªsitting in at meals, going to church with them, telling stories about the Louisiana cotton fields, or showing Isaiah how to bend his fingers to make guitar chords. Sometimes it was nice to have Bill around. There was more time for Memphis to write, more time for nights with Theta. ¡°Come on, little man,¡± Bill said now. ¡°Let¡¯s get you something good to drink.¡± The bluesman offered the hand that was not on the cane, and Isaiah came to his side and took it easily, as if they belonged together. Page 27 The after-church crowd filled the booths of the Lenox Drugstore soda fountain for a little refreshment and Sunday gossip. Bill excused himself for a moment. Memphis and Isaiah hopped onto the stools at the counter in the back and ordered two root beers. The brothers sipped their drinks, Isaiah arguing baseball with Mr. Reggie. ¡°If you ask me, the Homestead Grays are the team to beat. The Giants are finished,¡± Mr. Reggie said, wiping down the counter. Isaiah took umbrage at the insult to his beloved New York Lincoln Giants. ¡°Si Simmons gonna pitch for the Giants and win it all this year!¡± ¡°Suppose we¡¯ll have to see about that,¡± Reggie teased. Memphis pulled out his notebook, scribbling some changes to a poem he¡¯d been working on for the better part of a week. The words didn¡¯t feel quite right yet, like he was trying to write in somebody else¡¯s clothes, and he wondered when he would know he¡¯d written something that felt true to himself instead of feeling like an impostor with a pencil. ¡°Hello, Isaiah. Memphis. How are you boys getting along?¡± At the sound of Sister Walker¡¯s voice, the boys¡¯ heads shot up. If Sister Walker was sore that Octavia had forbidden them from seeing her, she didn¡¯t show it, offering them one of her warm smiles. ¡°Fine, ma¡¯am,¡± Isaiah said almost shyly. ¡°Well, I believe you¡¯ve grown a foot since I saw you last,¡± Sister Walker said. Isaiah grinned. ¡°Gonna be as tall as Memphis. Taller, even!¡± ¡°Keep telling yourself that, shrimpy,¡± Memphis said. Isaiah socked Memphis in the arm. It barely hurt, but Memphis pretended it was a mortal wound, which pleased his brother greatly. ¡°And how are you feeling, Isaiah?¡± Isaiah¡¯s smile faded. ¡°Fine, thank you, ma¡¯am.¡± ¡°I believe my candy dish misses you,¡± Sister Walker joked. ¡°I miss it, too. You still got Bit-O-Honeys?¡± ¡°A whole mess of them. You¡¯re welcome back at my house anytime. I want you to know that.¡± Sister Walker lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. ¡°Memphis, I need to talk to you about something. It¡¯s important.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t believe I ought to, Miss Walker. My aunt Octavia¡ª¡± ¡°It won¡¯t take long, I promise. I¡¯m leaving town for a bit. But before I do, it¡¯s very important that we¡ª¡± ¡°Well, well, well, is that the Campbell brothers I hear talking to some pretty girl?¡± Bill called as he tapped his way over to the group. Memphis made the introductions, and Bill bowed, all charm, making small talk about the weather and the wisdom of the reverend¡¯s sermon they¡¯d just heard. ¡°Do I know you? You look familiar,¡± Sister Walker said quite suddenly. Bill¡¯s mouth worked its way into a smile. ¡°I always look like somebody. Got a familiar face, my mama said.¡± ¡°You have family in Baltimore?¡± ¡°No kin that I know.¡± ¡°Where are your people from?¡± Sister Walker pressed. ¡°Georgia,¡± Bill said, his mouth tense around the word. ¡°I thought you were from Louisiana,¡± Isaiah said. Bill placed his hands on Isaiah¡¯s shoulders, pressing down slightly. ¡°I¡¯m from everywhere. Been all over this country.¡± ¡°Memphis! Isaiah!¡± Aunt Octavia¡¯s angry voice announced her arrival. She marched through the drugstore and right up to Sister Walker. Her body had the feel of a slingshot pulled to breaking. ¡°Afternoon, Octavia,¡± Sister Walker said. ¡°Don¡¯t you ¡®afternoon¡¯ me, Margaret Walker. I know what you were doing with my nephew behind my back. I told you before and I¡¯ll tell you for the last time: This is a God-fearing family. You understand?¡± Every head in the drugstore had turned in their direction. All chatter had ceased. ¡°Octavia, Isaiah has a gift¡ªa rare gift. It¡¯s important that we continue our work¡ª¡± ¡°Don¡¯t tell me how to raise my sister¡¯s children!¡± Octavia stood a hair¡¯s breadth from Sister Walker. ¡°That boy lay in bed near death thanks to you. You¡¯re never getting near my family again, you hear me?¡± Octavia turned sharply to the boys. ¡°Isaiah, Memphis¡ªwe are leaving.¡± Like a scared jackrabbit, Isaiah scrambled down from his stool and, with a backward forlorn glance, said good-bye to Sister Walker before taking Blind Bill¡¯s hand and leading him from the drugstore. The after-church crowd made a pretense of moving food around their plates, but they were still watching. Nothing in the preacher¡¯s sermon carried the same fire as the scene they¡¯d just witnessed. Page 28 Sister Walker laid a hand on Memphis¡¯s arm as he walked past. ¡°Please. It¡¯s important.¡± ¡°Memphis John Campbell!¡± Octavia shouted from the door. ¡°I have to go,¡± he said. ¡°Memphis, you don¡¯t believe I would harm Isaiah, do you?¡± ¡°To be honest, Sister¡­ Miss Walker, I don¡¯t know what I believe,¡± Memphis said and ran to catch up with his family. While Octavia bustled about the kitchen, preparing Sunday supper, Memphis sat on the front stoop and read over his latest love letter to Theta one last time before mailing it. But his mind was on the earlier encounter with Sister Walker. What could be so important that she had to speak to him? And if it was that important, why hadn¡¯t she brought it up before? Aunt Octavia said that Sister Walker had been in prison¡ªfor what, no one seemed to know for certain, though there¡¯d been a rumor floating around church that it had been for sedition during the war. ¡°Can¡¯t trust a word that woman says,¡± Octavia declared, and Memphis wished he could be so sure. ¡°Memphis? You out here?¡± Bill tapped his way out the door. ¡°Over here, Mr. Johnson,¡± Memphis said, guiding the old man to a seat on the stoop. ¡°What you working on out here in the cold?¡± Bill asked. Memphis stuffed the letter into his pocket. ¡°Nothing.¡± ¡°Hmph. Sound like a woman to me,¡± Bill said and laughed. Memphis grinned. ¡°Might be.¡± ¡°Sound like a pretty woman.¡± ¡°Might be that, too,¡± Memphis said, embarrassed. ¡°Aww, now, I don¡¯t mean to be in your business. Mostly, I got to wondering if that Walker woman upset you earlier.¡± ¡°No, sir,¡± Memphis lied. Bill fished in his pocket and came out with two sticks of chewing gum and passed one to Memphis. ¡°What she want with you, anyhow?¡± ¡°Just to talk,¡± Memphis said, brushing the lint off the gum. It was brittle and stale, so he stuffed it in his pocket. ¡°And did you?¡± ¡°No, sir.¡± Bill nodded. ¡°You did right, Memphis,¡± he said, like an older, wiser uncle. ¡°You did right to look out for your brother thataway.¡± Memphis bristled. He wasn¡¯t sure that keeping Isaiah from using his gift was the right thing. ¡°Little man ever talk about what happened to him the day he got sick?¡± Bill asked, chewing his gum slowly. ¡°No. He doesn¡¯t remember anything.¡± Bill nodded. ¡°Well, I ¡¯spect that¡¯s for the best. We shouldn¡¯t bother him none about it. Prob¡¯ly just upset him. Still¡±¡ªBill took in a sucking breath¡ª¡°that sure was a miracle the way he pulled through. Yes, sir, a miracle.¡± ¡°You sound like Octavia,¡± Memphis said. ¡°Wasn¡¯t you, then, that did the healing?¡± Bill said, lowering his voice. Memphis¡¯s tone went flat. ¡°Told you, I can¡¯t do that anymore.¡± ¡°Yes, you did. You did tell me that.¡± Bill¡¯s laugh came out like soft cat hisses. ¡°Why, I reckon if you had the healing power on you, you¡¯d put those hands on poor old Bill Johnson and heal up his sight, wouldn¡¯t you, now?¡± Memphis¡¯s stomach tightened. He¡¯d never thought about healing Blind Bill. That seemed too great a miracle to attempt. In fact, since healing Isaiah, Memphis hadn¡¯t quite worked up the courage to try again. What if he couldn¡¯t do it a second time? What if there were limits, like a genie in a bottle granting only three wishes? What if it turned sour, like it had with his mother, and he hurt someone? Memphis needed an opportunity to work in secret, in small ways. Easing a scrape here or a sore throat there wouldn¡¯t draw much attention. But giving a blind man back his sight? That wasn¡¯t the sort of healing that went unnoticed. ¡°You would do that for old Bill, wouldn¡¯t you?¡± Blind Bill asked again. The playfulness of his tone had vanished. ¡°Isaiah, Memphis, wash up for supper now!¡± Octavia called from inside. ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am!¡± Memphis called back, grateful for his aunt¡¯s interruption. ¡°Coming, Mr. Johnson?¡± ¡°You go on ahead. I¡¯ll be in shortly.¡± When he heard the door close behind him, Bill sat for another minute on the front stoop and tilted his head up toward the sky, which he could only see as a dark, grainy impression. That would change soon, if it all worked out right. Somebody had healed Isaiah Campbell as the boy lay in that back bedroom at Octavia¡¯s house all those weeks ago. Somebody very powerful. When Bill had put his hands on the boy¡¯s head, trying to see into his Diviner mind in the hope of getting another lucky number to ease his gambling debts, he¡¯d felt the energy in the boy¡¯s body immediately. It had traveled up Bill¡¯s arms and into his own body, till it was too much, and he¡¯d had to let go. That was when he noticed the change in his vision. It was very small¡ªwhere there had been total darkness he now saw faint, blocky shapes, like looking through several layers of gray gauze. But it had been enough to let him know that it was possible: He could be healed. He could see again. And if he could see again, he could get revenge on the people who¡¯d taken his sight from him in the first place. Page 29 Diviners were everywhere these days, it seemed. But Bill was fairly certain there was only one person who had the gift to do that sort of healing, only one person desperate enough to try it. A brother¡¯s love was strong, and the Campbell brothers¡¯ love was stronger than most. It was clear that Memphis would do anything to protect Isaiah, even lie to Bill about his own abilities. Fine. If Memphis Campbell wanted to play the rabbit and hide in his warren, then Bill would play the fox and wait him out. Memphis would surface in time. And Bill would be right there waiting. And if not, well, he might have to smoke the rabbit out. Sometimes a child who¡¯d had one fit suffered another. It happened all the time. Nearby, a crow cawed, making Bill jump. ¡°Go on, bird! Git! Shoo!¡± It squawked again, passing so close to Bill¡¯s head that he gasped at the suddenness of feathers against his cheek like a slap. Theta waited impatiently for Henry on the corner of Broadway and West Forty-second Street. At last, she saw him sauntering up the street, his beaten boater hat perched on his head. ¡°There you are! Come on, kid. You¡¯re gonna be late.¡± She linked her arm through Henry¡¯s, and the two of them hurried as best they could in the bustle of Broadway, past streets housing the many music publishers of Tin Pan Alley, till they came to the address they wanted. Henry stared up at the four-story row house. ¡°Bertram G. Huffstadler and Company, Music Publishers,¡± he said on a shaky exhale. ¡°Don¡¯t have kittens, Hen. They¡¯re gonna love you.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what you said about Mills. And Leo Feist. And Witmark and Sons.¡± ¡°Witmark and his Sons are a bunch of chumps.¡± ¡°They¡¯re one of the biggest music publishers in the biz.¡± ¡°And they didn¡¯t publish you, so they¡¯re chumps.¡± Henry smiled. ¡°You¡¯re my best girl.¡± ¡°Somebody should be. Hold on, let me fix your tie,¡± Theta said, adjusting the knot. ¡°There. Now. Let¡¯s hear your spiel.¡± With a big razzmatazz smile, Henry stuck out his hand and said, ¡°How do you do? I¡¯m Henry Bartholomew DuBois the Fourth. And I¡¯m the next big thing.¡± He dropped the hand and the smile, pacing nervously in front of the stoop. ¡°I can¡¯t say that.¡± ¡°But you are the next big thing.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t feel like the next big thing.¡± ¡°That¡¯s where the acting comes in, kid. You gotta make ¡¯em believe it. Just remember our plan. Now. Who¡¯s the one they want?¡± ¡°I am,¡± Henry mumbled. ¡°Very convincing,¡± Theta deadpanned. ¡°You selling ¡¯em your songs or a funeral plan?¡± ¡°I am the next big thing!¡± Henry said a little more forcefully. ¡°Go get ¡¯em, kid. Ten minutes?¡± ¡°Ten minutes.¡± Henry took the stairs to the second floor, making his way down a narrow hallway of small rooms. Music was everywhere, songs competing with one another till they all sounded as if they were part of the same orchestration. He passed an open doorway where two composers paced a small room, throwing out rhymes to each other. ¡°June, moon, soon, moon¡ª¡± ¡°You said moon already¡ª¡± ¡°So sue me¡ª¡± ¡°I can¡¯t. It¡¯s like suing myself.¡± In another room, a fella played a verse for a girl who was curled up in a chair with her shoes off and one arm thrown across her eyes. ¡°What does that make you feel?¡± the fella asked. ¡°Suicidal,¡± the girl said. ¡°Okay. But would you want to make whoopee first?¡± he shot back, and Henry tried not to laugh. All of them were selling dreams in rhythm and rhyme. Henry desperately wanted to be one of them. No, he wanted to be the best of them. The ambition burned coal-hot inside him. He hoped today would be his lucky day. If that hack Herbie Allen could sell his terrible songs, why couldn¡¯t Henry? The hallway funneled him into a larger common area at the back. A lanky, dark-haired young man hunched over a typewriter did not look up. The sounds of a treacly, forgettable love ditty competed with the clack of typewriter keys. Of the two, Henry preferred the typing. It was more honest. ¡°What do you think?¡± It took Henry a second to realize that the question was directed at him and that it had come from the typist, who had stopped working and was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching Henry intently. ¡°About¡­¡± Henry gestured toward the room from which the bad song originated. Page 30 The typist nodded. Henry wasn¡¯t sure what to say. What if this was a test? What if this young man and those composers were the best of friends? What if this was, in fact, Mr. Huffstadler in disguise? The typist seemed too young to be a publisher. In fact, he didn¡¯t look much older than Henry. ¡°Well, it¡¯s certainly¡­ high-pitched.¡± The young man grinned. ¡°That¡¯s the thing about Simon and Parker¡ªthey¡¯re nothing but treble.¡± Henry laughed and stuck out his hand. ¡°Henry DuBois. The Fourth.¡± ¡°David Cohn. The one and only. Actually, one of about a million. David Cohn is like the John Smith of the Jewish world. You here to see the big man?¡± ¡°Indeed I am.¡± ¡°You any good?¡± Theta¡¯s voice purred encouragement in his head, but he couldn¡¯t bring himself to say those words. ¡°I suppose we¡¯ll find out.¡± ¡°You can go on in,¡± David Cohn said, gesturing with one finger toward a door with a glass window with the name BERTRAM G. HUFFSTADLER fanned out in blocky black-and-gold lettering. ¡°Oh, and don¡¯t let the Amazing Reynaldo throw you.¡± ¡°Who?¡± David Cohn smirked as he resumed his typing. ¡°You¡¯ll find out. Good luck, Mr. DuBois the Fourth.¡± Mr. Huffstadler was a small, portly man with a jowly face that seemed to be in a perpetual state of imminent disappointment. He shoved a cigar into his scowling slash of a mouth and gave Henry a dismissive glance. ¡°Have a seat. What brings you to the Huffstadler Company today?¡± I¡¯m the next big thing. ¡°Well, sir, I¡¯d very much like to have my songs published by the great Bertram G. Huffstadler.¡± ¡°So would a lot of folks. Why should I publish you?¡± ¡°Well, sir¡­¡± Henry launched into his well-rehearsed patter about his love of music and his passion for songwriting as Mr. Huffstadler shuffled to the door and poked his head out. ¡°Where¡¯s Reynaldo?¡± he shouted. A moment later, a man in a pinstriped suit and shoes with spats like bat¡¯s wings entered. He wore enough aftershave lotion to asphyxiate a busload of people. ¡°Where you been?¡± Mr. Huffstadler scolded in what he probably thought passed for a whisper. ¡°I¡¯ve been looking for you all day.¡± ¡°The muse must be fed, Mr. Huffstadler. I required sustenance,¡± the other man said with an actor¡¯s flair. ¡°I don¡¯t pay you to eat. I pay you to pick hits.¡± The harrumphing Mr. Huffstadler waddled back to his chair. ¡°This is the Amazing Reynaldo. He¡¯s a Diviner,¡± the man said with a knowing nod. ¡°Name another publisher who has a Diviner working for him. You can¡¯t¡ªI¡¯m the only one. This fella here has the power to communicate with the spirit world and find out which songs stink and which ones will be hits.¡± Henry felt fairly certain that the ¡°Amazing¡± Reynaldo¡¯s real talent was the ability to detect a sucker and a meal ticket. ¡°Nice to meet you, sir,¡± he said. The Amazing Reynaldo shook Henry¡¯s hand and closed his eyes. ¡°The spirits tell me that you are from the South.¡± My accent tells you I¡¯m from the South, you faker. ¡°Gee, that is astonishing,¡± Henry said. Huffstadler smiled around his cigar. ¡°Did I tell you or did I tell you? Okay, kid. You¡¯re up. Show the Diviner and me what you¡¯ve got.¡± He gestured to the piano in the corner, a cherrywood upright that Henry wished were his. Henry played a portion of his first song, stealing glances at Mr. Huffstadler¡¯s face, which was like a stone. ¡°Reynaldo?¡± Huffstadler said when Henry had finished. The Diviner looked heavenward, frowning, then turned to Henry. ¡°Mr. DuBois. May I be frank?¡± ¡°I wish you would, Mr. Reynaldo,¡± Henry said, though he wished no such thing. ¡°I¡¯m afraid your song simply isn¡¯t up to the standards of our company. It¡¯s too jazzy. Too¡­ complicated. The spirits found it odd and displeasing.¡± ¡°I¡¯m very much influenced by the style of New Orleans, where I was raised.¡± ¡°Well, this isn¡¯t New Orleans, kid. It¡¯s the big city. You¡¯re competing with George and Ira Gershwin, Irving Berlin, Herbert Allen, and about a thousand other fellas churning out songs folks wanna sing down at the corner dance hall.¡± Mr. Huffstadler spread his hands out as if that gesture were an explanation in and of itself. ¡°We need songs that anybody can sing anywhere. Popular songs. Songs that make money.¡± Page 31 ¡°The spirits concur,¡± Reynaldo said, frowning down at his cuticles as if they, and not Henry¡¯s future in the music business, hung in the balance. He gave Henry an apologetic smile that was as insincere as his divining. ¡°Alas, it¡¯s no Berlin.¡± Mr. Huffstadler punched the air with the end of his cigar. ¡°Irving Berlin. Didn¡¯t have a cent to his name. Didn¡¯t even speak English, for Pete¡¯s sake. Started his career on the streets of the Lower East Side. Now? He¡¯s the biggest songwriter in America¡ªand a millionaire. What you need, my friend, is to make your music sound like Irving Berlin¡¯s.¡± Henry forced a half smile. ¡°Well, sir, we¡¯ve already got a Mr. Berlin. Seems redundant to have two.¡± ¡°Kid, if I could have a hundred Irving Berlins, I would. I¡¯m in the business of business. If you write me a song about a disembowelment and it sells, I¡¯m interested.¡± ¡°Constipaaation¡­¡± ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± ¡°Nothing,¡± Henry said quickly. Right on cue, Theta pushed through the door. ¡°Oh, excuse me! I¡¯m so sorry to interrupt,¡± she said, batting her lashes and doing her ¡°little girl lost¡± shtick. ¡°Not at all, Miss¡­?¡± Mr. Huffstadler looked her up and down. Theta got wise immediately and smiled up at him, wide-eyed. ¡°Knight. Theta Knight. And you must be the one and only Mr. Bertram G. Huffstadler,¡± she purred. The lecherous man laughed. ¡°Guilty in the first degree.¡± ¡°And I am the Amazing Reynaldo, Seer of Futures, Reader of Thoughts, Diviner and Advisor to great men,¡± Reynaldo said, kissing her hand. And low-rent music publishers, Henry thought. Mr. Huffstadler smoothed back his thinning hair. ¡°Now, how can I help you, little lady?¡± ¡°Oh, I surely hope you can help me, Mr. Huffstadler. I¡¯m just beside myself,¡± Theta said, baiting the hook. ¡°You see, I work for Mr. Ziegfeld, in the Follies?¡± ¡°The Follies?¡± Reynaldo blurted eagerly before catching himself. ¡°That is, I sensed it.¡± ¡°No kidding? Golly!¡± Theta cooed, batting her lashes until Henry had to put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Sometimes Theta¡¯s best acting wasn¡¯t on the stage. ¡°Well, Flo¡ªMr. Ziegfeld, that is¡ªhe¡¯s looking for a new song, and the other night, I was in a little nightclub, and I heard the dreamiest number! But I don¡¯t know who wrote it. I was kinda hoping you might know or, gee, bein¡¯ as you¡¯re such a Big Cheese, maybe you even published it?¡± ¡°Well, if we didn¡¯t, we oughta!¡± Mr. Huffstadler winked at Theta. ¡°So what¡¯s this dreamy tune called, honey?¡± ¡°Jeepers, I don¡¯t really know.¡± ¡°Reynaldo?¡± Mr. Huffstadler looked to the Diviner, who paled. ¡°Er¡­ the spirits don¡¯t see fit to tell me at this time.¡± ¡°Perhaps if you sang a little of it, Miss,¡± Henry prompted. ¡°Of course! It went something like this.¡­¡± Theta launched into the chorus of Henry¡¯s song, purposely forgetting some of the words and humming along as if she¡¯d only heard it once. Henry¡¯s eyes widened in mock-surprise. ¡°Why, Miss, that¡¯s my song!¡± ¡°Your song? You don¡¯t say!¡± ¡°I do say.¡± Henry picked up the chorus, supplying the right words, and Theta gazed at him with a swoony face. At the end, she applauded enthusiastically. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s wonderful! You¡¯ve gotta come by and play that for Mr. Ziegfeld.¡± ¡°Of all the luck,¡± Henry said, grinning. ¡°I don¡¯t believe it.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t believe it, either.¡± Behind the desk, Mr. Huffstadler scowled. ¡°You kids think I fell off a turnip truck this week? Your song stinks, Mr. DuBois¡ªand so does this phony act. Now get out before I throw you both out.¡± Theta dropped her smile, along with her breathless voice. ¡°Yeah? You wouldn¡¯t know a good song if it came up and bit you in the a¡ª¡± ¡°Ascot!¡± Henry said quickly. ¡°May I escort you out, Miss Knight?¡± ¡°I wish you would, Mr. DuBois,¡± Theta said. She leaned in to the Amazing Reynaldo. ¡°And if you¡¯re really a reader of thoughts, you oughta be blushing to beat the band if you can read mine right now, ya big phony.¡± She slammed the door behind her for good measure. At the front desk, David Cohn grinned up at Henry and Theta from behind his typewriter. ¡°Nice try.¡± Page 32 ¡°Well, it almost worked.¡± Henry tipped his hat. ¡°It was a pleasure to meet you.¡± ¡°Likewise.¡± David fiddled with some paper, glancing shyly at Henry. ¡°Hopefully, we¡¯ll meet again. Hey!¡± ¡°Yeah?¡± Henry said, turning around. ¡°For what it¡¯s worth, I thought your song was pretty good.¡± ¡°Good or pretty good?¡± ¡°Nothing wrong with your song that a little more heart and a lot of hard work couldn¡¯t fix.¡± ¡°You a Diviner, too?¡± Henry joked. David Cohn smiled. ¡°No. Just honest. But nobody pays you for that.¡± After saying good-bye to Theta, Henry hopped the El to Chatham Square and made his way through Chinatown in the brisk chill. He moved in and out of shops, pretending to be interested in ceramic bowls and fabric for a new suit, while surreptitiously looking for the girl he¡¯d only met inside a dream. A commotion erupted in the street. Police were turning out a restaurant, allowing the health inspector passage. The owner protested the disruption to his business mightily: ¡°This is a clean place! No sickness here.¡± ¡°Do you have your papers?¡± the policeman asked one of the waiters, who didn¡¯t seem to understand. ¡°Your resident permit?¡± A translator spoke quickly with the frightened waiter. ¡°He left it at home,¡± the translator explained to the police. ¡°He¡¯ll go get it now.¡± ¡°Nothing doing, pal. No papers, we take you in.¡± The policeman whistled for his partner, and they loaded the terrified waiter into the back of the wagon. ¡°Can¡¯t he go home and get his papers?¡± Henry asked innocently. The policeman scrutinized Henry. ¡°We¡¯re just going our job,¡± he said wearily, and Henry was reminded of a time in New Orleans when he and Louis had hidden under the bar while police raided Celeste¡¯s, rounding up all the boys dancing together. One of the cops, a fella named Beau, had been seen dancing at Celeste¡¯s himself a number of times. ¡°I¡¯m just doing my job,¡± he¡¯d said to the owner, as if it would be apology enough. Henry had been powerless that night, and he felt powerless here. He couldn¡¯t help this man. He couldn¡¯t even find the girl. He was just about to give up and go home when he turned the corner onto Doyers Street and stopped cold. Nestled next to a jeweler¡¯s shop was the Tea House restaurant, just as it had been in his dream. Maybe he wasn¡¯t so powerless after all. Henry ducked inside. He hadn¡¯t been hungry before, but it smelled delicious, so he took a seat and ordered a noodle dish, and while he waited, he looked around for any hint of the girl with the green eyes. ¡°Best chow mein in town,¡± an older man at the next table said in an Eastern European accent. He nodded to the police out on the streets. ¡°The sleeping sickness.¡± ¡°Oh, yes,¡± Henry said, barely listening. A trio of girls walked past the front windows of the Tea House, but none of them was his mysterious dream walker. ¡°On my street, Ludlow, there is right now a girl of only twenty, she has been asleep for two days,¡± the old man continued. ¡°Her mother can¡¯t wake her up. Her father can¡¯t wake her up. Even the rabbi can¡¯t wake her up. How do they take ill? Is it in the food or the water? In the air? No one knows.¡± From somewhere in the restaurant, Henry heard a familiar voice. And then he spied her sitting at a table in the back, partially obscured by a screen. ¡°Do excuse me,¡± Henry said, walking to the back. He came around the screen and stood beside the girl¡¯s table, his shadow falling across her open book. ¡°So you do exist.¡± The girl looked up at him. Her eyes were a hazel-green, greener in the light. Though she was a slight girl, there was something of the boxer¡¯s quality to her, Henry thought; this was someone ready to show knuckles at a moment¡¯s notice. Her mouth opened in an O of surprise, and then, just as quickly, she caught herself. ¡°I¡¯m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else,¡± she said with pointed politeness. ¡°I don¡¯t believe I have. I¡¯ve seen you in my dreams.¡± The girl gave him only a disdainful upward glance. ¡°Corny.¡± ¡°I did see you in my dreams last night. Didn¡¯t I? I¡¯ve never¡ª¡± ¡°Shhh!¡± she whispered, craning her neck to see if anyone was listening. ¡°Sit down. If anyone asks, I know you from school. Do you understand?¡± Henry nodded and lowered his voice. ¡°You¡¯ll have to forgive my astonishment. It¡¯s just that I¡¯ve never met another dream walker before. Have you?¡± Page 33 ¡°No.¡± ¡°There must be others, though. Don¡¯t you think? What with all these Diviners coming out of the woodwork now. Oh. Forgive my manners. I¡¯m Henry DuBois the Fourth. Pleased to meet you, Miss¡­?¡± ¡°Ling Chan.¡± ¡°Charmed, Miss Chan.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not particularly charming,¡± Ling said, without smiling. ¡°Well, I make it a point never to argue with a lady.¡± The waiter arrived with Henry¡¯s noodle dish and Ling turned suddenly chatty. ¡°As I was saying, the most exciting thing about Mr. Marlowe¡¯s exhibition is the science pavilion. I hear they¡¯ll have a model of the atom on display.¡­¡± As the waiter set Henry¡¯s dish down, he gave Ling a curious look. ¡°A friend of yours, Ling?¡± ¡°Yes, Lucky,¡± Ling said, without missing a beat. ¡°We were in science club together in school. He¡¯s just come to talk about Jake Marlowe¡¯s Future of America Exhibition.¡± ¡°Our Ling is very smart,¡± Lucky said. ¡°As smart as any of the boys.¡± ¡°The smartest,¡± Henry said, playing along. ¡°I¡¯d better go. Things are very busy without George,¡± Lucky said before walking away, and Henry saw the girl¡¯s face fall. ¡°Is everything all right?¡± ¡°Fine,¡± she snapped. It clearly wasn¡¯t, but Henry had been raised not to pry. ¡°Science club?¡± he said instead, raising an eyebrow. ¡°I suppose now is a bad time to tell you that I nearly blew up my chemistry lab back at boarding school. It¡¯s an amusing story¡ª¡± ¡°Why are you here? I assume it¡¯s not for the egg rolls.¡± Henry¡¯s easy charm faded, and his smile with it. ¡°I¡¯m looking for someone I lost.¡± ¡°Lost how? How do you lose a person? Why don¡¯t you look in the telephone directory?¡± ¡°He doesn¡¯t even have a telephone,¡± Henry said. To make Ling understand, he¡¯d have to tell her about the letter, his father, running away from home. He would have to explain what Louis meant to him. But he couldn¡¯t do that. Not with a stranger. And she was a stranger. Just because they¡¯d shared a dream walk didn¡¯t make them friends. ¡°I thought if I could find his dream, I could ask him where he was, or let him know where to find me somehow. Have you ever been able to do that? Locate someone?¡± ¡°Only with the dead.¡± Henry¡¯s fork stopped on the way to his mouth. ¡°You see the dead?¡± ¡°In dreams I do. Sometimes someone needs to speak to a departed relative. If I take something of theirs, sometimes I can find them.¡± ¡°How long have you been able to do this?¡± ¡°It started a year ago.¡± ¡°Almost three years ago for me,¡± Henry said. ¡°But it¡¯s gotten stronger in the past few months.¡± ¡°The same for me,¡± Ling said. ¡°I learned to set an alarm clock to wake me. I found that if I go longer than an hour, I get ill. You?¡± Ling shrugged. ¡°I can go longer,¡± she said, and Henry detected a note of pride in it. Ling Chan didn¡¯t like to be second, it seemed. ¡°You still haven¡¯t said why you¡¯re here.¡± Henry toyed with the noodles on his plate. ¡°Last night, for the first time, I finally came close to finding my friend Louis while we were standing outside that old building. Right after I grabbed hold of your arm, I heard his fiddle. It was Louis¡¯s favorite song, played the way he always played it.¡± Henry leaned forward. ¡°I want to go back in tonight and see if it works again. I want us to try to meet in the dream world.¡± Ling scoffed. ¡°You know how dreams work. They¡¯re slippery. We can¡¯t control them¡ªwe¡¯re only observers. Passengers.¡± ¡°We always have been, but what if we can change that?¡± Henry said. ¡°Are you at least willing to try? You just said you can locate people. Maybe if I gave you something of mine, you¡¯d be able to find me in the dream world. If that works, we could try to go back to that place where I heard Louis¡¯s fiddle.¡± ¡°And maybe I can become Queen of Romania,¡± Ling said. ¡°There¡¯s no promise that we¡¯ll find each other or that we¡¯ll be able to return to the same dream. It¡¯s like a river, constantly moving and changing.¡± ¡°Please,¡± Henry pleaded. ¡°Won¡¯t you help me?¡± Ling looked at Henry for an uncomfortable length of time. She didn¡¯t want to become involved with this dream walker. But she had to admit she was curious. There had been something interesting about their combined energy last night. What if they could do more together? ¡°All right. It¡¯ll cost you. I charge for my services.¡± Page 34 ¡°Very well. What¡¯s your price?¡± ¡°Ten dollars,¡± Ling blurted. Without a word, Henry removed a crisp ten from his wallet and put it on the table. Ling tried not to let her surprise show. This dream walker was the first person not to haggle over the price. But it wasn¡¯t her job to tell him that. Whoever this lost friend of his was, he must be very important. ¡°I¡¯ll need something of yours,¡± she said, pocketing his money quickly. ¡°To find you in the dream.¡± Henry passed Ling his hat. ¡°Will this do?¡± Ling nodded. ¡°What time tonight?¡± ¡°It¡¯ll have to be late. I play for the Rooftop Revue above the Follies at midnight.¡± Ling had seen the advertisements for the Rooftop Revue in the newspaper. The girls didn¡¯t wear much. ¡°I¡¯m hoping to get my songs some attention,¡± Henry said sheepishly. ¡°I¡¯m a composer, you see.¡± ¡°Do I know any of your songs?¡± Ling asked. ¡°¡®You¡¯re My Turtle Dove, Coo-E-Coo¡¯? ¡®September Moon¡¯?¡± Ling shook her head. ¡°Never heard of them.¡± Henry felt vaguely insulted. ¡°It¡¯s a tough business.¡± ¡°Maybe it isn¡¯t the business. Maybe your songs aren¡¯t that good.¡± Henry left money for the bill as he rose from the table. ¡°I should be home by three,¡± he said coolly. ¡°Do we have a deal?¡± ¡°Three o¡¯clock is fine.¡± ¡°I suppose we¡¯re in business, then.¡± He stuck out his hand for a shake. Ling didn¡¯t take his hand. She looked him straight in the eyes. ¡°It¡¯s very brave of you to come down here. Most people are afraid of catching the sleeping sickness.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not most people,¡± he said, his hand still out. Ling gave it a quick shake. This time, there was no spark. ¡°I¡¯ll see you in my dreams, Ling Chan.¡± ¡°I hope your songs aren¡¯t as corny as your jokes,¡± she answered. Henry headed back into the cold city thinking that Ling Chan was possibly the bluntest person he had ever met. But she was going to help him find Louis. It was the first hopeful break he¡¯d had. That hope buoyed Henry¡¯s mood as he passed down Chinatown¡¯s narrow, winding streets. Above his head, laundry danced from lines stretched between tenement windows like pennants decorating Yankee Stadium, where, come spring, Babe Ruth hoped to swing his way into the record books. He reached the wide sidewalks and winter-stripped trees of Columbus Park, where a man ranted from the steps of the park¡¯s steeple-roofed pavilion. ¡°The Chinaman comes in with Chinese habits¡ªhis gambling and his Tong Wars and the opium pipe. He¡¯s a secretive sort of fellow. He can¡¯t ever be an American. And now he¡¯s given us his sickness. I say we should keep America safe for Americans. Send him back to China. Send him back on the next ship.¡± ¡°Bigot,¡± Henry muttered, and moved on. As he walked through the park, he felt a sudden chill for no reason he could name¡ªa strange feeling of dread. ¡°You all right, son?¡± a man in a tweed suit asked. He looked like a judge or a minister. ¡°Yeah. I mean, yes. Fine, thanks,¡± Henry answered, but the chill remained. ¡°Here. Have one of these,¡± the man said, shoving a leaflet into Henry¡¯s hands: KEEP AMERICA WHITE AND YOU KEEP AMERICA SAFE. THE KNIGHTS OF THE KU KLUX KLAN NEED YOU! Henry tossed the leaflet in the rubbish can without reading it and wiped his hands on his coat. On the platform of the City Hall subway station, Henry waited for the train, trying to shake off the odd dread that had come over him in Columbus Park. He thought about all the things he wanted to say to Louis when he saw him again. A young man stumbled down the steps. His suit was rumpled, and he smelled of booze. He muttered to himself as if answering private voices, drawing concerned glances from the other people waiting. ¡°Where¡¯s the damned train?¡± the man swore. ¡°I need the train!¡± ¡°It¡¯ll be here soon,¡± a businessman chided. ¡°Settle down, there.¡± People moved back, keeping a safe distance from the young man as he stalked the platform. ¡°It was so beautiful there. I need to go back. I can¡¯t find it. I can¡¯t find it!¡± Henry flicked a glance down the tunnel and was relieved to see the distant train light moving closer. The troubled man swayed dangerously close to the platform¡¯s edge. ¡°Watch out!¡± Henry darted forward and yanked him back just as the train screeched into the station. Page 35 The young man slumped to the ground, mewling into his hands. ¡°I just want to sleep. I have to get back there! I have to!¡± The crowd opened up to allow the police in. One of the officers hoisted the haunted-looking man to his feet. ¡°Come on, pal. We¡¯ll get you a nice bed, and you can sleep this one off.¡± ¡°Dream with me,¡± the man half cried. He was still muttering the phrase as the police carried him out. Evie and her best friend, Mabel Rose, sat in the Bennington¡¯s Victorian dining room under the faulty, winking chandelier, drinking cups of hot cocoa to chase away the winter chill. It had been two months since Evie had set foot in her former residence, but Mabel had insisted, and she was surprisingly adept at wearing a girl down. Now that Evie was here, she couldn¡¯t help noticing how drab and shabby the place was, especially compared to the modern hotels where she¡¯d been renting rooms. For a moment, she thought she saw Jericho, and her heart skipped a beat. But it wasn¡¯t him, and Evie was both relieved and disappointed. Mabel patted the Gimbels box tied up with blue ribbon. ¡°I can¡¯t believe you bought me a dress. It was too expensive,¡± Mabel fretted. ¡°Striking workers could eat for a week on what it cost.¡± Evie sighed. ¡°Oh, Pie Face, really. Will this be a tragic screed on the dangers of capitalism? Because I must tell you, capitalism makes some darling dresses! Besides, it¡¯s my money, not yours.¡± ¡°It is darling,¡± Mabel said. ¡°Just like you,¡± Evie said, peeping over Mabel¡¯s shoulder in the direction of the Bennington¡¯s revolving front door. ¡°What are you looking for? You¡¯ve been doing that since we left Gimbels.¡± ¡°I was, um, just making sure Uncle Will wasn¡¯t around,¡± Evie lied. ¡°I don¡¯t want to run into him. You understand.¡± Mabel nodded. She broke into a grin. ¡°Gee, this has been swell, hasn¡¯t it? The two of us together, just like old times?¡± They¡¯d enjoyed a perfect day of ice-skating in Central Park, followed by the shopping trip to Gimbels, where Mabel had burst into giggles as Evie played elevator operator, crying out, ¡°Fourth floor: Hair bonnets and enema bags! Ladies, Gimbels has you covered from top to bottom!¡± But it all felt so brief and fragile. Mabel missed Evie terribly¡ªthey hadn¡¯t seen each other in ages¡ªand Mabel worried that Evie¡¯s new, exciting friends would eclipse and ultimately replace her. Mabel didn¡¯t drink, and frankly, she¡¯d found the one party she¡¯d attended with Evie to be dull and meaningless, populated by shallow people who didn¡¯t think much about the rest of the world. But it didn¡¯t stop her from wanting to be included. ¡°Say! I¡¯ve got a terrific idea. Why don¡¯t you stay over tonight?¡± Mabel said. ¡°I¡¯m sure my mother won¡¯t mind.¡± Evie raised an eyebrow. ¡°Your mother thinks I¡¯m the Devil.¡± ¡°She doesn¡¯t! Much. Oh, forget about my mother. We could dance to Paul Whiteman records, play Pegity, and eat coffee cake till our stomachs hurt.¡± ¡°Sorry, Pie Face, but I can¡¯t. There¡¯s a party at the Whoopee Club. I promised to pop out of the cake at midnight.¡± ¡°Oh. I see,¡± Mabel said, deflated. There was always a party these days. ¡°Really. I am sorry.¡± ¡°What about tomorrow?¡± ¡°El-o-cution les-sons,¡± Evie said, drawing out the words in exaggerated fashion. ¡°And Radio Star is coming to WGI to take my picture. Well, everybody¡¯s picture, but I¡¯m in it, too.¡± ¡°Sounds¡­ glamorous.¡± Mabel hoped she didn¡¯t sound as pathetic and envious as she felt. ¡°I wish I were more glamorous instead of¡­ me.¡± Evie put her fist on the table. ¡°Nonsense! I won¡¯t hear a bad word spoken about Miss Mabel Rose. She¡¯s a fine girl. The finest.¡± Mabel rolled her eyes. ¡°Hip, hip, hooray!¡± ¡°You are special. You are the only Mabel Rose in existence,¡± Evie insisted. ¡°I suppose that¡¯s why men fall at my feet daily. It¡¯s my fine qualities that draw them in,¡± Mabel lamented. ¡°If I weren¡¯t so ordinary, maybe Operation Jericho wouldn¡¯t seem hopeless.¡± Evie stirred her cocoa intently and hoped that Mabel couldn¡¯t see the blush blooming in her cheeks. ¡°Maybe Jericho was carrying a torch for another girl,¡± she said carefully. ¡°Some old flame. And he had to be rid of the ghost of her before he could start courting you.¡± Page 36 Mabel perked up. ¡°Do you really think so?¡± Evie managed a smile. ¡°I¡¯d bet my new stockings that¡¯s it. Do you know what? I don¡¯t think you should wait around for Jericho. You should be bold! Show up at the museum and offer assistance. Tell him you¡¯ve had a message from the spirit world that the two of you are supposed to catalog ghosty things and then go dancing.¡± ¡°Evie!¡± Mabel giggled. ¡°Or you could make him jealous.¡± Evie waggled her eyebrows. ¡°What about that other fellow who gave you his card¡­ Arthur Somebody-or-Other?¡± ¡°Arthur Brown,¡± Mabel confirmed. ¡°I haven¡¯t seen him since October. Besides, my parents don¡¯t like him.¡± ¡°Why not? Did he vote for Coolidge or something?¡± Mabel giggled. ¡°No! Arthur¡¯s too radical for them.¡± Evie put a hand to her forehead. ¡°Stop the presses! Someone is too radical for your parents?¡± ¡°They say he¡¯s not a union organizer; he¡¯s an anarchist. Apparently, he got into some trouble at a rally for the appeal of Sacco and Vanzetti, where those explosions took place? My father said Arthur had to leave town ahead of the feds.¡± ¡°Golly! A real, live anarchist on one hand, and a boy who spends all his time inside a ghost museum on the other. You sure know how to pick ¡¯em, Mabesie.¡± The girls broke into fresh laughter. Mabel wiped her eyes. Inside, she felt warm and right with the world. Courageous. It was funny how one afternoon with a best friend could set a girl right. ¡°Gee, I¡¯ve missed you, Evie. Please, let¡¯s do this again soon?¡± ¡°Will do, Pie Face,¡± Evie said, giving Mabel¡¯s fingers a squeeze before getting up. ¡°I hate to break up a party, but I¡¯d better get a wiggle on. I¡¯ve got a date with a cake. But before I go, you must model your new dress for me!¡± ¡°Now?¡± ¡°No. Next Fourth of July. Of course right now! I insist!¡± ¡°All right. Let¡¯s go upstairs.¡± Evie shook her head. ¡°Nothing doing. I want the full treatment-ski. Go upstairs and put the glad rags on. Then¡±¡ªEvie lowered her voice to a husky purr¡ª¡°I want you to emerge from the elevator and drape yourself against the wall like Clara Bow!¡± Mabel could feel her ordinariness creeping back. ¡°I am not Clara Bow,¡± she said. ¡°For Pete¡¯s sake, Mabesie! Embrace a little mystery, will you? I¡¯ll wait here. Just don¡¯t take all day! And put on some lipstick!¡± Evie called as she shoved Mabel toward the elevator. ¡°I will return a new woman!¡± Mabel declared, pointing her finger skyward as the elevator operator slid the gate into place. ¡°Tick-tock. Party? Cake?¡± Evie reminded her and dropped into a chair in the lobby to wait. She pushed the heavy velvet drape aside and peered out the front windows. Still no sign of T. S. Woodhouse, the good-for-nothing. Before they¡¯d left Gimbels, Evie had slipped into a phone booth and tipped him off that ¡°Miss Evie O¡¯Neill had been seen escorting her best friend to the Bennington Apartments for the first time since she¡¯d left in November, in case interested parties wanted a story for the papers.¡± It might¡¯ve been a paltry sum Evie paid Woody to keep her name in the news, but it was still hard-earned money, and he¡¯d better not be spending it in a speakeasy instead of making both of them more famous. Someone was pushing through the revolving door. Finally, Evie thought. She jumped up and posed herself beneath a gilded sconce, turning her best side toward the entrance in case Woodhouse had been clever enough to bring along a photographer. The door swung all the way around. It wasn¡¯t Woodhouse who swept into the lobby, but Jericho. He stood for a moment, unwinding his scarf, not seeing her. Evie¡¯s stomach gave a carnival-ride flip as the feelings she¡¯d worked to forget came bubbling up. She remembered that morning in the hotel room up in Brethren after Jericho had been shot, the way they¡¯d been with each other, so open, so honest. Evie had never felt so naked with anyone, not even Mabel, as if she could say anything and be understood. It was heady. And dangerous. A girl needed armor to get by in the world, and Jericho had a way of dismantling hers so easily. Jericho¡¯s eyes widened, then his mouth settled into the loveliest smile. ¡°Evie!¡± he called, walking straight toward her, and her resolve to leave him alone began to erode. ¡°Hello, Jericho,¡± Evie said softly, and they stood uncertainly in the foyer. People passed by, but Evie was barely aware of them. She¡¯d forgotten the specific handsomeness of Jericho¡ªthe severe cheekbones, the sharp blue of his eyes. A long strand of blond hair had been shaken loose, falling across one cheek. He tried to tuck it back, but it fell again, and all Evie wanted to do was cup her hands at the base of his neck. It would be so easy to touch him. Page 37 ¡°How are you¡ª¡± Evie said at the same moment Jericho started to speak. They laughed nervously. ¡°You first,¡± Evie said. ¡°I¡¯ve been listening to your radio show. It¡¯s very good. You¡¯re a natural.¡± ¡°Gee. Thanks,¡± Evie said, blushing at the compliment. An awkward silence descended. Jericho cleared his throat and gestured in the direction of the dining room. ¡°Have you eaten? We could have tea in the dining room. For old times¡¯ sake.¡± Evie glanced toward the elevator. ¡°Oh. I¡¯m actually on my way out. I¡¯m just waiting for Mabel.¡± Jericho stepped a little closer. He smelled clean and woodsy, as he had that morning on the roof when they¡¯d kissed. ¡°I¡¯ve missed you,¡± he said in his deep, quiet way. Evie¡¯s breath caught in her chest, a painful ballooning. Her feelings for Jericho had been manageable when he was only a memory. In the whirl of parties and the radio show and, yes, the arms of other, fun-loving boys, thoughts of him could be pushed aside, she¡¯d found. But here in person, it was an entirely different matter. Evie looked up into his eyes. ¡°I¡­¡± ¡°Is that the Sweetheart Seer?¡± ¡°Why, it is! It¡¯s her!¡± Excited burbling filled the front of the lobby as a few of the Bennington residents recognized Evie. She took in a sharp breath and stepped back. ¡°I¡­ I have to go. I¡¯m late for a cake¡ªI-I mean a party! A party with a cake,¡± Evie said, sounding as dizzy as she felt. ¡°Tell Mabel I said good-bye.¡± ¡°Wait! Don¡¯t go.¡± Jericho reached for her hand, catching the tips of her fingers just as the elevator doors opened and Mabel flounced out in her new yellow dress like one of Isadora Duncan¡¯s dancers. ¡°Daaaahling! It is I, Mabel BaraSwansonKnightBow¡­ oh.¡± Quickly, Evie yanked her hand out of Jericho¡¯s reach and trotted toward her pal. ¡°Mabesie! You are a vision in that dress!¡± ¡°A vision of what?¡± Mabel joked. Her eyes flicked from Evie to Jericho and back. ¡°Isn¡¯t it funny? Who should I run into but our old friend Jericho,¡± Evie said, far too brightly. She could feel Jericho¡¯s gaze on her and she didn¡¯t dare meet it. ¡°Golly. You looked like you were having a very serious conversation. I hope I¡¯m not interrupting anything,¡± Mabel said. ¡°Just passing the time until you arrived,¡± Evie chirped, her panic mounting. Any minute now, she feared, he¡¯d say something about what had happened, breaking Mabel¡¯s heart and scarring their years-old friendship. The revolving door swung around again as Sam pushed through, talking loudly to Jericho across the lobby. ¡°See, the trouble with Nietzsche, besides his being a real killjoy, is that he thinks like a spoiled seven-year-old who doesn¡¯t want to share his sandbox toys¡ª¡± ¡°Sam! Sam, over here!¡± Evie blurted. A smirking Sam sauntered over with his hands in his pockets. ¡°Well, if it isn¡¯t the Queen of Sheba. Just the girl I¡¯m looking for. Did Freddy tell you the news about our Diviners exhibit? I was thinking that¡ª¡± Evie threw her arms around Sam¡¯s neck. ¡°Sam, there you are! You¡¯re late. Oh, but I don¡¯t mind. How handsome you look!¡± Sam¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°Forgive me, Miss. I thought you were Evie O¡¯Neill. Clearly I¡¯ve mistaken you for someone else.¡± Evie laughed too hard. ¡°Oh, you! Always the comedian.¡± She slipped her arm through Sam¡¯s, giving him a small pinch as she did. ¡°Now, I¡¯m late to the Whoopee Club, and I need you to escort me, won¡¯t you? So long, Mabesie, darling! Let¡¯s do this again soon!¡± Evie nodded at Jericho. ¡°Lovely to see you again, Jericho.¡± As she and Sam walked away, Evie chanced a look over her shoulder and saw Jericho watching her, wounded and stoic. It had to be done, even if it felt awful. Once outside the Bennington, Evie slipped free of Sam¡¯s arm. ¡°On second thought, it¡¯s too chilly for a walk, and it looks like rain. I¡¯d better grab a taxi here.¡± Sam smirked. ¡°What? And interrupt our cozy, heartfelt reunion?¡± ¡°Yes, I¡¯m all broken up about it, too. But I¡¯m sure I¡¯ll recover.¡± Evie signaled to the doorman. ¡°You remember the day we met in Penn Station?¡± ¡°When you stole my twenty dollars? How could I forget?¡± ¡°You told me then that you weren¡¯t an actress.¡± Sam tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. ¡°I think you pulled my leg on that one.¡± Page 38 ¡°I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t know what you mean, Sam Lloyd.¡± Evie looked hopefully toward the street, where the doorman stood with his arm raised. ¡°I¡¯m sure you do. Don¡¯t worry¡ªI won¡¯t blow your cover. But I need something from you in return.¡± ¡°Have you given up petty theft in favor of blackmail now?¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t for me. It¡¯s for your uncle. He¡¯s gonna lose the museum, Evie, if we don¡¯t pull a rabbit out of a hat.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t see how that¡¯s any of my concern.¡± ¡°We need you for the Diviners exhibit. If you mentioned it on that radio show of yours and showed up as the guest of honor, we could guarantee a big opening¡ªmaybe enough to pay the tax bill before the collector puts the whole place up on the auction block.¡± Evie¡¯s eyes flashed. ¡°Why should I help Will? I risked my life to help solve the Pentacle Murders, and then he tried to ship me back to Ohio. That was the thanks I got. Maybe it¡¯s time to stop pulling rabbits out of hats every month, Sam. Maybe it¡¯s time for Will to give up that old museum.¡± ¡°It¡¯s his life¡¯s work, Sheba.¡± ¡°Then he¡¯ll find a way to save it, if it means that much to him.¡± Sam shook his head. ¡°You¡¯re a real hard-hearted Hannah, Evie O¡¯Neill.¡± Evie wished she could tell Sam that if that were true, hers wouldn¡¯t ache quite so much. She¡¯d done the right thing by pushing Jericho away and toward Mabel. Hadn¡¯t she? A gentleman in a dark suit sidled up to Evie. ¡°Could you sign this for me, Miss O¡¯Neill? I¡¯m a big fan.¡± ¡°Of course. To whom shall I make the inscription?¡± Evie said, taking her elocution-shaped vowels for a walk. ¡°Just an autograph is fine, if it¡¯s not too much trouble.¡± ¡°No trouble at all,¡± Evie said, pronouncing it ¡°ah tall¡± and liking the sound of it. She put the last flourish on the inscription. ¡°There you are.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t tell you how much this means to me,¡± the man said, taking it from her, but Evie didn¡¯t hear. It¡¯s about time, Evie thought as she saw T. S. Woodhouse strolling across the street. ¡°Well, if it isn¡¯t the Sweetheart Seer!¡± he said around a mouthful of chewing gum. He blew a bubble and it was all Evie could do not to pop it. ¡°How nice to see you at long last, Mr. Woodhouse,¡± Evie said. Woodhouse yawned. ¡°I was rescuing a bunch of nuns from a burning church.¡± ¡°You probably set the fire to get the story,¡± Evie shot back. T. S. Woodhouse nodded at the cluster of schoolgirls running toward them across the street, whispering excitedly to one another. ¡°Gee, I wonder who let the cat out of the bag that you were here at the Bennington?¡± Woodhouse winked. The bum had delivered after all. ¡°Miss O¡¯Neill?¡± one of the girls said. ¡°I adore your show!¡± ¡°That¡¯s awfully nice of you to say,¡± Evie said in her radio-star voice, and the girls fell into excited squealing. Evie loved being recognized. Every time it happened, she wished she could snap a photograph and send it back to Harold Brodie, Norma Wallingford, and all those provincial Ohio Blue Noses who¡¯d misjudged her. She¡¯d write along the bottom of it, Having a swell time. Glad you¡¯re not here. Sam put his arm around Evie as she signed an autograph. ¡°Doesn¡¯t she have beautiful penmanship?¡± T. S. Woodhouse smirked. ¡°Say, you two look cozy there. Anything the Daily News readers should know about? There were those rumors a few months ago that the two of you were an item.¡± ¡°No. We are not,¡± Evie said firmly. ¡°Now, that¡¯s a fine way to talk to your fianc¨¦, Lamb Chop!¡± ¡°Fianc¨¦?¡± Woodhouse raised an eyebrow. At this, the girls squealed anew. More people had shown up. A small crowd always drew a larger one. That was the math of fame. ¡°He¡¯s kidding on the square,¡± Evie said. Sam gave her his best lovelorn look. ¡°Why, I¡¯ve been crazy about this kid since the day I first saw her in Penn Station.¡± ¡°Sam¡ª¡± Evie warned through a tight smile. ¡°But who wouldn¡¯t be? Just look at that face!¡± He pinched Evie¡¯s cheek. She stepped down hard on his foot. ¡°Gee, that¡¯s awfully romantic,¡± one of the girls said with a sigh. A few in the crowd applauded. ¡°The Sweetheart Seer¡¯s got a sweetheart?¡± a man joked. Page 39 ¡°No, he¡¯s not¡ª¡± ¡°Now, honey blossom. Let¡¯s not hide our love. Not anymore.¡± ¡°I¡¯d like to hide my fist inside your gut,¡± Evie whispered low near his ear. ¡°You trying to keep the lid on this romance, Miss O¡¯Neill? More important, you holding out on me?¡± Woodhouse pressed, trying to sniff out a scoop. ¡°Miss! Your taxi!¡± The doorman held the taxi door open for Evie. The first thin, spitting drops of rain hit the sidewalk. Sam practically pushed Evie into the backseat of the waiting automobile. ¡°You run along, sweetheart! Can¡¯t have my little radio star catching a cold.¡± Evie rolled down the back window a smidge. ¡°They¡¯ll be dragging the river for your body tomorrow, Sam Lloyd,¡± she hissed just before the taxi lurched down the street. ¡°Did she just say they¡¯d drag the river for your body?¡± T. S. Woodhouse asked, his pencil poised above his open notebook. Sam sighed like a man deeply in love. ¡°She did, the little bearcat. It¡¯s the only defense that poor, helpless girl¡¯s got against the animal pull of our love. Uh, you can quote me on that.¡± ¡°Animal¡­ pull¡­ of our¡­ love¡­¡± Woodhouse was still scribbling as the skies opened suddenly, unleashing a gully washer. Down the street, the slim man in the dark suit kept his head down and slipped through the anonymous New York horde as if he had no shadow, angling himself at last into the passenger seat of the unremarkable sedan. He handed the autograph to the driver. ¡°There you are. Don¡¯t say I never gave you anything.¡± The driver glanced at Evie¡¯s signature before tucking it into his breast pocket. ¡°Fitzgerald¡¯s niece, huh? Interesting.¡± ¡°The world is an interesting and dangerous place, Mr. Jefferson. Ghosts and Diviners. People claiming to see a man in a tall hat. Threats from within and without. Security is the cornerstone of our freedom. And we¡¯re entrusted with ensuring that security.¡± ¡°From sea to shining sea, Mr. Adams.¡± The driver started the car. ¡°Is she the real McCoy?¡± ¡°Difficult to say,¡± the passenger said, opening a bag of pistachios. ¡°I suppose we¡¯ll have to arrange a small test.¡± Henry sat in his chair waiting for the clock to strike three and thought about the first time he¡¯d laid eyes on Louis Rene Bernard. It was May 1924. Henry was fifteen and home from his boarding school in New Hampshire. He¡¯d suffered a bout of measles that had frightened everyone, and so his parents had allowed him to spend the summer at home to regain his strength. Henry¡¯s father had business that kept him in Atlanta for weeks at a time. His fragile mother spent her days in the family cemetery, offering private prayers to stone saints with painted faces made porous by the relentless New Orleans humidity. For the first time in his life, Henry was free to do as he wished. He decided to take a day trip on one of the excursion riverboats that churned up and down the muddy Mississippi from New Orleans to St. Paul. Most people came to dance. Henry came to listen. Some of the best bands in New Orleans honed their chops on board the boats; it was a floating master class in Dixieland jazz. The band aboard the SS Elysian was terrific¡ªnearly as good as Fate Marable¡¯s. The sweet swoop of a clarinet rose and fell against the suggestive allure of a trumpet while sparkly-eyed passengers bounced shoulder to shoulder on the boat¡¯s enormous dance floor under ceiling fans that did little to battle the Delta heat or the mosquitoes. But it was the fiddle player who captured Henry¡¯s attention. He¡¯d never seen a boy so beautiful in his life: He had thick, nearly black hair swept back from a face marked by strong brows, dark brown eyes, and a square jaw. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled into crescents; his eyeteeth were slightly longer than his front teeth, and crooked. And he had a name like a stride piano roll¡ªLouis Rene Bernard. By the end of the third song, Henry was utterly smitten. Louis had apparently noticed Henry, too. When the Elysian docked in New Orleans for the evening, Louis ran after Henry as he disembarked. ¡°¡¯Scuse me. I believe you may¡¯ve lost your hat?¡± Louis said, pointing to the straw boater perched atop his head. ¡°I¡¯m afraid that isn¡¯t mine,¡± Henry said. ¡°Well, it surely can¡¯t be mine. Looks terrible on me.¡± ¡°Oh, no! I can¡¯t agree. It¡¯s very¡­¡± Too late, Henry realized that Louis was right; the hat was far too small on him. He searched for a word to save the moment. ¡°Boaty.¡± Page 40 Louis laughed, and Henry thought that laugh might be the best sound he¡¯d ever heard, better even than the jazz. ¡°You like beignets?¡± Louis asked shyly. ¡°Who doesn¡¯t like beignets?¡± They went to Cafe Du Monde, where they chased the sugared, fried dough of the beignets with cups of strong chicory coffee. Afterward, they strolled along the riverbank, listening to the gulls and the call-and-response of distant ships. They stood beside each other for some time, waiting until the others had drifted off and they were alone, and then, after several exchanges of sheepish glances, Louis leaned over and kissed Henry softly on the lips. It wasn¡¯t Henry¡¯s first kiss; that honor had gone to Sinclair Maddington, a school chum back at Phillips Exeter. Their kissing had been awkward and fumbling and a little desperate. It was followed by weeks of mutual avoidance forged by shared shame. There was no shame in Louis¡¯s kiss, though; just a sweetness that made Henry¡¯s stomach fluttery and his head as buzzy as champagne. He never wanted to stop. Louis placed the boater on Henry¡¯s head. ¡°Suits you better.¡± ¡°You think so?¡± ¡°I know so. That, my friend, is gon¡¯ be your lucky hat.¡± After that, Henry was never without it. ¡°What is that thing on your head?¡± Flossie, the cook, asked as Henry swept through the kitchen on his way out, the boater cocked at a rakish angle. ¡°My lucky hat,¡± Henry said. She shook her head as she floured the chicken. ¡°If you say so.¡± That summer was the summer of Henry-and-Louis. Henry learned that Louis was seventeen and as much a part of the river as the fish and the moss-slicked rocks. Before he¡¯d died, too young, Louis¡¯s Cajun father had given him a love of music and the gift of a fiddle. His mother had given him an appreciation for self-reliance by leaving him first with distant relatives and then, finally, when he was barely seven, at a Catholic orphanage in New Orleans. Louis had run away when he was twelve, preferring life on the streets, the fishing camps, and the riverboats. A case of tonsillitis had given him a raspy voice that made everything he said, from ¡°Fish are biting¡± to ¡°Dit mon la verite,¡± sound like a flirtation. He lost money at Bourr¨¦ and played the sweetest fiddle in the French Quarter. He never stayed in any one place for long, but for now, he was bunking in a hideously hot attic garret above a grocery store on Dauphine. He was crazy about his hound dog, Gaspard, whom he had found abandoned by the river. ¡°Just like me,¡± Louis said, scratching the slobbery pup¡¯s fuzzy ears. They took Gaspard with them everywhere. No one in the Quarter seemed to mind, and often there was a bowl of scraps set out for him. Henry confessed to Louis something he hadn¡¯t told anyone else: Ever since he¡¯d been sick, he¡¯d developed a curious habit of lucid dreaming. One night while sick with the measles, he woke gasping for air as if he¡¯d nearly drowned, a terrifying sensation. When he settled, he realized that he hadn¡¯t woken. Instead, he was fully conscious inside the dream. ¡°Did it scare you?¡± Louis had asked. ¡°Yes,¡± Henry said, enjoying the feel of his lover¡¯s arms around him. ¡°Could you do whatever you wanted?¡± ¡°No,¡± Henry answered. ¡°If I could dream of any place, I¡¯d dream of a cabin on the bayou,¡± Louis had said at the time. ¡°A little cabin. Fishing boat. A newspaper fulla crawfish ready to eat.¡± ¡°Would I be there?¡± Henry asked quietly. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t be a good dream if you weren¡¯t.¡± And just like that, Henry knew what it was to be in love. That night, he walked in Louis¡¯s dream. There was a rustic cabin on a sun-dappled river where ancient live oaks trailed braids of Spanish moss into the water. A hickory rocking chair sat on the front porch, and a fishing boat bobbed nearby. It was a brief walk¡ªthe dream shifted, and fight though he did, Henry was unable to stay in that beautiful spot. Still, it made Henry happy to have glimpsed it, even for a few minutes. In June, they signed on for a stint aboard an excursion boat, playing for their supper. When they¡¯d stop at various sleepy southern towns along the river for the night, Louis and Henry would buy food for the Negro musicians who weren¡¯t allowed into the white hotels and restaurants. ¡°Doesn¡¯t seem fair,¡± Henry had said to Louis. ¡°That¡¯s because it ain¡¯t fair.¡± ¡°There¡¯s a lot of that,¡± Henry said. He wanted to hold Louis¡¯s hand, but he didn¡¯t dare out in public, where anybody could see them. Instead, they¡¯d wait until the judging world fell asleep, then they¡¯d sneak away and kiss till their lips, already weary from the southern sun, would make them quit. Page 41 July saw hot days of fishing and swimming. Most nights, they¡¯d prowl the nightclubs and speakeasies of the French Quarter, from Joe Cascio¡¯s Grocery Store, where all the bohemians came to dance and drink, to Celeste¡¯s, where the proprietor, Alphonse, served them bootleg beer in teacups. Sometimes they¡¯d buy a jug of homemade hooch, strongly scented with juniper berries, from an Italian widow who¡¯d taken over the bootlegging business from her late husband. Then they¡¯d take the Canal Street trolley out to the cemeteries to drink, talk, and dream. Surrounded by stone angels and appeals to God¡¯s mercy set in marble, a half-drunk Henry would spin out grand plans for them both: ¡°We could go to St. Louis or Chicago, or even New York!¡± ¡°What¡¯d we do there?¡± ¡°Play music!¡± ¡°Same thing we¡¯re doing here.¡± ¡°But no one would know us there. We could be anybody. We could be free.¡± ¡°You¡¯re as free as you decide to be,¡± Louis said. ¡°Easy for you to say,¡± Henry said, hurt. ¡°You¡¯re not a DuBois.¡± Being a DuBois wasn¡¯t a legacy; it was a noose. They were one of the first families of New Orleans society, with a grand antebellum mansion, Bonne Chance, to show for it. White-columned and flanked by strict rows of stately oaks, Bonne Chance had been built by Henry¡¯s great-great-grandfather Mr. Xavier DuBois, who¡¯d made a fortune in sugar off the backs of slaves. His heir, the first Henry DuBois, grabbed land from the Choctaw during the Indian Removal Act, and Henry¡¯s grandfather had accepted a commission as a colonel in the Confederate Army, marching with General Lee to protect all that stolen land and the stolen people who came with it. Henry often wondered if there had ever been a DuBois who¡¯d done a single noble deed in his life. The only war Henry¡¯s father seemed interested in fighting was the one with his son. It was a bloodless war; his father¡¯s infallibility bestowed a certain calm confidence. He never questioned that his edicts would be followed, so there was never any need for him to raise his voice. That was for lesser men. ¡°Hal, you will not upset your mother.¡± ¡°Naturally, Hal will matriculate from Ole Miss.¡± ¡°Law is what you should pursue, Hal. Perhaps a judgeship from there. Music is not a noble profession.¡± ¡°These jazz and riverboat riffraff are not suitable companions for a young man of your breeding and position, Hal. Remember that you are a DuBois, a reflection on this family¡¯s sterling reputation. Comport yourself accordingly.¡± Henry¡¯s delicate, unbalanced mother had long since been worn down by his father¡¯s domineering manner. When she¡¯d had her first breakdown, Henry¡¯s father refused to send her to the sanitarium for fear of gossip. Instead, the family doctor had prescribed pills, and now his mother wandered the endless halls and rooms of Bonne Chance, a lost bird unable to alight in any one spot for long, until, finally, she¡¯d take refuge in the family cemetery. She¡¯d sit on the weathered bench, staring into the garden, thumbs working the beads of a rosary. ¡°It was the vitamins. I never should¡¯ve taken them,¡± she¡¯d say to Henry in a nervous voice. ¡°I was afraid I¡¯d lose another baby. So many lost babies. The doctor said the vitamins would help.¡± ¡°And they did. Because here I am, Maman,¡± Henry would say. ¡°She sent me a letter and told me I have to hide the bird,¡± she¡¯d say, worrying the black beads between her frantic fingers. Flossie would come out and lead Henry¡¯s mother back to the big white house. ¡°Come on, now, Miss Catherine. The saints won¡¯t mind if you have your lunch.¡± Henry would sneak away to Louis once more, and the two of them would hop the Smoky Mary out to the West End of Lake Pontchartrain, where they could fish from a pier in Bucktown, take a picnic near Old Spanish Fort, or play music in the Milneburg resorts and camps. Louis never called him Hal. It was always Henri, said in a drawl as sultry as the air over the Quarter: ¡°Let¡¯s get us a mess of crawfish, Henri.¡± ¡°You hear the way he laid out that line, Henri?¡± ¡°Henri, don¡¯t be a slowpoke. Ever¡¯body¡¯s waitin¡¯ on us down at Celeste¡¯s.¡± And Henry¡¯s favorite: ¡°Moi, je t¡¯aime, Henri.¡± Henry never wanted the summer to end. Then, on a terrible, still day in August, Gaspard died. Before Louis could stop him, the sweet hound tore after an alley cat and was struck by the ice man¡¯s truck as it rounded the corner of Rampart. There was a screech of wheels and one awful yelp. Louis and Henry pushed their way through the crowd. With a howl of his own, Louis sank to his knees and cradled his dead dog. The driver, a kindly man with a jowly face, removed his hat and patted Louis¡¯s shoulder like a father, sorry as could be. ¡°He just come outta nowhere, son. Wadn¡¯t time to stop. I¡¯m real sorry. Got three dogs, myself.¡± Page 42 Louis was inconsolable. Henry bought a bottle from the Italian widow and they took refuge in the attic garret, Gaspard¡¯s body wrapped in a blanket on the bed. Henry held Louis while he cried, feeding him sips of strong drink till Louis was glassy-eyed. Later, Henry borrowed a car from one of the patrons at Celeste¡¯s, and they buried Gaspard out in bayou country under a lacy willow tree and marked the grave with a roast bone stolen from Flossie¡¯s kitchen. ¡°She¡¯d kill me if she knew I took her best soup bone,¡± Henry said, taking off his sweat-drenched shirt. ¡°He was a good dog,¡± Louis said. His eyes were red and puffy. ¡°The best.¡± ¡°Why do all the things I love gotta leave me?¡± Louis whispered. ¡°I¡¯m not gonna leave you,¡± Henry said. ¡°How you gonna get your father to let you stay?¡± Henry chewed his lip and stared at the freshly tilled earth. ¡°I¡¯ll think of something.¡± ¡°Promise?¡± ¡°Promise,¡± Henry said, but he had no idea how. Late August settled in, bringing a bank of hazy clouds that promised but did not deliver rain. After a day of stifling heat, Henry and Louis sat on a blanket beside a cascading vine of morning glories, their mood tense. There¡¯d been a cable: Henry¡¯s father was returning from Atlanta the next day. School would start the week after Labor Day. Henry would be miles away from Louis. ¡°Why don¡¯t you just tell your father you don¡¯t want to go?¡± Henry laughed bitterly. ¡°No one says no to my father.¡± He yanked a morning glory from the vine and crushed it between his fingers. ¡°What that plant ever do to you?¡± But Henry wouldn¡¯t be joked out of his misery. At boarding school, Henry would be stuck in a regimented, colorless life of morning chapel, Latin, bullying upperclassmen, and innuendo about the way Henry walked and talked. There¡¯d be no jazz or crawfish boils or fishing from the pier. There¡¯d be none of the eccentric characters they knew from their haunts in the Quarter, men and women who looked after the two boys as if they were delightful nephews. There would be no Louis. Henry felt it as a physical ache. In the dirt, Louis scratched a heart. Inside, he wrote L + H. Henry went to erase it before someone saw. Louis stayed his hand. ¡°Don¡¯t.¡± ¡°But¡ª¡± ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± he said again. That night, they¡¯d lain together in the narrow bed, listening to the swooshing tide of Lake Pontchartrain eddying about the pilings beneath the cabin. Louis¡¯s stubble rubbed Henry¡¯s cheeks raw, but he wouldn¡¯t have stopped kissing him for anything. There were hands and mouths and tongues. They were sweaty with exploration and pleasure. Afterward, they lay entwined, Henry falling asleep to the soft warmth of Louis¡¯s breath on his shoulder, while out on the streets of the West End, the party raged on. Henry¡¯s father returned on a Friday in August as the summer was dwindling to a close. From his chair in the library, he appraised his bronzed and freckled son. ¡°You seem to have recovered your health, Hal.¡± ¡°Yes, Father,¡± Henry said. ¡°The school will be pleased to hear it.¡± Henry¡¯s heart beat so quickly he wondered if his father could hear it from across the broad expanse of Persian carpet. ¡°I was thinking that perhaps I could finish school here. In New Orleans.¡± His father peered around the edge of his open newspaper. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°I could help with Mother,¡± he lied. ¡°We have servants and a doctor for that.¡± The newspaper barrier went back up. ¡°I¡¯d like to stay,¡± Henry tried. He willed himself not to cry. ¡°Please.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve posted the check for your tuition already.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll pay you back.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous.¡± ¡°I will! I¡¯ll take on whatever work I can. I¡¯ll¡ª¡± ¡°The subject is closed, the matter settled.¡± His father gave him one last, curious look. ¡°Where do you go evenings?¡± ¡°I go for a long walk. Dr. Blake advised it. For my health,¡± Henry lied, feeling, for once, power in the secrecy of his other life. His father had continued squinting at him for only a moment more. ¡°Well,¡± he said, returning to his paper, ¡°I suppose Dr. Blake knows best.¡± It had been a stupid mistake that trapped them. Louis had written Henry a letter. A beautiful letter. Henry could almost recite it; he¡¯d read it that many times. He could barely stand to be parted from it, and so he transferred it from pocket to pocket, always keeping it on his person so that he could read it whenever he wanted. But one night, he¡¯d been too tired and had forgotten it in a jacket pocket. The laundress found the note and took it to Henry¡¯s father. Page 43 Henry got a sick feeling in his stomach as he remembered being summoned to the parlor, their butler, Joseph, closing the doors behind Henry. It was the only time his father¡¯s calm had ever threatened to become something else, something violent. ¡°Do you recognize this?¡± his father asked, holding up the offending love letter. ¡°What is this filth?¡± Henry¡¯s fear robbed him of any answer. ¡°Has this¡±¡ªhis father¡¯s mouth struggled to form the word¡ª¡°boy¡­ compromised you in some way?¡± Louis had made him laugh. Louis had kissed him. Loved him. There had been no compromise in any of that. ¡°Have you thought that he might blackmail our family, tarnish our good name, in pursuit of money?¡± his father continued. ¡°Do you assume it is only homely heiresses who may fall prey to fortune hunters?¡± Henry wanted to tell his father that Louis was kind and good, romantic and gentle. What they shared was real. But telling his father such a thing was impossible. His disapproval was so powerful it paralyzed Henry, strangled him in shame. He¡¯d never felt like more of a coward. ¡°You will not be returning to Exeter,¡± his father announced. ¡°I won¡¯t?¡± Even in his fear, new hope surged in Henry. He could stay here. With Louis. ¡°If you are unconcerned with protecting your family¡¯s reputation, I shall be forced to do it for you. I¡¯ve made some calls. At nine o¡¯clock tomorrow morning, there is a train bound for Charleston and the Citadel. You will be on that train. Perhaps they can make a man of you where I have failed. You will never speak to this boy again.¡± As Henry watched, his father tore up the beautiful letter and set the pieces ablaze with a match, tossing them into the fireplace, where they flared and curled into ash. Henry had been banished to his room, where he found that his suitcase was already packed for him. Military school. If things had been bad at Exeter, the Citadel would be worse. Henry would never survive that. He could save himself, make up a lie: ¡°I had nothing to do with that boy! It¡¯s all a misunderstanding!¡± Then he could do as his father commanded, give up everything he loved, Louis and music, and go back to Exeter, become a lawyer, then a judge. He could marry the right girl and have a Henry Bartholomew DuBois V and see the same people at the same society balls and dinners, all the while knowing that he was still a disappointment to his father, that this would never be forgotten, only denied. Or he could strike out on his own, be his own man. Wasn¡¯t that what his father was always telling him to be? There was a gathering that night of his father¡¯s business associates. Henry listened to them downstairs, chuckling with their port and cigars. If that was what ¡°being a man¡± was, he wanted no part of it. With his father and the servants occupied, Henry knew it was time. He stuffed what he could into a knapsack, climbed out his bedroom window, and shimmied down the tree, sneaking through the cemetery. Henry froze when he came upon his mother sitting with her rosary before a statue of Saint Michael. For a long moment, his mother regarded him, her eyes moving from Henry to his knapsack, then back to his face as if she were trying to memorize it. ¡°Fly, fly, sweet bird,¡± she whispered and turned back to her saints, letting her son slip away from the prison of Bonne Chance. Henry had sneaked down to the Quarter, to Louis¡¯s attic garret, but he wasn¡¯t there. He tried Celeste¡¯s next. Louis wasn¡¯t there, either. ¡°I heard him say he might play on the Elysian,¡± Alphonse said. But by the time Henry made it to the docks, the Elysian was well upriver. Henry was near tears. He thought about waiting for Louis to get back, but he had no idea how long that would be, and Henry couldn¡¯t afford to wait. His father would be out looking for him. Once he got safely settled in his new life, he¡¯d get word to Louis somehow. Luck had been on Henry¡¯s side. A steamer was just about to head up the Mississippi, so Henry talked himself on board, promising to play piano in exchange for a ride to St. Louis. In St. Louis, he posted a letter to Louis care of Celeste¡¯s, along with the address for the Western Union office there. No telegram came. None came in Memphis, Richmond, or New York, either. Henry thought about the day they¡¯d buried Gaspard. Louis had extracted a promise from Henry that he wouldn¡¯t leave. And what had Henry done but run away? Did Louis hate him for leaving like that, without saying good-bye? Did he think Henry a coward? If only he could find Louis, he could explain what had happened. Henry didn¡¯t give up. He wrote to a few journeymen musicians from the Elysian. Only one answered, a cornet player named Jimmy. He said he¡¯d heard from the cousin of a friend that Louis might¡¯ve left New Orleans and found work with a territory band, but he couldn¡¯t remember the name of the outfit. Henry groaned when he heard that¡ªterritory bands traveled all over the country. Louis could be anywhere. Page 44 That was when he remembered walking in Louis¡¯s dream. If this was the only way to make some sort of contact, then so be it. All he had to do was give one suggestion: ¡°Why don¡¯t you speak with Henry? He¡¯s waiting for you at the Bennington Apartments in New York City. The Bennington Apartments. Don¡¯t forget, now.¡± But first he had to find him. Every week for the past year, Henry had tried to do just that. He¡¯d walked through landscapes familiar and odd and sometimes downright frightening, chasing after any clue that would lead him back to the boy he couldn¡¯t forget, the boy he¡¯d loved and left. The boy he hoped would forgive him. Henry checked his wristwatch. Five minutes until three. He wound the alarm clock and set the metronome to ticking. ¡°Please,¡± he said and closed his eyes. Ling¡¯s eyes had barely fluttered open inside the dream world when someone tapped her shoulder, and she yelped. She turned to see a startled Henry beside her, his hands up in a gesture of apology. ¡°Don¡¯t ever¡±¡ªLing let out a shaking breath¡ª¡°do that again.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Henry said, but he couldn¡¯t hold back his grin. ¡°The hat worked! You found me.¡± ¡°Yes. I did,¡± Ling said in wonder, her mind already at work trying to understand how it had happened. She¡¯d located the living inside a dream. This was a first. ¡°Where are we? Whose dream is this?¡± Like magic, the noises began: the clop-clop of horses, the distant rattle of an elevated train, the shouts of people hawking wares, and the thin, high squeal of a factory whistle. The bank of fog thinned, revealing the same jumble of worn city streets as in the previous night¡¯s dream walk, but now there was action: Two men fell out of a pair of saloon doors, fighting while a crowd egged them on. Half a dozen street urchins pushed after a hoop with a stick. ¡°Anthony Orange Cross¡­¡± Their excited shouts lingered after they¡¯d disappeared like wisps of smoke. A ghostly horse-drawn wagon trotted past. ¡°Beware, beware, Paradise Square! The Crying Woman comes!¡± the driver called just before he was swallowed by the mist. Pop-pop-pop! Fireworks exploded over the sketchlike rooftops, and a phantasmic man in an old-fashioned vest and coat flickered against the haze as if he were a motion-picture projection. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen!¡± the apparition called. ¡°Come one! Come all for a ride on Alfred Beach¡¯s pneumatic train. See this marvel for yourselves and be amazed¡ªthe future of travel, beneath these very streets!¡± The apparition gestured to his right, and the limestone building appeared. ¡°Devlin¡¯s! That¡¯s the spot where I heard Louis¡¯s fiddle last night!¡± Henry ran toward it, listening, but no music drifted out from inside its old brick walls tonight. ¡°But I heard it so clearly last night.¡± ¡°I told you there was no guarantee,¡± Ling said. ¡°This is still a dream, remember?¡± ¡°But I know the sound of his playing like my own. It was him. Louis! Louis!¡± Henry felt like he might cry. Having come so close, he couldn¡¯t bear this new disappointment. With a grunt, he swung at the building, hitting it with a hard thwack. ¡°Ow!¡± he cried, shaking out his hand. Ling¡¯s mouth opened in shock. ¡°You¡­ you just touched that. That¡¯s impossible.¡± Cautiously, Ling reached out and trailed her fingers across the bumps and grooves in the brick. ¡°Impossible,¡± she said again. ¡°Have you ever been able to touch something while dream walking before?¡± ¡°Until yesterday when I grabbed your hand? No. Never.¡± ¡°Me, either,¡± Ling said. A piercing scream rang out, sending shivers up Henry¡¯s and Ling¡¯s spines: ¡°Murder! Murder! Oh, murder!¡± A ghostly figure broke through the haze, heading straight for Henry and Ling: a veiled woman in an old-fashioned, high-necked gown. She ran as if frightened, as if being chased. As she drew closer, Henry and Ling could see that the front of her dress was red with blood. The woman whooshed past in the space between them, trailing cold in her wake. Then she moved through the facade of the limestone building as if she were made of smoke. A shimmering hole opened in the wall. ¡°What was that?¡± Ling asked, but Henry didn¡¯t answer. He stood at the edge of the hole, which was glowing with whatever energy lay inside. The opening wavered uncertainly, as if it might snap shut at any second. ¡°There are steps leading down. Come on! We have to hurry!¡± Henry said, nodding toward it. Page 45 ¡°Are you a lunatic?¡± ¡°Please. I don¡¯t think I can find him without you, Ling,¡± Henry pleaded. ¡°It¡¯s just a dream, darlin¡¯. If something bad happens, all we have to do is wake up.¡± ¡°I should¡¯ve doubled my fee,¡± Ling groused. And with that, they raced inside and down the steps just as the portal closed behind them. ¡°Ling?¡± Henry called in the darkness. ¡°Here,¡± Ling answered. ¡°Wherever here is.¡± Dim yellow lights sputtered on and rippled through the black as if someone had flipped a switch, illuminating a long brick corridor that narrowed into darkness farther on. Pipes ran above their heads. There were no other helpful distinguishing features. A thread of cool wind drifted toward them. ¡°It¡¯s coming from up ahead. So I guess that¡¯s the way we go.¡± They walked quietly for a while, the silence proving every bit as uncomfortable as the dream walk¡¯s unnerving strangeness. ¡°What¡¯s it like to speak to the dead?¡± Henry asked at last, a stab at conversation. ¡°Is it frightening?¡± ¡°They don¡¯t scare me. They only want to be heard. Sometimes they have messages for the living.¡± ¡°Like what?¡± ¡°¡®Marry on the eighth day of the eighth month of next year.¡¯ ¡®This is not the time to test your luck¡ªyou must wait one month.¡¯ ¡®Tell him I know¡ªI know what you did,¡¯¡± Ling said, recalling some of the information she¡¯d carried back from the dead. ¡°You¡¯re like the Western Union of ghosts,¡± Henry joked. Ling shrugged, annoyed. She wasn¡¯t in a mood to explain herself to Henry. All day long, she¡¯d been able to think of little other than George. ¡°Don¡¯t you ever worry about this sleeping sickness when you walk?¡± Henry raised an eyebrow. ¡°Do you? That is, would it stop you?¡± Ling shook her head. ¡°Still, do you think we¡¯d know if we were walking in a sick person¡¯s dream?¡± Henry had been in all sorts of dreams before. When people were drunk, their dreams were a bit bleary and slow. When people had a fever, their dreams were particularly strange and vivid, and there was always one person in the dream complaining about the heat. Henry had even walked in the dream of a man on his deathbed once. They had been passengers on a ship. The man had been at peace as he looked out at the calm sea and the far horizon. He¡¯d smiled at Henry, saying, I¡¯m headed over there. But I¡¯m afraid you can¡¯t come along. ¡°I think we¡¯d know,¡± he said at last. ¡°So, how did you lose this friend of yours, Louis?¡± Henry sobered. ¡°My father didn¡¯t approve of our¡­ friendship. He thought Louis was a bad influence.¡± ¡°Was he?¡± Ling asked. ¡°No. Never,¡± Henry said firmly. He wondered just how honest he could be with her. ¡°What would you do if your parents forbade you from seeing your dearest friend?¡± ¡°What choice would I have?¡± Ling said. ¡°They¡¯re my parents. I owe them everything.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t owe them everything,¡± Henry said a little defensively. ¡°Yes, I do. They¡¯re my parents,¡± Ling said again, as if that settled the matter. ¡°Besides, the question is academic. I don¡¯t have a dearest friend.¡± ¡°No one?¡± The closest Ling had come was George, and they hadn¡¯t been close for some time. ¡°Some of us don¡¯t need friends.¡± ¡°Everyone needs friends.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± Ling said. ¡°Well, now, that is pos-i-tute-ly the saddest thing I¡¯ve ever heard. I am compelled as a gentleman to insist that you come to lunch with my friends and me this week. We¡¯ll make it a party.¡± Ling imagined the faces of Henry and his fashionable set as she hobbled toward them in her cumbersome braces. The way their mouths would open in surprise, their discomfort peeking out beneath the sympathetic smiles they¡¯d paste on too quickly. That was never going to happen. ¡°Pos-i-tute-ly isn¡¯t a real word,¡± she said. ¡°Why, it pos-i-tute-ly is! It¡¯s in the dictionary, just before prob-a-lute-ly.¡± ¡°You¡¯re doing that simply to annoy me.¡± ¡°Abso-tive-ly not.¡± Henry¡¯s smile was pure innocence. ¡°Keep listening for your friend¡¯s fiddle,¡± Ling said and marched on. The first time Ling had been visited by the dead, she¡¯d been dream walking down a rainy street among people who were no more than dull splotches against the gray day. Ling was drawn to a pair of beautiful doors painted with the fearsome faces of evil spirit¨Cbanishing gods. The doors opened rather suddenly, and standing there beneath a paper parasol was her great-aunt Hui-ying, whom Ling had only known through photographs sent from China. The rain flew upward around her aunt, leaving her untouched. The outlines of her soft body carried a faint shimmer, which Ling would come to know marked the dead from the living. ¡°Daughter: Tell them to break my favorite comb, the ivory one, and bury me with half,¡± her aunt said. ¡°It¡¯s in the painted chest, the second drawer down, in a hiding spot at the back behind a false partition.¡± Page 46 A day later, her parents received the telegram informing them that Auntie Hui-ying had died on the very night Ling had seen her. The family was frantically searching for Auntie Hui-ying¡¯s comb, which they knew was her favorite, but they¡¯d been unable to find it. ¡°It¡¯s in the painted chest, the second drawer, behind a false back,¡± Ling had said, parroting her aunt¡¯s words. Later, Ling¡¯s father had taken her with him to the farm on Long Island. Under the warm sun, they worked side by side, gathering long beans. Ling¡¯s father was a quiet man who tended to keep his thoughts to himself. They were alike in that way. ¡°Ling,¡± he¡¯d said, stopping to smoke a cigarette while Ling ate a peach, savoring the sweetness on her tongue. ¡°How did you know about Auntie¡¯s comb?¡± Ling had been afraid at first to tell him the truth, in case it was some sort of bad luck she¡¯d brought to their house. There¡¯d been a baby before Ling, a precious son dead at birth, the cord wrapped around his neck. Two years later, Ling had come along. There¡¯d been no other children after her, and both parents doted on Ling. She was their everything, and Ling often felt the burden of carrying her parents¡¯ hopes and dreams, of being enough for all that love, of shouldering the obligation alone. ¡°Whatever it is, you can tell me,¡± her father had promised. Ling had told him everything. He had listened, smoking his cigarette down to nothing. ¡°Do you think I¡¯m cursed, Baba?¡± Ling had asked. ¡°Have I done something wrong?¡± There had been tenderness in her father¡¯s smile. ¡°You¡¯ve been given a gift. A link between old and new, between the living and the dead. But like all gifts, you must accept this with humility, Ling.¡± Ling understood what he meant: Don¡¯t draw bad luck to you with pride. Outwardly, Ling remained humble, but secretly, she loved walking in dreams and talking to the dead. It made her feel special and powerful. Nearly invincible. The week before Ling took ill, she¡¯d gone on a picnic outing to Long Island organized by the Chinese Benevolent Association for the students of the Chinese school. It was one of those warm October days that are a parting kiss of summer. Ling and her friends had gone to the water¡¯s edge, taken off their stockings, and waded into the chilly Atlantic, reveling in the soft coolness of mud squished between toes that wouldn¡¯t see the sun again until June. It had been a perfect day. That night, her elderly neighbor, Mr. Hsu, died, and Ling saw the old man in a dream, faint and golden, sitting at his favorite table in her family¡¯s restaurant. ¡°One last cup of tea before I go,¡± he¡¯d said. At the door, which opened onto a vast canvas of stars, he¡¯d looked back at her with an unreadable expression. ¡°We are made by what we are asked to bear, Ling Chan,¡± he¡¯d said. Days later, Ling woke tired, with a fever and a terrible headache. Her mother sent her to bed, but the aching and fever got worse. The muscles in her calves stiffened until she couldn¡¯t move them without pain. And then she couldn¡¯t move them at all. Infantile paralysis, the doctors said. Too much pride, Ling heard. In the hospital, nurses held Ling down as the doctor immobilized her legs in heavy plaster casts. ¡°You have to be brave and keep very still, Ling,¡± the doctor scolded as she cried out against the fire of the infection racing along her nerve endings. Holding still was worse than anything. ¡°She has to learn to be strong,¡± the doctor said. ¡°She doesn¡¯t have to learn to suffer,¡± her mother shot back, shutting him up. For a month, Ling had endured the agony of the plaster, unable to touch her skin when it burned and itched or massage the brutal spasms of her dying muscles. And when the casts finally came off, she was no better than before. ¡°You¡¯ll need to wear these now,¡± the nurse said, buckling on the ugly metal braces that caged her shriveled legs and bit into the tender skin above and below her knees till there were permanent scars there. But the worst part was the pain it brought to her parents. Ling could hear them just outside the door, asking the doctors and nurses again and again if there was any new hope of a cure, or at least an improvement. Stop hoping, she wanted to tell them. It¡¯s easier that way. Secretly, she thought: I deserve this. I brought it on myself. No matter how much Ling believed in science, in the rational, she couldn¡¯t escape the clutches of superstition, of luck¡ªboth good and bad¡ªshaping her life. After all, she spoke to ghosts. Deep down, she couldn¡¯t help thinking that it was her pride that had brought on her illness. And so, just before Christmas, she¡¯d insisted on working in the restaurant again to help her parents. When the spasms gripped her, she did her best to hide it; she was tired of pity. Every night, she escaped into the dream world, where, for one blessed hour, she could run free. Every morning, she dreaded waking up. Page 47 Far above them, Ling and Henry could hear muted hoofbeats and the clatter of omnibuses rumbling down unseen streets. But these sounds came and went, like postcards of sound sent long ago and only now arriving at their destination. ¡°Well, this is certainly interesting,¡± Henry said. They¡¯d come to an iron gate, the bars of which had been fashioned with steel roses. The faintest glow seeped through them, warm and golden. ¡°Do you see that?¡± Henry whispered. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen light like that in a dream walk before. It¡¯s always¡­¡± ¡°Gray,¡± Ling finished. ¡°Yes,¡± Henry said and smiled. Being with Ling was like traveling in a foreign country and finding the one person who speaks your native language. Ling tested the bars with her fingertips. ¡°The gate. It¡¯s¡­ cold,¡± she said, more in astonishment than fear. ¡°Shall we go inside?¡± Henry asked. At Ling¡¯s nod, he lifted the latch and pushed open the gate. Henry had seen many odd things in dreams before¡ªnoblemen with owl faces peeking above their ruffled shirts. Trees made entirely of fireflies. Steamer ships resting on mountaintops. But he¡¯d never seen anything quite so realistic or beautiful as the lovely old train station where he and Ling found themselves now. This was nothing like the mundane subway, with its creaking wooden turnstiles and harried New Yorkers rushing and pushing. It was as if they were trespassing in some wealthy, eccentric aristocrat¡¯s private underground lair. High above their heads, a herringbone pattern of cream-colored brick fanned out in an undulating plain of cathedral-worthy arches. White-hot gas flickered behind the frosted-glass globes of four brass chandeliers. The light spilled across the smooth surface of a fountain whose water seemed frozen in time. The waiting area boasted a velvet settee, three gooseneck lamps, a colorful Persian rug, and an assortment of fine leather chairs more suited to a library than a train platform. There was even a grand piano with a goldfish bowl resting on its broad back. The entire room had a warm amber glow to it¡ªexcept for the subway tunnel, which was as dark as funeral bunting. ¡°Where are we?¡± Ling asked. She tapped the goldfish bowl and was rewarded with the tiniest quiver of orange. ¡°I don¡¯t know. But it¡¯s glorious!¡± Henry said, grinning. He sat at the piano. ¡°Any requests?¡± Ling scoffed. ¡°You must be joking.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know that one, but if you hum a few bars¡­¡± Henry said, noodling around on the keys. ¡°Now this is the elephant¡¯s eyebrows. Elephant¡¯s eyebrows is in the same dictionary as pos-i-tute-ly, by the way.¡± Ling took the gleaming wooden stairs down to the passenger-loading platform and walked to the tunnel¡¯s entrance. An arc of gas-jet bulbs, long dead, ringed the brick opening. ¡°Beach Pneumatic Transit Company,¡± Ling whispered, reading the plaque on the wall. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose the dead are here to tell you which way I should go to find Louis,¡± Henry called from the piano. ¡°No,¡± Ling said. Her voice carried faintly. ¡°Hello,¡± she said, more forcefully, and it echoed: Hello, lo, lo. A thread of wind caressed Ling¡¯s face. There was a faint hiss and a pop of blue flame as, all at once, the gaslight bulbs blazed white-hot. A ghost of sound came from inside the tunnel¡ªthe whine of metal against metal. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Henry leaped up from the piano and bounded down the stairs to Ling¡¯s side. A bright light pierced the tunnel¡¯s darkness. The whine grew louder. A small wooden train car rattled down the dusty tracks, its oracular headlamp bright as noonday sun as it whooshed into the station and squeaked to a stop. The doors sighed open. Henry poked his head in, then turned back to Ling with a grin. ¡°Ling, you¡¯ve got to see this.¡± They peered in, gawking at the mahogany paneling and two plush seats, the delicate kerosene lamps resting on end tables. ¡°Come on,¡± Henry said, climbing inside. ¡°What are you doing?¡± Ling cautioned. ¡°What if this takes us to our mysterious dreamer? What if this is somehow Louis¡¯s crazy dream?¡± Henry¡¯s pale, freckled face was so serious. ¡°I¡¯ve tried everything else. I have to know. Please. We can always wake up, Ling.¡± ¡°All right,¡± Ling agreed after a pause. ¡°We can always wake up.¡± The moment they were aboard, the doors slid shut and the train moved backward with a lurch, throwing Henry and Ling onto the seats. Ling closed her eyes and silently reminded herself: It¡¯s only a dream. It¡¯s only a dream. Soon enough, the train came to a gentle stop. The doors opened onto a misty wood marked by skeletal trees. It lacked the detail of the old New York streets and the pretty train station. Page 48 Henry gave the air a good sniff. ¡°Smell that? It¡¯s gardenia. Makes me think of New Orleans.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t smell anything,¡± Ling said. Henry¡¯s expression had changed from curiosity to something bordering on longing. ¡°There! I hear it. That¡¯s Louis¡¯s playing. He¡¯s here! We found him!¡± Henry leaped from the train and bolted into the murky expanse of half-formed trees as they bent and folded around him, taking him in. ¡°Wait!¡± Ling stumbled after him. ¡°Henry? Henry!¡± she shouted, her panic rising. She called again and again, but he was nowhere. It was as if the dream had opened its maw and swallowed him whole. ¡°Ling? Where are you? Ling!¡± Henry called, his voice echoing in the fog. He¡¯d thought she was right behind him. But when he turned back, the featureless trees all looked the same to him, and he couldn¡¯t tell which way he¡¯d come. A soft, warm breeze brought the heady perfume of gardenia, along with other notes¡ªmoss and river water, the smells of home. Very faintly, he heard the strains of a fiddle sawing away at ¡°Rivi¨¨re Rouge.¡± ¡°Louis?¡± Henry called, the lump in his throat swelling. Up ahead, the vague trees shifted slightly, revealing a dimly lit path through the middle. The fiddle was stronger now. ¡°Ling!¡± Henry tried one last time. He didn¡¯t want to abandon her, but he was afraid of losing this vital link to Louis. Perhaps wherever she was, Ling heard the music, too, and would know to come this way. Hoping that was the case, Henry followed the music deeper into the wood. The sun grew brighter. The fog thinned. The flat trees rounded and grew bark, becoming immense live oaks trailing wispy beards of Spanish moss. Dragonflies pirouetted past Henry¡¯s face and darted toward the surface of a sun-brushed river where a blue rowboat, just like the one Henry and Louis had used for their fishing trips, swayed against the bank. Propped up by wooden stilts at the river¡¯s edge was a rustic cabin. Smoke curled up from its crooked chimney. The music came from inside. Henry¡¯s legs jellied as he approached. What if this was just another cruel trick played on him in a dream? His fist was a weight at his side. He took a deep breath and knocked. The music stopped. Henry put a hand on his stomach to steady himself as the door creaked open. Louis appeared, as handsome as ever. He blinked¡ªfirst at the hazy sunlight, then at Henry. ¡°Henri?¡± Henry could only nod. He didn¡¯t know if it was possible to faint inside a dream, but he thought he was perilously close to finding out. The moment seemed to stretch forever. And then suddenly Louis was smiling wide. ¡°Mon cher! Where you been?¡± As Ling moved through the gray wood calling Henry¡¯s name and getting no response, her panic turned to anger. Their agreement had been clear: Ling was to help Henry try to find Louis in the dream world. That agreement did not include entering strange buildings, wandering through an old train station, and getting lost in a creepy, half-finished forest. She should never have consented to help someone from outside Chinatown¡ªten dollars or not. ¡°Henry!¡± Ling called sharply. ¡°Are you lost?¡± a sweet, girlish voice answered. Ling whirled around. ¡°Wh-who¡¯s there?¡± ¡°You walk in dreams but you¡¯re not asleep.¡± Ling turned in the other direction, looking for the source of the voice. ¡°You¡¯ll make yourself dizzy if you keep turning like that,¡± the voice said, giggling. ¡°Show yourself!¡± Ling commanded. A girl in a wide-sleeved tunic and a long skirt stepped out from behind a tree. She was about Ling¡¯s age, small but sturdy with a wide, open face and very straight brows. Her plaited hair was coiled at her neck, secured with two crisscrossed hairpins. ¡°I can walk in dreams, too. Just like you.¡± First Henry, now this girl, too? Soon they¡¯d need to put up traffic signals in the dream world for all the comings and goings. It annoyed Ling. Annoyance was good. Ling preferred it to fear. ¡°Who are you?¡± Ling demanded. ¡°I am Wai-Mae,¡± the girl said, bowing a little. ¡°What is your name?¡± ¡°Ling,¡± Ling answered. It always fascinated her that inside a dream walk, there was no language or dialect barrier at all, as if in dreams, they all spoke the same language. Wai-Mae¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°Just Ling? That¡¯s a funny name.¡± ¡°Where are we? What is this place?¡± Ling demanded. ¡°Isn¡¯t it beautiful? It¡¯s nothing like ordinary dreams!¡± Page 49 ¡°But what is it?¡± Ling said, more to herself than to Wai-Mae. ¡°How did you get here? Did you come here on the train?¡± ¡°The train?¡± Wai-Mae¡¯s eyes crinkled as she smiled. ¡°Oh, yes! The train! Did it also bring you?¡± ¡°Yes. But I came with a boy, another dream walker, Henry¡ª¡± ¡°There¡¯s another?¡± Wai-Mae gasped, delighted. ¡°But where is he?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. That¡¯s the trouble,¡± Ling said evenly. She was beginning to think that Wai-Mae wasn¡¯t terribly bright. ¡°When we stepped off the train, he ran, and I lost him.¡± ¡°You lost the dream walker?¡± Wai-Mae shook her head. ¡°That¡¯s very careless, Ling.¡± Ling glared, but Wai-Mae didn¡¯t seem to feel her silent scold. ¡°Can you at least help me look for him?¡± Wai-Mae¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Is this other dream walker your husband?¡± ¡°My¡­? No! No. He is not my husband,¡± Ling sputtered. ¡°He¡¯s¡­ never mind.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s proper for you to be walking in dreams with a boy who is not your husband, Ling,¡± Wai-Mae tutted. ¡°Very well. I will help you. But you really should be more careful with your friends in the future, Little Warrior. Come. This way.¡± Ling wasn¡¯t sure whom she wanted to kill more for ruining her night¡¯s dream walk: Henry or this thoroughly irritating girl. She opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it, and with a heavy sigh resigned herself to following Wai-Mae through the wood. But once she found Henry again, she¡¯d have plenty to say to him. Louis¡¯s voice, no longer a memory, unlatched Henry¡¯s emotions. He wanted to throw his arms around Louis but was afraid that if he did, Louis would disappear, leaving him in an embrace of smoke. ¡°Louis, is that really you?¡± ¡°You know another Louis looks like me?¡± Louis said, just as if they were on the Elysian, headed up the river on a hot day, as if no time had passed at all. ¡°Where are we? What is this place? Looks like the bayou but it isn¡¯t. Not quite.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a dream. We¡¯re inside a dream,¡± Henry explained, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He was laughing and crying all at once. Louis let out a long whistle. ¡°Well, then. Got to be the nicest dream I ever had.¡± Henry couldn¡¯t take it another second. He wanted to kiss Louis, to hold him in his arms. He¡¯d never been able to do that in a dream before, but he¡¯d never been in a dream like this one, either. Carefully, he reached out to touch Louis¡¯s sleeve, and his heart sank when he couldn¡¯t quite make contact. It was as if the thinnest pane of glass separated them. How could it be that he could smell gardenia and feel the grain of the wood but not touch his lover? The logic of dreams was unknowable and cruel. Sharp barking sounded from the river, and a moment later, a freckled hound came sniffing up to Henry through the grass, its tail wagging. ¡°Gaspard?¡± Henry said, amazed. The dog circled him twice before tearing after a mourning dove. ¡°It¡¯s all so real,¡± Henry said, but his wonder soon gave way to anxiety. ¡°Louis, where have you been?¡± ¡°What d¡¯you mean, where I been? ¡¯Cept for some trips up the river, I been where I¡¯ve always been. You¡¯re the one who left, not me,¡± he said, and Henry heard the note of recrimination in it. ¡°Only because I had to. Because of my father,¡± Henry said. He told Louis what had happened the day his father found the letter. ¡°I tried to get word to you, believe me. I¡¯ve been looking everywhere for you¡ªeven in dreams.¡± ¡°And here I thought you¡¯d gone and forgotten me.¡± Louis played it light, but Henry knew him too well. He was hurt. Maybe even angry. ¡°Never. I could never forget you, Louis,¡± Henry said, and he wished once more that this weren¡¯t a dream and that he could hold Louis. ¡°I went on over to your house lookin¡¯ for you. Thought Flossie might know somethin¡¯.¡± Henry¡¯s heartbeat quickened. ¡°What happened?¡± ¡°Found your maman sitting in the cemetery talking to the angels. She didn¡¯t know nothin¡¯. About ¡¯at time, your daddy come out and found me talkin¡¯ to her. He knew who I was, all right. Told me I¡¯d better never come ¡¯round there again or he¡¯d shoot me as a trespasser. Not that that woulda kept me away.¡± Louis¡¯s smile was short-lived. ¡°He told me you¡¯d left town and that you didn¡¯t want nothin¡¯ to do with me no more¡ªyou didn¡¯t even want to say good-bye.¡± Louis¡¯s voice went feathery. ¡°He told me you hated me.¡± Page 50 ¡°That bastard,¡± Henry spat. ¡°But what about all those letters I sent you? And two telegrams¡ªone when I reached St. Louis, one from New York. When you didn¡¯t write me back, I thought¡­¡± Louis shook his head. ¡°Didn¡¯t get no letters. No telegrams, either.¡± ¡°My father,¡± Henry said. He didn¡¯t like to think that anybody at Celeste¡¯s would sell them out, but money was money, and his father had a lot of it. It would be just like him to pay someone to intercept Henry¡¯s letters and make sure they were thrown out before they could even be delivered. If so, that meant his father had Henry¡¯s return address in New York and had done nothing to try to find him. It was a relief to know that his father wouldn¡¯t drag him off to military school, but it stung, too, knowing that it was easier for his father to erase his only son¡¯s existence than it was for him to tolerate the disappointment of who his son really was. ¡°But you¡¯re here now, cher,¡± Louis said. ¡°We¡¯re here now.¡± Louis raised his palm toward Henry¡¯s and Henry followed suit, their fingers nearly touching. Wai-Mae¡¯s mouth hadn¡¯t stopped moving the entire walk through the wood. ¡°Do you know the story of Mu Guiying? She is my favorite of the Dao Ma Dan. When she battles with Yang Zongbao and falls in love with him, saving his life? It¡¯s the most beautiful love story,¡± she said, huffing alongside Ling like an excited puppy. There¡¯d still been no sign of Henry. ¡°I think it¡¯s my favorite. Except for the Courtesan Yu Tang Chun. Or the Drunken Beauty. Or possibly the Romance of the Three Kingdoms.¡± ¡°Henry!¡± Ling called again, more desperately. ¡°Henryyyy!¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Ling. Uncle says that I talk too much, and I¡¯m a silly girl and my head is too full of romantic stories to be much good,¡± Wai-Mae said in cheerful apology. ¡°Would you like to know a secret?¡± ¡°Not particularl¡ª¡± ¡°I am to be married soon!¡± Wai-Mae exclaimed. ¡°We¡¯ve never met, but I have heard my husband-to-be is very handsome, with kind eyes and a high forehead. He is a wealthy merchant in America, in New York City, and once I¡¯m there, I¡¯ll live very well with servants to wait on me and plenty of money to send back to my family. I¡¯m traveling to San Francisco now on the Lady Liberty. I hate the ship. It makes me so sick,¡± Wai-Mae said, putting a hand on her stomach. ¡°It¡¯s very difficult for Chinese women to immigrate to America. How did you manage it?¡± Ling asked. ¡°Uncle arranged everything through matchmakers, O¡¯Bannion and Lee. Mr. O¡¯Bannion will greet me in immigration in San Francisco. Then he will take me to my husband in New York City. My future husband is very respected and successful there. I hear you must be careful on the streets, though,¡± Wai-Mae continued, barely stopping to take a breath. ¡°There is all manner of vice and corruption and murder¡ªopium dens and houses of ill repute!¡ªand a lady has to keep her wits sharp, or terrible misfortune could befall her in the Den of Thieves or Murderer¡¯s Alley and along Bandit¡¯s Roost on Mulberry Bend and¡ª¡± ¡°Mulberry Street,¡± Ling corrected. ¡°Mulberry Bend,¡± Wai-Mae said again, knowingly. ¡°I have heard the stories, Ling.¡± And I¡¯ve only lived there my entire life, Ling thought. ¡°Of course, I will have a husband to protect me, but¡­¡± Wai-Mae¡¯s mouth never stopped. Through her prattling monologue, Ling kept moving, thinking only one thought: Kill Henry. ¡°¡­ it¡¯s the love stories I like best, the ones with the happy endings? I would live inside the opera if I could.¡­¡± No. Ling would need Henry alive for the tongue-lashing she intended to dole out. Then the murder. ¡°¡­ I know that women can¡¯t perform, but if they could, I would play all the best, most romantic roles, royal consorts, and my gestures would be precise and elegant. And you would be the brave Dan. I can already tell you¡¯ve got a warrior¡¯s spirit¡ª¡± ¡°Could you be quiet, please? I¡¯m trying to think,¡± Ling snapped. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± Wai-Mae bowed, embarrassed, and Ling felt like she¡¯d kicked a kitten. ¡°It¡¯s only that I¡¯ve been on the ship for such a long time, and the other women are older and not from my village. They want nothing to do with me. It¡¯s nice to talk to someone else. Someone young. With all her teeth.¡± ¡°How old are you?¡± Ling asked. ¡°Seventeen. You?¡± Page 51 ¡°The same.¡± ¡°You see? We are like sisters already!¡± Wai-Mae bit her lip hopefully. ¡°And do you like opera?¡± ¡°Opera is for old men,¡± Ling said definitively. Wai-Mae¡¯s mouth opened in shocked surprise. ¡°Oh, Ling. How can you say that? The opera is wonderful! They are our stories we carry with us, just like dreams.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t like fairy tales. I like facts. Science.¡± Wai-Mae made a face. ¡°Sounds very dull.¡± ¡°Well, if you¡¯re so keen on the opera, you¡¯re in luck. My uncle runs the opera house,¡± Ling confessed. ¡°In New York. That¡¯s where I live.¡± Wai-Mae made a high-pitched sound, and it took Ling a second to recognize it as excitement, not distress. ¡°You are the luckiest girl in the world to have such an uncle! Do you go all the time? Do you sit in the balcony and eat pumpkin seeds and imagine yourself living out those scenes? When I come to New York, you and I will go to the opera, and you¡¯ll see how wonderful it is! Clearly, fate has brought us together. We shall become the best of friends. And in the meantime, while I am on the ship, we can meet up each night, here in this beautiful dream world.¡± They¡¯d come to the end of the trees. Ahead, it was only blocks of gray and brown, like a vague sketch waiting for detail. ¡°This seems to be as far as we can go,¡± Ling said. ¡°Would you like to go farther?¡± ¡°But we can¡¯t go farther,¡± Ling said, irritated. She really was starting to wonder if Wai-Mae might be a bit simple. ¡°Then we will change it, make it into whatever we like. Go where we wish.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t change a dream.¡± ¡°Yes you can.¡± Ling spoke as if she were a peeved schoolmarm explaining a subject to a confused child. ¡°I¡¯ve dream walked plenty. It doesn¡¯t work that way. You can walk inside an office building. You can take the stairs, which already exist. But you, yourself, cannot turn that building into, say, a schoolhouse or an automobile.¡± Wai-Mae¡¯s expression was quizzical. ¡°What¡¯s an automobile?¡± Ling shut her eyes, took a deep breath. ¡°Never mind.¡± She started back toward the forest. ¡°Henry! Henry!¡± ¡°Here we can change things,¡± Wai-Mae said, catching up. ¡°It isn¡¯t like other dreams. Here, I¡¯ll show you.¡± Ling stopped and folded her arms across her chest, defiant. ¡°Think of something you want,¡± Wai-Mae said. ¡°Something small.¡± I want my legs back, Ling thought. I want to walk without braces, without people staring at me in pity or fear. I want to wake up without pain. Ling swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. ¡°Fine. Shoes. I want a pair of beautiful shoes.¡± ¡°Very well,¡± Wai-Mae said, pleased. She reached down and scooped up a rock, and her hand dropped as if the rock had real weight. ¡°How did¡ª¡± ¡°Shhh. Watch.¡± Wai-Mae shut her eyes. Her mouth went tight with concentration. She moved her hands over the rock, skilled as a magician with a well-worn trick, and as Ling watched, astonished, the rock shifted beneath Wai-Mae¡¯s hands, no longer solid but something between states, a moment of becoming, observed. Wai-Mae¡¯s edges blurred as well, as if she and the rock were joined in this alchemy. The rock wavered for a moment more, and then it was gone. In its place lay a pair of elegant embroidered Chinese slippers. Ling ran her thumb across the raised thread at the tips of the shoes and felt just the tiniest static, some lingering charge. ¡°How¡­ how did you do that?¡± Wai-Mae wiped sweat from her brow. ¡°It¡¯s this world. Our dream-walker energy is like magic here.¡± ¡°Not magic,¡± Ling murmured. Her mind whirred: She knew the dream world was not the real world, and yet, as fantastical as it all was, she¡¯d never been able to change or create anything within it. This seemed unbelievable¡ªas if Wai-Mae had altered the atomic structure of the dream landscape somehow. ¡°This place makes whatever you dream come true. It makes me very tired, though.¡± Wai-Mae trembled, breathing heavily. For the first time, her mouth wasn¡¯t running amok. ¡°Come back tomorrow night, and I will show you how to do it, too.¡± ¡°But how do I come back?¡± ¡°Take the train from the old station, of course. Just as you did tonight,¡± Wai-Mae assured her, grinning. ¡°We will be friends, you and I. I will show you how to change dreams. And you¡­¡± Wai-Mae twisted her mouth to the side and looked up to the trees, thinking. ¡°You will tell me stories of your New York City so that I will know it when I get there. So that I will not feel like such a stranger.¡± Page 52 Ling couldn¡¯t stop staring at the slippers. ¡°Tomorrow night,¡± she said. The first sharp ring of Ling¡¯s alarm clock roared across the dreamscape. Her body grew heavier, a signal that she had begun her ascent into the waking world. ¡°Till tomorrow, Little Warrior!¡± Wai-Mae called. Tomorrow, Ling thought, and like the flapping wings of a dove, the night whitened and twitched, then blurred into a great cottony nothingness. At the first peal of the alarm, Gaspard barked furiously. ¡°No! Not yet!¡± Henry yelled. He thrust a hand out toward Louis as if he could grab hold of him and keep his lover from disappearing. But it was no use. Henry gulped in huge lungfuls of air as he woke in his chair at his tiny table in the Bennington. The alarm clock screamed and shook on the floor where it had fallen. Henry lay in the chair, paralyzed, unable to wipe away his tears. From the other room, he could hear Theta yelling. In a minute, she¡¯d come out and growl at him. But Henry didn¡¯t care about any of that. He¡¯d seen Louis. He¡¯d talked to Louis. But would Louis even remember their conversation? People didn¡¯t always remember their dreams, and even if they did, even if one crawled under the skin for a little while, it didn¡¯t linger for long. Details were forgotten. People brushed them aside, busy with their lives. But Louis didn¡¯t have a telephone, and if Henry¡¯s father was somehow keeping his letters and telegrams from reaching Louis, then calling for him at Celeste¡¯s was useless. He¡¯d found Louis in a dream, so it was possible to do it again. All he had to do was go back in and give him a suggestion, the way he¡¯d done with Theta when she had a nightmare. That was it! Through the dream world, he could get Louis to come to him. But that meant he¡¯d need Ling once more. That was the key¡ªthe two of them together. Tomorrow, he¡¯d ask Ling to help him, no matter how much it cost. ¡°Henry Bartholomew DuBois the Fourth!¡± Theta marched in, her sleep mask pushed up haphazardly on her forehead so that she resembled a drunken pirate. She slapped off the alarm clock and turned on Henry, furious. ¡°What¡¯s our deal, Hen?¡± ¡°Now, Theta¡­¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you ¡®Now, Theta¡¯ me. What¡¯s our deal?¡± ¡°No more than¡ª¡± ¡°Once a week,¡± Theta finished. ¡°Theta¡ª¡± ¡°This is two nights in a row, and after you promised me today¡ª¡± ¡°Theta¡ª ¡°If you think I¡¯m gonna lose my beauty sleep while you¡ª¡± ¡°Theta!¡± Henry croaked out her name with the last of his strength. Theta snapped out of her temper. Worried, she fell to her knees beside Henry. ¡°Whatsa matter, Hen? Holy smokes, you okay?¡± Henry smiled with chattering teeth. ¡°I¡¯m s-swell. Theta, I f-found him. I f-found Louis,¡± Henry managed to say before he fell, utterly exhausted, into a dreamless sleep. Adelaide Proctor fished a nitroglycerin tablet from her pillbox, placed it beneath her tongue, and waited for her angina pains to subside. It had been a nightmare that had brought on this spasm¡ªsomething about an old hand-cranked music box that played a song that had been popular when Adelaide was young. The song¡¯s beauty had stirred her longing, promising her everything she¡¯d ever wanted if only she¡¯d follow it deeper and deeper into dreams. Adelaide sensed it calling out to other sleepers, too, like a radio transmission from a far-off station late at night. But then the dream shifted, the song was lost, and she saw Elijah standing silently on the edge of the cornfield, his face painted in deep moon-shadow. ¡°Addie,¡± he¡¯d whispered, beckoning, and her heart began to gallop wildly, a riderless horse, until she woke with a start. The tablet worked quickly on the tightness in her chest. Once her heartbeat slowed to a steadier rhythm, she forced herself from her bed and staggered to her own music box, atop a small oak cabinet tucked into a corner of the room. When she lifted the box¡¯s lid, its tiny Moulin Rouge dancer figurine jerked into motion. With two fingers, Adelaide silenced the dancer¡¯s song before it could wake her sister, Lillian. Inside lay a flannel jewelry bag housing a small iron case with the initials EJH. Adelaide opened the case and examined its contents¡ªa lock of dark-gold hair, a tooth, a sliver of finger bone, and a tintype of a young man in a gray uniform. Seeing that everything was secure, she placed the iron case back in its bag and closed it away, locking the doors of the cabinet once more. Next she gathered a shallow bowl, matches, a candle in its brass holder, a roll of bandaging, bundled sage, and a small crooked silver dagger. These she added to her handbag. She emptied the salt can into each pocket of her robe, grabbed the handbag, and, with the burden of salt weighing her down, shuffled down the hall to wait for the elevator. Page 53 The elevator operator rode Miss Adelaide all the way to the very depths of the Bennington without a word; he¡¯d only been there two weeks and had already learned not to question the Proctor sisters. While the lift rumbled down, Miss Addie chanted softly to herself, ¡°The land is old, the land is vast / He has no future, he has no past / His coat is sown with many woes / He¡¯ll wake the dead, the King of Crows.¡± The elevator gates clanged open on the Bennington¡¯s underworld. The young man at the elevator¡¯s controls peered into the darkness. ¡°Shall I wait for you, Miss Proctor?¡± he asked uncertainly. ¡°It¡¯s quite all right, dear. I¡¯ll ring you shortly. Run along now.¡± Shaking his head, the young man closed the gate and the elevator groaned back up, leaving Addie alone in the dim basement. Immediately, she took out the candle and lit the wick, waiting for the glow to brighten the gloom. She fed one end of the bundled sage into the flame and waved it through the air, spreading out in wider circles. Next she wiggled up the sleeves of her robe and nightgown. The paper-thin skin of her wrist glowed nearly blue in the dim light from the narrow street-level windows that ran along the park side. Speaking ancient words, she slid the small knife across her thumb, hissing as she dripped blood into the bowl. She pressed her bloody thumb to the basement¡¯s eastern corner before marking the room¡¯s three other corners. This done, she bandaged her finger, then scooped salt from her pockets, sprinkling frost-thin lines along the windowsills, where she hoped the janitor wouldn¡¯t find them. Night pleaded at the windows to be let in. Addie snuffed the candle, gathered her things, and pressed the elevator¡¯s call button, watching the golden arrow tick down the floors to the bottom. When the doors opened, the elevator operator helped Addie onto the lift. ¡°You smell smoke, Miss Proctor?¡± he asked, alarmed. ¡°It¡¯s only sage. I smudged the basement, you see.¡± ¡°Beg your pardon, Miss Proctor?¡± ¡°I lit a bundle of sage and smoked the room.¡± Curiosity and suspicion proved too much for the young man at the controls. ¡°Now, Miss Proctor, why¡¯d you want to go and do a thing like that?¡± ¡°For protection,¡± Addie said, resolute. ¡°Protection from what, ma¡¯am?¡± ¡°Bad dreams.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Miss Proctor. I don¡¯t follow.¡± Miss Adelaide whispered urgently, ¡°I¡¯m keeping out the dead, my dear. For as long as I can.¡± The elevator operator kept his thoughts to himself, though he¡¯d be sure to mention this to the building management before his shift ended. No doubt they wouldn¡¯t want the old woman burning down the whole building. With a small shaking of his head, he yanked the gate shut and turned again to the controls, and the gilded doors closed on the dark of the basement. ¡°Good morning, good morning!¡± Evie called as she flounced down the halls of WGI wearing a broad smile that masked the hangover from the previous night¡¯s party. As promised, Evie had popped out of the cake at midnight. As expected, she¡¯d popped right into a boozy party that went until well into the wee hours. She¡¯d kill for another few hours of sleep. In the hallway, the day¡¯s hopefuls clamored to be put on the air. Every morning, there was a line of new talent looking to make a name on the radio. ¡°I can sing just like Caruso,¡± one fellow explained before launching into an aria so loud Evie was fairly certain it could be heard out in Queens. ¡°What about me?¡± another man with a nasal voice piped up. ¡°I can do fourteen different bird whistles!¡± ¡°Oh, please don¡¯t,¡± Evie muttered, rubbing her temples. As Evie dropped off her cloche and coat with the coat-check girl, another of Mr. Phillips¡¯s many secretaries, Helen, hurried toward her. ¡°Miss O¡¯Neill! I¡¯ve been looking for you. Mr. Phillips would like to speak with you. Immediately.¡± Evie¡¯s gut roiled as Helen ushered her into Mr. Phillips¡¯s private office, an enormous corner room of gleaming cherrywood walls on the tenth floor with a view of Midtown Manhattan. A gold-framed oil painting of a godlike Guglielmo Marconi inventing the wireless took up an entire wall. His painted expression gave no hint as to Evie¡¯s fate. ¡°Wait here. He¡¯ll be in shortly,¡± Helen said and closed the door. Was Mr. Phillips firing her? Had she done something wrong? By the time she heard Mr. Phillips¡¯s patrician voice telling his secretary to ¡°hold all calls,¡± she was so anxious she could¡¯ve climbed the pretty walls. Page 54 Mr. Phillips swept into the room with the sort of calm confidence that had helped him make a fortune in the stock market. His suits were tailored in London, and he had an apartment in the city and a house out on Long Island where he hosted legendary parties attended by film and radio stars. But radio was his one true obsession, and WGI was his baby. Talent that Mr. Phillips didn¡¯t like had been fired mid-show: An emcee or act would be ushered out of the studio during a musical number and immediately replaced with a new act. ¡°Good morning, Miss O¡¯Neill,¡± he said now, taking the seat opposite her. The sun glinted off his silvery hair. ¡°You¡¯re front-page news today, it seems.¡± He slid a stack of newspapers toward her. The Daily News. The Herald. The Star. Every one of them carried a station-approved glamour shot of Evie, along with a screaming headline: SWEETHEART SEES HIM AS HER GROOM. LOVE IS IN THE CARDS FOR DIVINER GAL. FLAPPER OF FATE IN SECRET ROMANCE. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you tell me about this?¡± Mr. Phillips asked. ¡°I¡­ I can explain, Mr. Phillips,¡± Evie said. Under the table, her foot tapped like mad. He would fire her, send her packing, and everything she¡¯d enjoyed the last few months would be gone. When she saw Sam Lloyd again, Evie would need Theta to hold her back to keep her from killing that boy in every way she could imagine¡ªand she had quite an imagination. Evie took a deep, calming breath. Use your vowels, she told herself. Everything sounds better with proper enunciation. ¡°You see, it isn¡¯t quite what it seems.¡­¡± ¡°No? I certainly hope it is what it seems, dear girl,¡± Mr. Phillips answered, his eyes brightening. ¡°It¡¯s spectacular!¡± ¡°It¡­ it is?¡± Evie squeaked. ¡°Indeed it is. WGI has been flooded with telephone calls all day. The switchboard operators¡¯ fingers are exhausted. People are crazy about your engagement. They can¡¯t get enough! They want to know everything about it. Why, it¡¯s the biggest thing to hit New York since¡ªwell, since you announced you were a Diviner. The ¡®It Girl¡¯ has found her ¡®It Boy.¡¯¡± A tickle nagged the back of Evie¡¯s throat. ¡°Oh, gee, well, I wouldn¡¯t exactly say Sam is my ¡®It Boy.¡¯¡± Mr. Phillips waved her words away. ¡°The point is, my dear girl, that you and your lucky fellow have made the WGI family very happy. Finally, we¡¯ve got a leg up on NBC. You and your beau are going to put us over the top. Already, the advertisers are calling. They want to support the station that has the Sweetheart Seer and her fianc¨¦.¡± He smiled. ¡°And when our advertisers are happy, I am happy. You are about to become very famous, my dear.¡± ¡°I am?¡± ¡°Yes. What would you say to being on the air two nights a week? With a small raise, naturally.¡± Two nights a week? The only other people with that sort of clout were stars like Will Rogers and Fanny Brice. Evie couldn¡¯t keep the smile from spreading wide across her face. ¡°That¡¯d be the berries, Mr. Phillips.¡± ¡°Consider it done. And, of course, we¡¯ll want to arrange press for the happy couple.¡± ¡°Oh. Well, gee, I-I don¡¯t know. It¡¯s all rather new,¡± Evie said. Her voice had gone high, like she¡¯d been given ether. ¡°Nonsense.¡± Mr. Phillips glowered, his bushy brows coming to a terrifying, angry V mid-forehead. ¡°We¡¯ll arrange it. The public¡¯s appetite must be fed. I want you and your fellow¡±¡ªMr. Phillips stole a glance at the newspaper story¡ª¡°Sam out as often as possible. Every night if you can. Now that Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald are in Europe, Americans are hungry for a modern couple to take their place.¡± He lowered a finger at her. ¡°You two are it.¡± Evie burst into uncontrollable, nervous laughter. ¡°Is something the matter, Miss O¡¯Neill?¡± ¡°Everything¡¯s jake,¡± Evie said in a somewhat strangled voice. ¡°Could I make a telephone call, please?¡± In the privacy of Mr. Phillips¡¯s office, Evie waited for Sam to answer and looked out the tenth-floor windows at tall buildings enveloped by winter fog. Down below, the people hustling along Fifth Avenue seemed rather small. Evie liked being this high; she felt quite powerful, indeed. She¡¯d like to stay up here among the clouds. Evie picked up the day¡¯s paper and stared at her name in bold print. Yes, she liked this very much. She just had to get Sam on board. The operator broke the silence. ¡°I¡¯ve got that call for you, Miss O¡¯Neill.¡± Page 55 Sam¡¯s voice crackled over the line, filled with smirk. ¡°Well, if it isn¡¯t the future Mrs. Lloyd.¡± ¡°Daaarling,¡± she trilled. ¡°I¡¯ve missed you.¡± There was a brief pause on the other end, then: ¡°Uh-oh.¡± Through the crack in the door, Evie could see Mr. Phillips and the WGI secretary pool hovering, hanging on her every word. She perched on the gleaming edge of the lacquered desk and laughed like they¡¯d taught her in elocution class, low in her throat, with her head thrown back as if she were catching the wind in her hair. It was supposed to be alluring and high-class, the devil-may-care laugh of a lady of leisure. ¡°Hahahaha. Oh, you! Darling, I simply must see you. Shall we say luncheon at noon? The Algonquin?¡± Another pause. ¡°Are you feeling okay, Sheba?¡± ¡°Now, don¡¯t be late, dearest. We have so much to discuss, and you know that every moment away from you is like torture. Adieu!¡± Evie hung up before Sam could say another word. On her way out, Evie shared the elevator with Sarah Snow. Evie noticed her stockings right away¡ªgray herringbone, very chic. For an evangelist, she was quite fashionable. That was a large part of her appeal. God¡¯s flapper, some called her. She gave the subject of Jesus a little hotsy-totsy. A missionary¡¯s daughter whose parents had been killed in China when she was only thirteen, Sarah Snow heard the call at the tender age of fifteen. By the time she was twenty, she¡¯d crisscrossed the country twice, holding tent meetings and preaching about the evils of liquor, dancing, and socialism. She¡¯d married at twenty-one and lost her husband to tuberculosis before she¡¯d turned twenty-three. Now, at twenty-five, she was trying to reach her flock on the radio¡ªMoses on the Wireless. That she called for a return to simpler times appealed to plenty of Americans lost in a world turning too fast for them to find their footing. That she was a passionate speaker brought scores to her revival meetings. That she was pretty didn¡¯t hurt a thing. Still, she didn¡¯t have nearly the following that Evie did. In fact, the gossip around the station was that the only reason Sarah had managed to hold on to her show was that there was nothing better to slot into that hour, and it would look bad to fire a foot soldier for Jesus. ¡°Congratulations on your engagement, Evie,¡± the evangelist said, giving one of those saintly, closed-mouth smiles that Evie couldn¡¯t have managed if she practiced in a church mirror for a year. ¡°Thank you, Sarah.¡± ¡°Is he a Godly sort of fellow?¡± Evie suppressed a loud ¡°ha!¡± ¡°Well, he certainly does know how to make a girl appeal to the Lord.¡± ¡°I wish you every happiness. I heard they¡¯re putting you on two nights a week now. Is¡­ is that true?¡± Another closed-mouth smile. But Evie sensed the worry behind it. Sarah Snow might have her eyes on the cross, but her heart was full of ambition. It almost made Evie like her more. Almost. ¡°Yes. It¡¯s true,¡± Evie said brightly. Sarah faced forward again, her eyes on the golden arrow counting down the floors. ¡°I suppose everyone loves a great romance.¡± Evie¡¯s smile faltered. ¡°I suppose so.¡± Evie blew into the Algonquin and shook the damp from her cloche. The ma?tre d¡¯ led her through the packed, oak-paneled dining room. Every head turned as Sam rose to greet Evie. ¡°Lamb Chop!¡± Sam clasped her hands and gave a small sigh. ¡°Makes me sound like dinner,¡± Evie muttered through clenched teeth. ¡°Does it, my little Venison De Milo?¡± Evie glared. ¡°You¡¯re enjoying this, aren¡¯t you?¡± Sam whispered into her ear, ¡°More than you can imagine.¡± A waiter appeared. ¡°Shall I bring you the Waldorf salad, Miss O¡¯Neill?¡± ¡°Yes, thank you. And coffee, please.¡± ¡°Mr. Lloyd?¡± Sam gave a small sigh. ¡°Usually I feast on our love, but since the lady¡¯s having something, I¡¯ll take a Reuben. Extra horseradish. And an egg cream.¡± ¡°As you wish, sir,¡± the waiter said. ¡°You two must be very happy.¡± ¡°Over the moon. Who¡¯d¡¯ve thought a regular schmoe like me could land a gem like Baby Doll here,¡± Sam said. Evie had to lock her hands around her knees to keep from kicking Sam under the table. Once the waiter had gone, Evie leaned forward, her voice low. ¡°Laying it on a little thick, aren¡¯t you, pal?¡± Sam shrugged. ¡°I heard we were in a romance. Thought I¡¯d play along. But if you¡¯d rather not, I¡¯ll call the papers right now and tell ¡¯em the truth.¡± Page 56 ¡°You¡¯ll do no such thing, Sam Lloyd! You got us into this mess. Now we¡¯re stuck.¡± ¡°Is that so? Tell me why I shouldn¡¯t fess up to the news boys.¡± ¡°Do you know how many calls the radio station got today about us? One thousand!¡± ¡°A¡­ thousand?¡± ¡°One-oh-oh-oh, brother. And they¡¯re still calling! Mr. Phillips wants to put me on two nights a week. This is going to make me famous. More famous.¡± She glared at Sam. ¡°You, too, I suppose.¡± Sam rubbed his chin, grinning. ¡°I bet I¡¯d be good at being famous.¡± ¡°How lucky for us all,¡± Evie snapped. ¡°The point is, if you tell them it was just a joke now, I¡¯ll look like a joke, too. Nobody wants to back a joke. Makes people grumpy. There¡¯s only one solution, I¡¯m afraid. We¡¯ve got to play out this hand for a bit.¡± The waiter delivered a plate of rolls and Evie dove for it. Being anxious made her hungry. She could¡¯ve eaten ten rolls. Sam laced his fingers and leaned his elbows on the table, inching his face closer to Evie¡¯s. ¡°Yeah? What do I get out of this deal, Baby Vamp?¡± ¡°I agree not to kill you,¡± Evie said around a mouthful of bread. She twirled the butter knife between her fingers. ¡°Your terms are generous,¡± Sam said. ¡°But I have two conditions of my own.¡± Evie swallowed her lump of bread. She narrowed her eyes to slits. ¡°I will not pet with you. You can cross that one off the list right now.¡± Sam smirked. He dabbed a spot of butter from her face with his napkin. ¡°Doll, I have never had to make petting part of a contract. Every girl in my rumble seat has been happy to be there. I had something else in mind.¡± Evie didn¡¯t know whether to be relieved or insulted. ¡°What?¡± she said, wary. Sam¡¯s smirk vanished. ¡°Project Buffalo.¡± Project Buffalo. Sam¡¯s obsession. According to him, it was some secret government operation during the war, and his mother, Miriam, had been a part of it. She¡¯d left home when Sam was only eight and never returned. The official record said that she¡¯d died of influenza, but two years ago Sam had received a postcard¡ªno return address¡ªwith the words Find me, Little Fox on the back in Russian. The handwriting was unmistakably his mother¡¯s. Sam had run away from home and made it his mission to find her. ¡°Sam,¡± Evie said as gently as possible, ¡°don¡¯t you think maybe it¡¯s time to let that go? You say you don¡¯t believe in ghosts, but Project Buffalo is a ghost. And you let it haunt you.¡± ¡°Evie, Project Buffalo took my mother away from me. And I will not rest until I know what happened to her.¡± Sam¡¯s expression was one of grim determination, but Evie could see the hurt there. She knew what it was to lose someone you loved so dearly. If there had been a hope that James was still alive, Evie would¡¯ve followed every lead until she found him. ¡°Fair enough,¡± Evie said. ¡°What¡¯s the matter? You look like somebody put hot peppers in your Burma Shave.¡± Sam drummed his fingers on the table. ¡°Evie, did your uncle ever mention Project Buffalo to you?¡± ¡°No. Why on earth would you think Will would know anything about that?¡± ¡°I got a tip.¡± Evie raised an eyebrow. ¡°Tips are for cabdrivers and horse races, Sam.¡± ¡°Hold on. I need to show you something.¡± Sam fished out his wallet and extracted a folded napkin. ¡°There¡¯s a fella, used to work for the government. Knows all sorts of secrets, and occasionally, he coughs something up for me. I asked him about my mother and Project Buffalo. He told me it¡¯s still going on. And he got me a name of somebody he said knew about it.¡± Sam slid her the napkin. Evie stared at the name written there: Will Fitzgerald. Evie bit her lip. ¡°When did you say your creepy man gave this to you?¡± ¡°He¡¯s not a creepy man.¡­¡± ¡°Fine, your ¡®clandestine acquaintance,¡¯ then.¡± ¡°About two months ago.¡± ¡°Two months ago,¡± Evie repeated. ¡°Yeah. Two months ago. Why¡¯re you making that face?¡± Evie shook her head. ¡°Sam, Sam, Sam. I never thought of you as gullible.¡± ¡°I¡¯m a lot of things, sister, but gullible isn¡¯t one of them. And since when did you become an expert on informants?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know anything about spying,¡± Evie said, pouring milk into her coffee. ¡°But I do know human nature. Think, Sam: two months ago? The Pentacle Murders?¡± Page 57 ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m familiar.¡± ¡°Uncle Will¡¯s name was all over the papers! And you were working at the museum. How easy would it be to connect the two?¡± Evie explained. ¡°Face it, Sam¡ªyou were taken for a ride. I¡¯m sorry if you don¡¯t want to admit it. The con man got conned.¡± A worm of doubt twisted in Sam¡¯s gut. He hadn¡¯t taken that into account. ¡°Sam,¡± Evie said gently, ¡°have you ever considered that maybe that postcard isn¡¯t from your mother?¡± ¡°That¡¯s her writing on the postcard. I know it, Evie. I will find her. I swear I will.¡± The waiter delivered Sam¡¯s Reuben and Evie¡¯s Waldorf salad. From the corner of her eye, Evie could see people watching them, gossiping from behind their menus. At the famous round table, Dorothy Parker sat drinking martinis with Robert Benchley and George S. Kaufman, but no one was paying them any mind. Evie and Sam commanded the Algonquin¡¯s full attention. Sam was oblivious. He was much more interested in his sandwich, which he was practically inhaling. ¡°Don¡¯t choke. I need you alive. For a while at least,¡± Evie said. ¡°So if I were to help you with Project Buffalo, what would you want me to do?¡± ¡°Read whatever I dig up. See if you can get a lead on anything.¡± ¡°Object reading.¡± Evie sighed. ¡°Going two nights a week on the radio is already taxing me. I¡¯d have to be careful. What¡¯s condition number two?¡± ¡°You host the museum¡¯s Diviners exhibit party at the end of the month.¡± ¡°Oh, Saaaam,¡± Evie whined. She dropped her head on the table with an Isadora Duncan¨Cworthy sense of drama. ¡°No. I am not helping Will. Why, it¡¯s campaigning for the enemy! I hate that museum, and I hate Will, too.¡± ¡°You¡¯re not helping Will. You¡¯re helping me. If the museum goes under, I¡¯m out on the street. By the way, we¡¯re being watched.¡± Sam flicked his eyes in the direction of a table full of gawking flappers whispering excitedly to one another. Evie raised an eyebrow. ¡°No kidding. I didn¡¯t just fall off the turnip truck, you know.¡± ¡°We should give them a little something for their trouble.¡± ¡°Such as?¡± Evie said, wary. Sam leaned forward and took both of Evie¡¯s hands in his. He stared into her eyes as if she were the only woman in the world. Like a traitor, Evie¡¯s stomach gave a slight hiccup. ¡°Help me with Project Buffalo and the Diviners exhibit. And I promise I¡¯ll sell this romance so hard Valentino couldn¡¯t¡¯ve done better.¡± From the corner of her eye, Evie could see that more people were taking notice of them. The room buzzed with an energy that made her feel as if she, herself, ran on electric current. She liked that feeling. She liked it very much. Reading a few trinkets and hosting a party¡ªeven one for the museum¡ªin exchange for being front-page news and New York City¡¯s biggest radio star seemed fair enough. ¡°You¡¯ve got yourself a deal, Sam, with one last condition,¡± Evie said. ¡°I won¡¯t take up golf or folk dancing.¡± Evie narrowed her eyes. ¡°A time limit. Four weeks of the swooniest, swellest romance New York City has ever seen. And then, kaput. Over and out. Off the air.¡± ¡°Golly, when you say it like that, it sounds as if our love¡¯s not real, Lamb Chop.¡± ¡°There will be a tragic parting. Our love will have burned too brightly to live on.¡± Evie put a hand to her forehead like a doomed opera heroine, then let it flutter into a parting wave. ¡°Toot, Toot, Tootsie! Good-bye.¡± ¡°Four weeks, huh?¡± Sam asked, cocking his head. ¡°Four weeks.¡± Sam stole a glance at the flappers watching them. They were cute, and probably one of them might jump to date him. So why was he entering into a devil¡¯s bargain with Evie? Why did the prospect of a fake romance with her give him the same thrill as thievery? ¡°Done,¡± Sam said. He stared up at her with big peepers and a lupine grin. ¡°We¡¯ll have to make the chumps believe it. Moonlight strolls. Staring into each other¡¯s eyes. Sharing the same straw in our egg cream. Dreadful pet names.¡± ¡°Not Lamb Chop,¡± Evie protested. ¡°That¡¯s hideous.¡± ¡°You got it, Pork Chop.¡± ¡°I will murder you in your sleep.¡± Sam grinned. ¡°Does that mean you¡¯re sleeping beside me?¡± ¡°Not on your life, Lloyd.¡± Evie smirked. ¡°The act¡¯s only good when the cameras are flashing.¡± Page 58 ¡°Well, then, guess I¡¯d better make this look good now.¡± Sam kissed the back of Evie¡¯s hand. The table of flappers let out a collective, swooning Ohhhh. The kiss tingled up Evie¡¯s arm and gave her insides a soft buzz. Stop that, she thought. She¡¯d have to discuss this with her insides later and let them know the score. The waiter appeared at their table once more. ¡°The meal is on the house, Miss O¡¯Neill, Mr. Lloyd. Thank you for dining with us at the Algonquin today. We do hope you¡¯ll come again.¡± Sam¡¯s eyebrows shot up. ¡°I could get used to this.¡± He snugged his fisherman¡¯s cap down onto his head. ¡°Mr. Phillips has arranged an interview for us at WGI today. Four o¡¯clock. We¡¯re telling the story of our love. Don¡¯t be late.¡± ¡°Nifty. I¡¯ll steal something swell to wear. Whaddaya think¡ªpantaloons?¡± He was toying with her. This was the trouble with trusting a fella like Sam Lloyd. ¡°Sam. Don¡¯t make me kill you on a full stomach. I might get a cramp.¡± Sam smirked. ¡°Nice doing business with you, too, Baby Vamp.¡± Evie batted her lashes. ¡°Go now before I change my mind.¡± ¡°Leave separately and disappoint our audience?¡± Sam nodded toward the other patrons slyly watching from their tables. That wolfish grin was back. But the thread of pure glee was new. Sam slipped his arm through Evie¡¯s, parading her through the gaping patrons of the Algonquin. He leaned in to whisper in Evie¡¯s ear, and her stomach gave another rebellious flip. ¡°From now on, Sheba, you won¡¯t be able to shake me.¡± Theta and Henry raced down the crowded sidewalk of Forty-second Street, late, as usual, for rehearsal. They squeezed past a preacher and his small flock of parishioners holding a prayer vigil. ¡°This sleeping sickness is God¡¯s judgment! Repent!¡± the preacher thundered, a Bible held high in one hand. ¡°Turn away from loose morals; from those dens of iniquity, the speakeasy; from the Devil¡¯s music, jazz; and from the untold evils of the bootlegger¡¯s liquor!¡± ¡°Gee, if I do that, I won¡¯t have any hobbies left,¡± Henry quipped. ¡°If we don¡¯t hurry, we¡¯re not gonna have any jobs left,¡± Theta said. A corner newsboy waved a newspaper at Theta. ¡°Paper, Miss?¡± ¡°Sorry, kid.¡± He shrugged and shouted out the day¡¯s headlines. ¡°Extra! Sleeping Sickness Spreads, Docs Fear New Plague! Anarchist Bombers Take Out Factory! The Sweetheart Seer Engaged! Extra!¡± ¡°What?¡± Theta stopped short. ¡°Kid, here,¡± she said, tossing over a nickel and practically snatching the Daily News from him. ¡°I¡¯ll be a monkey¡¯s uncle.¡± ¡°Is this some sort of joke?¡± Henry asked, reading the front page over Theta¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t Evie tell us about this?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know what game Evil¡¯s playing now, but you can bet I¡¯ll find out,¡± Theta said, shoving the crumpled paper into her pocketbook. ¡°If she¡¯s marrying Sam Lloyd, I¡¯ll eat my hat.¡± ¡°Gee, that¡¯s too bad,¡± Henry said, opening the theater door. ¡°It¡¯s an awfully nice hat.¡± The sharp report of tap shoes competed with the melodic rise and fall of chorines singing scales, announcing that rehearsal was already under way at the New Amsterdam. Wally, the show¡¯s long-suffering stage manager, glowered at Henry and Theta as they sauntered down the aisle together, arm in arm. ¡°Well, well, well. If it isn¡¯t the Tardy Twins. Congratulations. You¡¯re only¡±¡ªhe made a point of checking his watch¡ª¡°ten minutes late today.¡± Theta patted Wally¡¯s cheek and pursed her lips. ¡°Now, Wally, don¡¯t let your ulcer flare up¡ªHen¡¯s got a new song for you. Quiet, everybody!¡± ¡°Hey, that¡¯s my line,¡± Wally griped. Not to be outdone, he barked, ¡°Quiet, everybody!¡± ¡°Go on, Hen,¡± Theta coaxed. Henry perched at the piano and took a deep breath. ¡°It¡¯s a bit rough, mind you. But it goes something like this.¡± Henry played a lilting melody, singing along in his raspy falsetto: ¡°Inside a dream I yearned anew You appeared, like morning dew My heart leaped up, no longer blue But only here in Slumberland.¡­ The moon sank low in the morning sky Why, oh why, must we say good-bye? I¡¯ll see you again, sweet by and by But only here in Slumberland. They say that dreams come true, dear, Page 59 If you believe their charms But if my dreams came true, dear, I¡¯d hold you in my arms. Sandman come and dust my eyes Blue moon, won¡¯t you start your rise? Every night, oh, how time flies When I¡¯m with you in Slumberland¡­ I¡¯ll stay with you in Slumberland.¡± When he finished, Henry turned to Wally. ¡°Well,¡± he asked nervously, ¡°what do you think?¡± For once, Wally wasn¡¯t cradling his head in his hands and looking like he¡¯d lost the will to live. ¡°You know, kid, that¡¯s not half bad.¡± A voice boomed from the back. ¡°A little slow, isn¡¯t it?¡± Henry didn¡¯t know when Herbert Allen had sneaked in, but his arrival was anything but good news. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ melancholy. Not much pep. Can you make it zippier, old boy?¡± Herbie said as he strolled down the center aisle wearing a new plaid suit bought, no doubt, with his latest royalty check. ¡°Well, the poor fella can¡¯t find what he¡¯s lost,¡± Henry explained. He tried very hard not to add you tasteless idiot. ¡°He¡¯s yearning.¡± ¡°Mmm,¡± Herbie said, wrinkling his nose. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Wally. Seems a bit dreary for the Follies.¡± ¡°I like it,¡± Wally said, to Henry¡¯s great surprise. ¡°We could use a wistful number.¡± Henry enjoyed watching Herbie¡¯s unctuous smile vanish. ¡°Well, I suppose Flo will make the final decision, won¡¯t he?¡± Herbie said. ¡°Yeah, yeah,¡± Wally said, waving it away. ¡°Take another pass at it, Henry. Rework the bridge and that last chorus, and then we¡¯ll show it to Flo. If he likes it, you¡¯re in, kid.¡± ¡°Thanks, Wally!¡± ¡°Hallelujah!¡± Theta said. She jumped up and threw her arms around Henry. ¡°All right, people, all right. Places for the ¡®Hocus-Pocus¡¯ number. Where are my Diviners girls?¡± While Wally barked orders to the performers, Henry daydreamed at the piano. Everything seemed new and hopeful now. It was all because of Louis¡ªhe knew it was. He couldn¡¯t wait to see him again. And when he did, he¡¯d give Louis a dream suggestion to call the apartment in New York. Somehow, he had to convince Ling to go in with him again tonight. As soon as rehearsal ended, he¡¯d run down to Chinatown and make the arrangements. It was all going to work out. And the disgruntled expression on Herbert Allen¡¯s face was the icing on the cake. The minute rehearsal was over, Theta rang Mabel, and the two of them barged into Evie¡¯s bathroom at the Winthrop Hotel, where they found her soaking in a tub full of bubbles. ¡°Hey! I¡¯m not decent!¡± Evie protested. ¡°If we waited for you to become decent, we¡¯d be waiting for years,¡± Theta said, taking a seat on the commode. She held up the day¡¯s newspaper. ¡°Have you lost what¡¯s left of your demented mind, Evil?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t believe you didn¡¯t tell me yesterday,¡± Mabel grumbled, perching on the edge of the tub. ¡°Of all the cockamamie things you¡¯ve done, this takes the cake¡ªthe wedding cake!¡± ¡°I¡¯m your best friend,¡± Mabel said, hurt. Evie wanted to confess everything to Theta and Mabel, but she couldn¡¯t risk it. She and Sam had agreed to keep their little arrangement a secret from even their closest friends. If their pals believed they were in love, there was more chance of the public buying it¡ªand less chance they¡¯d be exposed as liars. Evie scooted lower, into the protection of the bubbly froth. ¡°Gee, it, um, it all happened so fast. I was planning to tell you. Honest.¡± Theta squinted at Evie. ¡°I thought you hated Sam Lloyd.¡± ¡°I did hate Sam for a bit. But then I came to see what a truly romantic person he is. How adventurous. And¡­ and sweet!¡± Evie said, making it up as she went. ¡°Look, can¡¯t a girl change her mind about a boy?¡± Theta folded her arms across her chest. ¡°Sure she can. We¡¯ll wait right here while you change it back. Evie, Sam Lloyd is a con! He could charm the snakes outta Ireland. Sure, he¡¯s handsome¡ª¡± Mabel made a face. ¡°Do you think so? Well, I suppose he isn¡¯t un-handsome¡ª¡± ¡°How do you know that drugstore cowboy¡¯s not just taking advantage of you now that you¡¯re making money?¡± ¡°You could at least say congratulations,¡± Evie groused, indignant. She had no right to feel that way. Nevertheless, she did. Page 60 ¡°Congratulations,¡± Mabel muttered. Theta rolled her eyes. ¡°Congratulations. For a wedding present, I¡¯ll buy you a matched set of common and sense. Not that you¡¯ll ever use it.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll choose to overlook that remark.¡± Evie sniffed. ¡°Something about this ain¡¯t on the level is all I know,¡± Theta said. In the other room, the telephone rang. ¡°Oh, no! Could one of you be an absolute daaahling and grab that?¡± Evie said. ¡°I do so lahhve to be a daaahling,¡± Theta mimicked, and marched to the phone on Evie¡¯s bedside table with Mabel in tow. ¡°Sweetheart Seer residence. Sorry, but currently the Sweetheart Seer is all wet,¡± Theta said, and Mabel giggled. ¡°Theta!¡± Evie howled from the tub. Theta kicked the bathroom door shut. ¡°Uh-huh¡­ uh-huh¡­ yeah, sure, I¡¯ll tell Her Radio Highness. Good-bye,¡± Theta said, hanging up the phone. ¡°What is it?¡± Evie asked, tying her robe as she pushed through the bathroom door. Theta put on a hoity-toity accent. ¡°I am to let Miss O¡¯Neill know that her driver has arrived.¡± ¡°Driver?¡± Evie said, eyes wide. The girls rushed to the window. Down on the street, a chauffeur waited beside a shiny green Chrysler. Mabel gasped. ¡°Holy smokes. It¡¯s like you¡¯re Gloria Swanson or something. Like you¡¯re a movie star.¡± ¡°A star,¡± Evie repeated, eyes flashing. ¡°Congratulations, Evil. You¡¯ve arrived. I guess we¡¯ll exit stage left, Mabel.¡± ¡°If you wait a minute, you can ride with me to the radio show. We could all go together, like real swells!¡± ¡°Sorry, Evil. I hafta go back to rehearsal,¡± Theta said. ¡°Mabesie?¡± For the past two months, Mabel had tried to ignore the changes in Evie. The way she now said eye-ther instead of eee-ther. The way she greeted people she hardly knew with a drawn-out daaah-ling. The way she always seemed to have time for parties and dates and her new glamorous pals, but not for Mabel. But this was too much. Weren¡¯t she and Evie best friends? Shouldn¡¯t a girl share the news of her engagement with her best friend first? Mabel¡¯s conscience told her that she should go and cheer Evie on. But she was angry and deeply hurt, and she didn¡¯t think she could tolerate being just one of the faceless crowd again. ¡°Sorry. I¡¯m not available,¡± Mabel said, turning on her heel. ¡°I¡¯ll get the elevator, Theta.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be right there, kid. I gotta powder my nose first.¡± Theta waited until Mabel was down the hall, then cornered Evie. ¡°Evil, are you really marrying Sam Lloyd?¡± ¡°It¡¯s in all the papers, isn¡¯t it?¡± Evie said. It wasn¡¯t precisely lying. Theta¡¯s eyes searched Evie¡¯s for an uncomfortable second. ¡°You break the news to Jericho about your engagement?¡± ¡°Why would I?¡± Evie said, looking away. ¡°Just a hunch, but I don¡¯t think he¡¯s gonna take it well.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t know what you mean.¡± Theta patted Evie¡¯s face. ¡°Keep telling yourself that.¡± When Jericho opened the day¡¯s paper, he had to read the headline four times before it finally sank in: Evie was marrying Sam Lloyd. Sam ¡°A Girl in Every Port¡± Lloyd. Sam, that grifter who couldn¡¯t be counted on, who only looked out for himself. She¡¯d chosen that jackass over him. When had it happened? Was that why Evie had avoided him, why she didn¡¯t respond to his letters? Was that the reason for her brush-off at the Bennington last night? Sam Lloyd. Did girls really go for fellas like that? Did they truly find bad boys more attractive? Or did they just want to know that a fella was normal, a man, not a machine? A few months ago, Jericho had been shot. The pain had been a sharp pop of fire in his chest. Reading the article on Sam and Evie¡¯s romance hurt even worse. He was glad that Will had already left with Sister Walker so that he could bear the sting of it in private. Off-key singing sounded in the hall, announcing Sam¡¯s arrival, and Jericho cursed his luck. ¡°Honey, ready my slippers and pipe¡ªI¡¯m home!¡± Sam shouted as he blew into the library and dropped himself onto the worn brown leather Chesterfield, ruddy-cheeked and smiling. ¡°Freddy, you would not believe the day I¡¯ve had so far. A real roller coaster. But there¡¯s good news: Evie¡¯s on board to host the Diviners exhibit opening.¡± ¡°Congratulations. How¡¯d you manage that?¡± Jericho said evenly. Page 61 Sam stretched his arms across the back of the sofa and smirked. ¡°Well, I did my best. And my best is pretty irresistible. So what do you think¡ªshould we hire a jazz band or an orchestra? See, I think jazz band. But the professor seems like the orchestra type to me¡ªviolins and French horns. Frilly-cuff music. Oh, and we could get somebody to cater.¡­¡± Jericho dropped the newspaper in Sam¡¯s lap. ¡°When were you going to tell me?¡± ¡°Gee, Freddy,¡± Sam said quietly, pushing the newspaper aside. ¡°I, uh, didn¡¯t want to rub it in.¡± ¡°Seems exactly like something you¡¯d want to do. And don¡¯t call me Freddy.¡± Jericho crossed to the fireplace, poking at the embers till they blazed. ¡°Did you ever consider that maybe you got me figured all wrong?¡± Sam said. Jericho didn¡¯t turn away from the fire. ¡°I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯ve got you figured exactly right. You¡¯re a thief. You steal things. And people.¡± Usually Sam enjoyed the friendly competition over Evie¡¯s affections, but just now, he felt like a real heel. He didn¡¯t know exactly what had happened between Jericho and Evie. Maybe they¡¯d kissed. Maybe more than that. But whatever had taken place was a romance of circumstances, he was certain. Surely Jericho had to know he was all wrong for Evie. Jericho spent his nights reading or painting Civil War models. Evie was a bearcat, the life of the party. She¡¯d eat him alive. The more Sam thought about it, the more he came to think that it was better this way. He¡¯d snooped in Jericho¡¯s room, looking for clues to Project Buffalo, and he¡¯d found the letters that Jericho had started to Evie and never sent. It bordered on what his old man would call nebbishy. This phony romance would give Jericho time to lick the last of his wounds and move on. In four weeks, he¡¯d be a new man. It would be, ¡°Evie who?¡± And Sam would help Jericho along. He owed the giant that much. In fact, he¡¯d be doing the big lug a favor. ¡°Listen, pal, I feel lousy about the way you found out about Evie and me. Let me make it up to you. How¡¯s about you and me go out on the town sometime, huh?¡± Jericho narrowed his eyes. ¡°You. And me.¡± ¡°We could go to the fights, or head to the Kentucky Club to hear Duke Ellington play. I could introduce you to some girls. It¡¯d be swell times!¡± He gave Jericho his most convincing smile. Jericho didn¡¯t return it. ¡°I¡¯m not going to dignify that with a response, especially when we have more important matters to tend to. We¡¯ve got a museum to save and an exhibit to put together, if you recall.¡± Sam figured it was best to leave the giant his pride and change the subject. At least they could agree on saving the museum. ¡°What¡¯ve we got so far?¡± Sam followed Jericho to a table that held a paltry assortment of items. ¡°Let¡¯s see. We got a gris gris bag. Liberty Anne¡¯s diary. A very shriveled mandrake root¡­¡± Sam held the grizzled thing up to the light. ¡°Or possibly the world¡¯s hairiest potato. And something that looks like chicken bones?¡± Jericho swiped the bones into a trash can. ¡°Last night¡¯s dinner.¡± Sam held up a photograph with a gauzy white smear in the background. ¡°Is this a spirit photograph, or is that mayonnaise?¡± Jericho snatched the ghostly tintype away. ¡°Spirit photograph.¡± Sam picked through the rest of the meager collection, his hopes flagging. ¡°This is it? It¡¯s not any different from what we already got going on.¡± ¡°Sam, this entire museum is a Diviners exhibit. I don¡¯t see why you haven¡¯t grasped this yet.¡± ¡°This is gonna be a three-legged dog of an exhibit,¡± Sam grumbled. ¡°Buncha spooky knickknacks and haunted doilies. Nobody¡¯s gonna line up for this junk!¡± ¡°I¡¯ll remind you that this was your idea.¡± Jericho spread his arms wide in challenge. ¡°Fine. Why don¡¯t you curate this exhibit, then? See what you come up with.¡± Jericho headed to the collections room, and Sam followed, complaining. ¡°Gimme something to work with. A curse. The bloodstained waistcoat of a murdered aristocrat. A hotsy-totsy medium who, uh, felt the spirits move through her, if you catch my drift¡ªouch!¡± Sam said, tripping over a spot on the rug that sent him tumbling into a sideboard. ¡°Watch it,¡± Jericho said, steadying the sideboard. ¡°These are rare artifacts.¡± ¡°Thanks for your concern. I¡¯m fine,¡± Sam muttered. He pulled back the rug, exposing the scarred outline of a door with a metal ring attached. ¡°That¡¯s the culprit,¡± Sam said, tugging on the ring. ¡°What is this?¡± Page 62 ¡°An old cellar.¡± ¡°No kidding. What¡¯s in it?¡± Jericho shrugged. ¡°Hold on¡ªyou¡¯ve never been down in the cellar?¡± ¡°No. Why would I?¡± ¡°Freddy, it could be a gold mine down there!¡± Sam tried the ring again. It wouldn¡¯t budge. ¡°I gotta loosen around these boards. Hand me that sword up there, will ya?¡± ¡°You mean this antique that¡¯s probably worth more than you are?¡± Jericho shook his head slowly. ¡°Fine!¡± Sam flicked open his Swiss Army knife and sawed the blade around the edges of the door as best he could to loosen the thick layers of sticky, packed dust, but the door still wouldn¡¯t give. Jericho sighed. ¡°Here. Move.¡± He grasped the ring with one hand and gave a slight pull, and the door creaked open. ¡°Holy smokes, Hercules. What are they feeding you?¡± Jericho coughed as the dust spiraled up in thick clouds. ¡°I coulda opened it, you know,¡± Sam added. ¡°No, you couldn¡¯t.¡± ¡°I was this close.¡± ¡°Wrong.¡± Jericho waved away the last of the dust motes circling in the air. A perilous-looking wooden staircase draped in cobwebs led down into the gloom. ¡°You think those stairs are still any good?¡± ¡°Only one way to find out,¡± Sam said. ¡°Let¡¯s grab some flashlights.¡± The wood protested loudly under Sam and Jericho¡¯s sudden weight as the two of them made their way down the old steps into the dark hole, their flashlight beams bouncing across the fragile architecture of cobwebs. They jumped to the bottom, landing on a dirt floor in a large room connected to a long, narrow passageway. Sam whistled. ¡°The bootleggers would kill for this.¡± He and Jericho walked the passageway, which was scribbled and scratched with names: James Beardon. Moses Johnson. Maisie Lafayette and children. My name is Osay. There were several X¡¯s instead of names, and a vast mural whose muted colors were ghosts of their former hues. In it, a slave family entered a promised land of bright sun and leafy trees. High above the sun¡¯s rays, someone had etched the word freedom. The mural had clearly been painted by several different hands over time, each artist adding to the story, but the message was the same. ¡°Looks like the Transcontinental wasn¡¯t the only railroad Cornelius Rathbone built,¡± Jericho said, shining a light around the cavernous space. Sam¡¯s mother used to say that inside everyone was the chance to change the world. It sat like a seed eager to grow into greatness. The professor could have his ghosts. Ordinary people were capable of extraordinary bravery. That was the only magic Sam knew or trusted. ¡°What are we looking for down here?¡± Jericho asked. ¡°Not sure,¡± Sam answered. His light fell upon a closed door nestled in an alcove. ¡°But this might be a good place to start.¡± He tried the knob. ¡°Locked.¡± From his pocket, Sam again pulled out his Swiss Army knife and stuck the point of it into the keyhole. ¡°Hold on: Are you breaking in?¡± ¡°Ish,¡± Sam said, wobbling his hand in a more-or-less motion. Jericho leaned against the brick, shaking his head. ¡°You¡¯re something else.¡± ¡°C¡¯mon, Freddy,¡± Sam goaded, still trying to jimmy the lock. ¡°Is your curiosity button on the fritz?¡± ¡°No. Neither is my code-of-ethics button. Maybe you can ask Santa to bring you one of those for Christmas.¡± ¡°What if inside this very room is just what we need to save our Diviners exhibit? You think about that?¡± Jericho pondered the point, then exhaled loudly. ¡°Fine.¡± He pushed off from the wall and turned the doorknob roughly. The door opened easily. ¡°It wasn¡¯t even locked. Just needed some strength,¡± he said, stooping to get through the low doorway. ¡°I coulda done that,¡± Sam said again, following. Sam and Jericho¡¯s flashlight beams bounced around the dank, cramped, cold room, which had been stuffed with all sorts of oddities¡ªoil paintings, broken furniture, a dressmaker¡¯s form, and even a sarcophagus, which hung open on a broken hinge. Two stacks of crates had been shoved into a corner against a large mural, aged and worn by moisture in spots. This mural wasn¡¯t hopeful like the other ones in the museum; it was a complex nightmare in paint. In a dark, denuded forest of the sort found in fairy tales stood a spindly gray carnival barker of a man wearing a tall hat and a coat of black feathers. His outstretched palm bore a glowing symbol: an eye with a jagged lightning bolt underneath. Behind the gray man lay a long line of frightening specters. They all seemed to be advancing on a young Negro man. The number 144 appeared in the broken sky above. Page 63 ¡°What¡¯s it say there?¡± Jericho asked. Beneath the mural, someone had painted words. He stepped closer, squinting to make them out. ¡°¡®Beware¡­ the King of¡­ Crows.¡¯¡± ¡°Cheery,¡± Sam joked, though the disturbing mural gave him the shivers. He thought it might just be the spookiest thing in the entire Creepy Crawly. ¡°Let¡¯s see what we got,¡± he said, turning away from it. He lifted a piece of grimy, rusted equipment from one of the crates. His shoulders sagged. ¡°Junk. That¡¯s the one thing we¡¯re not short on in this place.¡± All the crates were nailed shut except for one, which had been partially broken. Jericho reached in and pulled out a sheaf of yellowed papers. ¡°Hey, what¡¯s that?¡± Sam came and stood beside Jericho. ¡°If I had to guess, I¡¯d say probably none of your business,¡± Jericho said, glancing down at the page. ¡°That¡¯s my favorite kind of business.¡­¡± ¡°¡®The last will and testament of Cornelius Rathbone, recorded this day, the fourth of January, in the year of our Lord, one thousand, nine hundred and seventeen,¡¯¡± Jericho read aloud. ¡°¡®I, Cornelius Thaddeus Rathbone, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath my house and all its worldly belongings to William John Fitzgerald, with the proviso that he must continue our most important work.¡­¡¯¡± ¡°Old Man Rathbone left this place to the professor?¡± Sam said, incredulous. Jericho stared at the document. Years ago, he had asked Will how he¡¯d come to run the museum. Will¡¯s story was that he¡¯d bought the dilapidated museum just ahead of the city¡¯s wrecking ball. Cornelius Rathbone¡¯s last will and testament proved that wasn¡¯t true. But why would Will lie to Jericho about it? Quickly, Jericho moved on to the second page, a letter. ¡°What¡¯s that one say?¡± Sam asked. ¡°It¡¯s from Cornelius to Will, dated January thirty-first, 1917. ¡®Dear William¡­¡¯¡± Jericho read aloud. This letter shall be my last, I fear, for I wait on Death¡¯s doorstep, and soon, He shall bade me enter into that house of eternal rest. For these past many years, I could not forgive you the sin of your ambition for leaving me behind to work with the ¡°great minds¡± of President Roosevelt¡¯s ridiculous Department of Paranormal¡ª ¡°Wait, Teddy Roosevelt?¡± Sam asked. ¡°Yes, Sam. Theodore Roosevelt. Large man with a big mustache. Was our president for a bit. May I continue?¡± ¡°Go on,¡± Sam grumbled. It was I, however, who was ridiculous. It is imperative that we put aside our differences and work together in one last endeavor while there is still time. What I previously showed you of Liberty Anne¡¯s prophecies was not all. Toward the end of her days, there followed far more disturbing warnings, dire predictions for the nation. At the time, I feared that her fever, which raged so fiercely, had addled her wits. For this reason, I locked away her final prophecy. I see now that I was remiss to have hidden this unholy correspondence from you. I fear we have underestimated the power of the man in the stovepipe hat. My time grows short. I implore you: Let us bury selfish quarrels before it is too late. Ever hopeful, Cornelius ¡°You know what this is, don¡¯t you?¡± Sam said, waving the letter in the air. ¡°A gold mine! It¡¯s the hook we need to make our Diviners exhibit a hot ticket: ¡®Read the never-before-revealed prophecies of Liberty Anne Rathbone! Hear her dire predictions for the citizens of America before it¡¯s too late!¡¯ We just gotta hope Liberty Anne¡¯s prophecies are somewhere in these boxes.¡± ¡°Only one way to find out. Let¡¯s bring it all upstairs and have a look through everything,¡± Jericho answered, easily hoisting one of the crates onto his shoulder and ducking back through the doorway. ¡°Yeah. I was afraid you¡¯d say that,¡± Sam said, grunting as he shouldered the heavy load. ¡°That¡¯s all of them,¡± Jericho said as he carried in the last crate. Sam fell onto the couch, gasping. ¡°I may never use my arms again,¡± he moaned. ¡°No doubt the girls of New York City sigh in relief,¡± Jericho muttered, trying not to think about Sam¡¯s arms around Evie. ¡°Let¡¯s see what we¡¯ve got.¡± There were six crates in total, and every one had been nailed shut except for the damaged one containing Rathbone¡¯s will. Sam reached into it. ¡°Books,¡± he said with a sigh, pulling out musty tomes that released even more filth and dust into the air. ¡°Always with the books.¡± Next was a cache of letters from Will to somebody named Rotke Wasserman in Hopeful Harbor, New York. Sam sneaked one from its weary envelope. Page 64 ¡°¡®My Darling Rotke¡­ I miss you like the flower misses sun¡­¡¯¡± Sam read aloud. He whistled long and loud. ¡°Now we¡¯re getting somewhere.¡± ¡°Have some decency, Sam,¡± Jericho growled, snatching the letter away. Sam put his hands up. ¡°Okay, okay. Don¡¯t get hot. Who¡¯s this Rotke tomato?¡± ¡°She¡¯s not a tomato. Rotke was Will¡¯s fiance¨¦. She died during the war,¡± Jericho said, tucking the letter back into the crate. ¡°This doesn¡¯t feel ethical.¡± ¡°Ethics don¡¯t pay the taxman, Freddy. Listen, we¡¯ll just have a look. If we don¡¯t find Liberty Anne¡¯s unholy correspondence, we¡¯ll put the whole mess back in the cellar and forget about it, and nobody¡¯ll be the wiser. Deal?¡± ¡°Yes. Okay. Fine.¡± ¡°We¡¯re gonna need a crowbar to loosen those others,¡± Sam said, sneezing again. ¡°Don¡¯t suppose there¡¯s one around here?¡± ¡°Somewhere,¡± Jericho said, wiping his hands on his trousers. ¡°I¡¯ll be right back. Don¡¯t steal anything.¡± ¡°Who¡¯d wanna steal this bunk?¡± Sam muttered, rummaging through the books. He opened one and saw Rotke¡¯s name scrawled on the inside cover. Pictures had been sandwiched between its pages: one of a younger, blonder Will holding a tennis racket; one of him posing with an old Negro woman above a handwritten note¡ªWill and Mama Thibault, Diviner, New Orleans, 1906; a grainy photograph of some fancy estate. Sam flipped the page and came to a few yellowed newspaper clippings of the sort Will liked to collect: articles about small-town mediums or people who could bend spoons with their thoughts; an odd mention of an Indian village that burned to the ground, killing everyone, after a stove blew up. A paper slipped to the floor and Sam bent to pick it up. It was an aged envelope, slit across the top and emptied of its contents. Rotke¡¯s name and a return address were on the back. He flipped over the envelope and stared, dumbfounded, at the addressee: Miriam Lubovitch 122 Hester Street New York, New York ¡°Sam?¡± Jericho was calling to him, but Sam could barely register it. ¡°Did you get swallowed up?¡± ¡°Yeah. Big ghost came and got me. Forward all my mail to the spirit world,¡± Sam said hollowly. The letter was postmarked September 1914. Sam tore through the book¡¯s pages for the envelope¡¯s missing contents but found nothing. He took everything out of the crate, but the letter wasn¡¯t in there, either. Sam examined the envelope again. Across the front, someone had scrawled Return to Sender. He didn¡¯t recognize the handwriting. It wasn¡¯t his mother¡¯s. Who had written it? Whoever it was, Sam needed to find him. It was time for Evie to make good on her end of their deal. Jericho appeared on the second-floor landing. ¡°Sam!¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve been calling you. Did you find something?¡± ¡°Nah, just a bunch of dusty books,¡± Sam lied, surreptitiously tucking the envelope into his trousers pocket. ¡°Well, unless they¡¯re haunted, they¡¯re not going to help with the exhibit. What¡¯s the matter? You look funny.¡± ¡°Oh. It¡¯s, ah, it¡¯s just that I should probably go clean myself up,¡± Sam said. His heart was pounding. ¡°I hate to leave you like this, Freddy, but I got a date on the radio.¡± ¡°Right. Guess you¡¯d better go, then,¡± Jericho said coolly. ¡°Listen, Freddy, I could come back a little later¡ª¡± ¡°No need. I¡¯ve got it. As usual,¡± Jericho said, disappearing into the stacks. ¡°And don¡¯t call me Freddy.¡± Ling grimaced against the blustery wind as she made her way to the opera house carrying a knapsack with a basket of dumplings for Uncle Eddie. Steam rose from the slatted bamboo top, and she welcomed both the warmth and the delicious smell of fried pork. The bustling streets of Chinatown were much quieter than usual¡ªthe fear of the sleeping sickness kept most people away. Business in the restaurants and shops was down. The hardworking men and women who came in droves for chop suey on their lunch hours were now heading to Automats and diners far from Doyers, Pell, Mott, and Mulberry Streets. Even the bane of the neighborhood¡ªthe white tour guides who brought in buses of ¡°slumming¡± tourists to hear their lurid, deeply embellished tales of Chinatown¡¯s bloody Tong Wars, opium dens, and ¡°slave girls¡±¡ªwere noticeably absent. The health department had been out testing the water and food; dirt from the streets; dung from the horses, insects, and rodents¡ªanything they thought might give clues as to where the sickness was coming from and how it was transmitted. Ling had even made a special trip to the library to read up on sleeping sicknesses, hoping to find something helpful. She now knew more than she¡¯d wanted to know about parasites, tsetse flies, and encephalitis. None matched what was happening in Chinatown and on the Lower East Side. There were no presenting symptoms, no fevers, aches, or cough. Page 65 People simply went to sleep and did not wake up. The mayor threatened to shut down Chinese New Year festivities, which were only three weeks away. The Chinese Benevolent Association had gone so far as to hire a reporter to take pictures of the ¡°Chinatown Cleaning Crews¡±: men in masks and gloves scrubbing down the sidewalks and kitchens, dropping off linens at the various laundries¡ªanything to keep New Yorkers¡¯ fears from escalating into panic and keep the Year of the Rabbit celebration on course. The tourists weren¡¯t the only ones who were worried. Neighbors who¡¯d always been close suddenly became cautious around one another. Before classes at the Chinese school, the teachers made all the students wash their hands, and nurses checked their eyes, mouths, and skin for any hint of infection. The churches and temples were full. The old men and women went by daily to burn incense, make offerings, and ask for their ancestors¡¯ blessing. Charms against bad luck had been positioned near windows and doors to ward off evil spirits. A rumor went around¡ªno one knew how it started¡ªthat one of the diggers who¡¯d fallen victim to the sleeping sickness had mentioned something about their crew discovering bones in an old subway station, and that he was anxious about having disturbed them. ¡°Ghosts,¡± the old men whispered in back rooms and over cups of tea. ¡°Ghosts.¡± The women nodded in the greenmarkets or sitting on benches in Columbus Park. But Ling¡¯s mind wasn¡¯t on ghosts or sickness just now. Last night, she¡¯d witnessed an incredible transformation. Think of something you want, Wai-Mae had said, as if Ling¡¯s emotional state was the necessary force that made the shoes manifest. Was an energy field created by all the thoughts and desires floating through dreams, and, if so, was it more concentrated in that particular part of the dreamscape? Did a person¡¯s longing or fear or greed, when applied, bend and shape the universe of the dream somehow? And could you do more than transmute one object into another? Could you will something into existence through your emotions? Should you? At the opera house, Uncle Eddie sat on the edge of the stage, putting the finishing touches on a costume. ¡°That smells good,¡± he called, seeing Ling. ¡°Come. Share with me.¡± He took the knapsack off Ling¡¯s back, opened up the bamboo basket, and offered Ling a dumpling. She bit down, enjoying the squirt of spicy, soupy juice in her mouth as she looked over the traditional headdress for the Dao Ma Dan, the female warrior role. Elaborate beadwork took up the front, and long brown-and-white-striped pheasant feathers curved around each side like whisper-light horns, and Ling admired its beauty. Onstage sat a grouping of red chairs whose various placements, Ling knew, could indicate a seemingly endless variety of meanings, from a bed to a mountain to a mausoleum. Everything about the opera was steeped in symbolism and tradition. From outside in the street came the sound of girls singing jazz slang from a song that was popular on the radio¡ªjust some kids stealing a light moment among the dreariness. ¡°Ah. Modern youth,¡± her uncle said. ¡°They listen to jazz records and stay out half the night. No one cares about the opera anymore. Why aren¡¯t you out there with them, terrorizing the streets of Chinatown?¡± Ling fingered another sticky dumpling from the basket. ¡°I have more important things to do.¡± ¡°Eating dumplings with an old man. Very important.¡± ¡°I might have a new friend,¡± Ling said, and she hoped it didn¡¯t sound quite as defensive as it felt. ¡°A, um, a pen pal. She¡¯s coming over from China to be married.¡± Uncle Eddie raised an eyebrow. ¡°That¡¯s very difficult.¡± ¡°She says it¡¯s all been arranged,¡± Ling said, putting the dumpling in her mouth. ¡°Well. It¡¯s good, then, that you can help her to become familiar. When I first came to this country, I knew nothing. And I didn¡¯t speak a word of English.¡± He opened his wallet and retrieved a worn photograph of himself as a young man of eighteen, his expression very serious, his long hair braided in the traditional queue. ¡°Have I ever shown you this picture?¡± he asked. Out of respect, Ling shook her head, though her uncle had shown her his picture more than once. ¡°Well,¡± Uncle Eddie continued, ¡°that¡¯s me when I was just about your age. I only planned to be here for two years to make money for my family in China. But then they passed more and more laws. If I left the country, I couldn¡¯t come back again. So I stayed. With so few Chinese coming over, it was very hard to run the opera. I worked for my cousin at his restaurant for many years.¡± Her uncle put the picture back in his wallet. ¡°I never saw my mother and father again.¡± Page 66 Ling¡¯s stomach tightened at the thought of losing her parents. Her mother and father might be overly protective, but they were hers, and she couldn¡¯t imagine being without them. Beside her uncle¡¯s picture was his resident permit, which all Chinese were required to carry. To be caught without it could mean prison time or deportation. Ling had been born right there in Chinatown. She was considered a citizen. But under the Chinese Exclusion Act, her father never would be. As for her Irish mother, the moment she married an ¡°Asian alien,¡± she¡¯d given up her chance to become an American citizen. Ling lived with the worry that some small mistake could cost them everything, that she could be torn from them as her uncle had been from his own parents. ¡°She¡¯ll be interrogated when she arrives,¡± her uncle said, reaching for another dumpling. ¡°At Angel Island, I was asked nearly six hundred questions.¡± ¡°Six¡­ hundred?¡± ¡°Oh, yes. Day in, day out, they tried to break me: Who lives in the fourth house on your street in your village? Do you know how to work a clothing press? Are you a laborer? Do you smoke opium? And the medical examinations.¡± He wiped his fingers and shook his head in disgust. ¡°Why all those questions, Uncle?¡± ¡°They hoped to prove that I was only a paper son, who bought his way in with false papers. They wanted to find a reason to keep me out. But¡­¡± Her uncle¡¯s smile was triumphant and a little rebellious. ¡°Here I am.¡± Ling fished another dumpling from the basket and breathed in the musty, cozy smell of the old opera house. Most theater was performed at the Bowery Theatre these days, but for the New Year, they were using the old opera house on Doyers Street. Her uncle had been cleaning and pulling things up from the basement for weeks now. Flats of scenery from shadow-puppet shows were leaned up against racks of costumes and rows of masks. ¡°What opera will you do for the New Year?¡± ¡°The Royal Consort of the Emperor Finds Eternal Happiness in Paradise.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know that one.¡± ¡°It hasn¡¯t been performed here in, oh, fifty years or so. It¡¯s a love story. And a ghost story, too.¡± ¡°All your favorites,¡± Ling said, smiling. In his day, Uncle Eddie had been one of the most celebrated Dan of his generation, nearly as good at playing the female roles as the world-famous Mei Lanfang. ¡°Yes, all my favorites. With luck, we¡¯ll see it performed. Luck and an end to this sickness. How is your friend George?¡± ¡°The same,¡± Ling said, pushing away the dumplings. Earlier, she¡¯d lit a candle for George at the Church of the Transfiguration, and offered prayers at the temple, too, covering all the bases. ¡°He¡¯s young,¡± her uncle said. ¡°The doctors will find what¡¯s causing this sickness very soon. And then they¡¯ll find a cure. I¡¯m sure of it.¡± Ling nodded, grateful for her uncle¡¯s reassurance. ¡°Uncle,¡± Ling said, ¡°could the sleeping sickness make it hard for my friend¡ªmy pen pal¡ªto come to New York?¡± ¡°It could, indeed. I hope that she has friends or relatives in high places to help ease her way. Matchmakers, you say?¡± ¡°Yes. O¡¯Bannion and Lee.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not familiar with that firm. If you¡¯re looking for a Lee, you can always ask at the Golden Pearl,¡± Uncle Eddie said. Anyone with the surname Lee could have mail from China sent there for collection, Ling knew. It functioned as a family name¨Cspecific post office as well as a store. ¡°Chang Lee would surely know. He¡¯s been here longer than I have.¡± Uncle Eddie shook his head. ¡°A girl has to be careful: Some of those matchmakers are not reputable. The girls come thinking they¡¯ll marry, and end up as servants instead. Or worse.¡± ¡°Her uncle arranged everything,¡± Ling said, but now she was worried. What if this O¡¯Bannion and Lee wasn¡¯t a reputable firm after all? ¡°Well. I¡¯m sure it¡¯s fine. What is not fine is the state of this opera house,¡± Uncle Eddie said, gesturing to the messy theater. ¡°The Year of the Rabbit will be here soon, and I¡¯m hopeful there will still be a reason to celebrate. I¡¯d best get to work. Thank you for the dumplings.¡± ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Uncle,¡± Ling said, gathering the basket and its top back into her knapsack and reaching for her crutches. ¡°Ling,¡± her uncle called as she opened the door onto the blustery day once more. ¡°Have the dead told you anything about this sickness?¡± Immediately, Ling remembered Mrs. Lin¡¯s odd warning in her dream: It isn¡¯t safe. She¡¯d thought the warning had been about Henry. But could it have been about the sickness, somehow? Had Mrs. Lin known what was causing it¡ªa water source, or meat from diseased farm animals? That was the trouble with dreams; they could have all sorts of meanings. Page 67 ¡°No, Uncle,¡± Ling answered. Uncle Eddie gave a decisive nod. ¡°Well. I suppose if they had something to say, they would tell you first.¡± ¡°I suppose so,¡± Ling said, but she wasn¡¯t comforted by his words. What if the dead were waiting for Ling to act? She could at least try to find some answers on her walks. On her way back to the restaurant, Ling stopped into the Golden Pearl on Mott Street, where she found Mr. Lee¡¯s grandson, Charlie, at the counter, stocking various teas and herbs in the small drawers of a large wooden cabinet. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Ling, but my grandfather is in Boston visiting my cousins. He¡¯ll be gone for two weeks,¡± Charlie said. ¡°Come back then.¡± Ling thanked him, then checked the Chinese newspaper for the shipping news. The Lady Liberty hadn¡¯t docked in San Francisco yet. There was still time to find out about O¡¯Bannion and Lee and make sure that Wai-Mae was safe. Instead of continuing straight back to the Tea House, Ling took a detour up Mott and down Mulberry, looking for any sign of O¡¯Bannion and Lee. The streets were an odd mix of fear and optimism: Hopeful businessmen went ahead and hung decorations; paper lanterns and red banners with bold calligraphy stretched across Doyers Street from balcony to balcony. But she also saw white-capped nurses and somber-faced health officials marching briskly down sidewalks, knocking on doors. The yellow quarantine sign marred the facade of George Huang¡¯s building like a wound. ¡°Please get well soon, George,¡± Ling whispered. The door opened suddenly, and two public health nurses bustled out, their words muffled behind the barrier of their surgical masks. They went silent as they looked at Ling and her leg braces and then hurried on their way, picking up their conversation where they¡¯d left off. Ling ducked inside, moving as fast as she could to the dark back of the tenement and George¡¯s apartment. George¡¯s sister, Minnie, opened the door. ¡°Ling,¡± she whispered, peering behind Ling. ¡°How did you get in?¡± ¡°The nurses just left. No one was watching.¡± ¡°Come in,¡± Minnie said, ushering Ling inside. ¡°How is George?¡± ¡°The same.¡± Minnie lowered her eyes. ¡°Can I see him?¡± Minnie showed Ling to George¡¯s room and Ling sucked in a breath. He was very pale except for the strange red burn marks creeping up his neck. Ling had never seen George so still. But no¡ªhe wasn¡¯t completely still after all. Beneath the thin skin of his lids, his eyes moved rapidly. George wasn¡¯t just sleeping; he was dreaming. ¡°Minnie,¡± Ling said, buoyed by fresh hope, ¡°could I borrow something of George¡¯s?¡± Minnie¡¯s pained face brightened. ¡°Do you think you could find George in dreams?¡± ¡°I can try,¡± Ling said. ¡°They¡¯ve burned most of his things, in case that¡¯s how the sickness spreads.¡± Ling hadn¡¯t thought about that, and it gave her pause. What if dream walking with an object belonging to the sick could make her sick as well? But this was George. She couldn¡¯t succumb to fear. ¡°Wait here.¡± Minnie disappeared into the apartment and then returned a moment later, breathless and secretive. ¡°Here. I saved this,¡± she whispered, lifting the edges of the handkerchief she carried. Inside was George¡¯s prized track medal. He¡¯d been so happy when he¡¯d won it, his parents so proud, and even the announcer telling him he ¡°ran pretty well for a Chinaman¡± hadn¡¯t dimmed his pride completely. Through the open door of George¡¯s room, Ling could hear George¡¯s mother weeping softly. Ling tucked the track medal into her pocket. ¡°You should go. The doctor will be back soon,¡± Minnie warned. ¡°Please find him, Ling. Please find my brother and tell him to come back to us.¡± By the time Ling returned to the Tea House, her mother was frantic. ¡°Where¡¯ve you been?¡± ¡°My legs hurt. I couldn¡¯t walk very fast in the cold,¡± Ling lied, taking some pleasure in the way the lie diffused her mother¡¯s anger so quickly. ¡°I was worried about you. Things are getting worse here,¡± her mother said, looking out the restaurant¡¯s front windows at the police and public health officials moving through the dirty patches of snow, knocking on doors. ¡°There¡¯s all sorts of people who¡¯ve been requesting your services. They want you to speak to their dead relatives about this sleeping sickness business, to know what they should do. But I told them you¡¯re not doing a bit of that until we know more about how this sickness is spread. You¡¯re still getting your strength back.¡± Page 68 ¡°I¡¯m fine, Mama,¡± Ling said, George¡¯s track medal heavy in her pocket. Mrs. Chan placed her hands at her hips. ¡°I¡¯m your mother. I¡¯ll decide if you¡¯re fit enough. Oh!¡± She broke into a smile. ¡°I almost forgot. You just missed your friend from the science club. The freckled one. Henry.¡± ¡°Henry was here?¡± ¡°Yes. He left you a note.¡± Her mother searched under a stack of receipts. ¡°Is he Irish? Looks Irish. Ah. Here it is.¡± Mrs. Chan handed over Henry¡¯s folded note, which Ling had no doubt her mother had already read. She hoped that he hadn¡¯t said anything too revealing. Taped to the letter was a ten-dollar bill. Dear Miss Chan, Greetings! I had great success in locating the Louis particle of which we spoke. In the interest of science, let us please repeat our experiment. If this suits you, I suggest that we perform the experiment this evening at precisely the same time and in the same manner as last evening. If you find this agreeable in the name of science, please ring me at the New Amsterdam Theatre, where I am attempting to steer those lost, immoral souls away from a life of sin. The money is a donation for the poor, naturally. Sincerely, Henry B. DuBois IV Secretary and Chief Musical Director Science Club Nicely done, you idiot, Ling thought, smiling a bit. ¡°Who is this young man?¡± Ling¡¯s mother asked. Her expression wavered on the knife¡¯s edge between suspicion and hopeful expectation. ¡°An annoyance,¡± Ling answered, cutting off further inquiry. ¡°I¡¯ve been tutoring him in his schoolwork. He¡¯s a little dumb. May I use the telephone to call him back?¡± ¡°Ling!¡± Mrs. Chan sighed and jerked her head toward the kitchen. ¡°Go on, then, but be quick about it. There¡¯s work to be done. And remember: A bit of kindness goes a long way, my girl.¡± Ling made her way to the telephone in her father¡¯s office adjoining the steamy kitchen and put a finger in her ear to tune out the rattle of pans, the hiss of hot oil on the stove, and the rat-a-tat call-and-response of the cooks and waiters¡ªthe noisy, sometimes contentious comforts of home. A weary voice answered at the New Amsterdam and announced that Mr. DuBois wasn¡¯t yet in. ¡°I see. Could you deliver a message? Please tell him that Miss Chan has considered his proposal, and her answer is pos-i-tute-ly.¡± ¡°There she is! It¡¯s the Sweetheart Seer! Evie¡ªover here! Evie!¡± Fans clamored as Evie emerged from her chauffeured Chrysler, waving to them and blowing kisses. Reporters stood ready with their notepads. T. S. Woodhouse tipped his hat. His expression was trouble. Evie acknowledged him with a polite smile. ¡°There¡¯s Sam!¡± someone shouted as Sam came whistling up the sidewalk, shaking hands and waving genially to the crowd. ¡°Sam! Sam!¡± they called, and Evie had to fight to keep her smile fixed in place. Sharing the spotlight with Sam was irritating, but she could make it work for four weeks. ¡°Pork Chop!¡± Sam ran to Evie and kissed her hand. In the streets, people cheered. ¡°Oh, aren¡¯t they the dreamiest couple you ever saw?¡± a woman in the front row said. ¡°Pouring it on a little thick, aren¡¯t you?¡± Evie whispered in Sam¡¯s ear, never losing her smile for the public. ¡°Nothing succeeds like excess, Baby Vamp,¡± he said, leaning in close. ¡°Besides, when this circus is over in a few minutes, you¡¯re gonna do me a big favor.¡± ¡°Now, wait a minute. I¡ª¡± Evie¡¯s retort was cut short by an electric squawk as Mr. Phillips stepped up to the microphone and the speakers carried his voice out onto Fifth Avenue. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, WGI is delighted to present New York City¡¯s liveliest couple since Scott and Zelda! Their love has taken the city by storm! And now you can hear Miss O¡¯Neill on this very station two nights a week on the Pears Soap Hour! Without further ado, let me present to you: the Sweetheart Seer, Evie O¡¯Neill, and her very own sweetheart, Sam Lloyd!¡± ¡°Hold it!¡± A cameraman¡¯s flash popped. ¡°Thanks.¡± The reporters shouted for Sam and Evie¡¯s attention. But Evie knew who to turn to first. ¡°Mr. Woodhouse?¡± ¡°Why, thank you, Miss O¡¯Neill,¡± Woodhouse purred. ¡°Or should I say the future Mrs. Sam Lloyd?¡± Evie¡¯s eyes flashed. ¡°Miss O¡¯Neill is just fine for now.¡± T. S. Woodhouse¡¯s pencil hovered over his notepad. ¡°I¡¯m sure we¡¯re all dying to know how you two lovebirds first met.¡± Page 69 ¡°Well¡ª¡± Evie started. ¡°It was a moonlit night,¡± Sam interrupted. ¡°A full moon, as I recall. Just the prettiest September moon you ever saw. I¡¯d lost my dog¡ª¡± ¡°Sparky.¡± ¡°Right. I was calling, ¡®Here, boy, here, Sparky!¡¯¡± ¡°It was the most heartbreaking sound you ever heard,¡± Evie said. ¡°I wanted to cry just hearing it. I still want to cry when I hear Sam¡¯s voice.¡± Sam raised an eyebrow at Evie¡¯s jibe. She smiled back. The smile was a challenge. ¡°Go on, darling,¡± she said, batting her lashes. ¡°Tell them the rest.¡± ¡°Riiiight,¡± Sam said, suppressing a smirk. ¡°Well now. That was some night. Yes, sir, some night. You see, the glamour girl standing before you was not the dame I first laid eyes on in Penn Station. In fact, at first I thought she was the charwoman. Don¡¯t you remember how frightful you looked that night, Honey Pie?¡± Sam patted Evie¡¯s hand. Her strained smile pleased him. ¡°She was sooty and grimy. Had on her mother¡¯s dress and those thick woolen stockings that grandmas and war orphans wear. And one of her teeth was missing. Ghastly. But I was smitten.¡± ¡°Oh, Daddy, you might need a visit to the dentist soon yourself.¡± Evie laughed and tightened her grip on Sam¡¯s hand. She hoped it hurt. ¡°Yes. It had been a long journey from Ohio. Not that Sam minded what I looked like. He was just so surprised to be talking to a real girl. Girls don¡¯t usually talk to you, do they, dear? Poor baby just never had a bit of luck with the female species. Why, it was almost as if dames were repulsed by you, weren¡¯t they, darling? Didn¡¯t you tell me they¡¯d shrink from your touch?¡± ¡°But you could see the good deep in my heart, couldn¡¯t you, Pork Chop?¡± ¡°Yes. I had to look with a magnifying glass, but there it was.¡± ¡°What does this have to do with a missing dog?¡± someone shouted. ¡°Well, despite being covered in filth and smelling like a Bowery ballroom, Pork Chop here offered to read Sparky¡¯s leash. Naturally, I assumed she was an escaped lunatic. You can understand, with her looking and smelling the way she did and claiming to have special powers. I figured any minute she¡¯d introduce herself as Marie Antoinette and I¡¯d have to call a cop.¡± ¡°Hahaha¡ªoh, you, you, you¡­¡± Evie pinched Sam¡¯s cheek. Hard. ¡°Dear little tiny man. You¡¯re just five feet, three inches of pure joy. My own lucky leprechaun.¡± Sam glowered. ¡°I¡¯m five-foot-ten.¡± ¡°Are you?¡± Evie said in astonishment. ¡°Well, now, let¡¯s see. I¡¯m five-foot-two.¡­¡± She swooped a hand across her head to Sam¡¯s neck, putting Sam¡¯s claim to the test. The crowd roared. ¡°Five-foot-nine.¡± Sam¡¯s smile was strained. ¡°Love these two. Put them on the radio together. They¡¯d be funnier than Sam ¡¯n¡¯ Henry,¡± the reporter said. ¡°Now, now, only one of us is on the radio. Isn¡¯t that right, darling?¡± Evie said. She cut her eyes at Sam in warning. ¡°True,¡± Sam said. ¡°Only one of us has enough hot air for two nights a week.¡± The crowd laughed anew, delighted. Off to the side, Mr. Phillips stood with his arms folded, looking as pleased as if he¡¯d invested in a Thoroughbred expected to win its race. The press took it all down, greasing the wheels of tomorrow¡¯s star machine. ¡°When¡¯s the wedding?¡± someone shouted from the crowd. ¡°Yeah, when is the big day?¡± Woodhouse asked, and Evie could swear by his tone that he was on to them. ¡°I wanna make sure I have time to get my suit pressed.¡± ¡°Um¡­ June?¡± Evie hedged. ¡°You two lovebirds think you can wait that long?¡± ¡°Oh, I think I could wait forever,¡± Evie sniped. ¡°If it meant waiting for dear Sam.¡± ¡°Mr. Phillips¡ªyou gonna broadcast that wedding over the radio?¡± ¡°You bet I will!¡± Mr. Phillips barked. ¡°Sam! Evie! How¡¯s about a picture for tomorrow¡¯s papers, huh?¡± ¡°Of course!¡± Evie moved slightly in front of Sam, making sure they could capture the full glory of her new dress. The photographer waved her back. ¡°Evie, honey, could you step back beside Sam? We want you two crazy kids together.¡± Sam waggled his eyebrows at her, that annoying smirk firmly in place. ¡°Yes, future Mrs. Lloyd. I¡¯m lonely without you beside me.¡± Page 70 ¡°Come on, you two. Show us some of that magic,¡± the photographer shouted. At the crowd¡¯s urging, Sam wrapped his arm around Evie¡¯s shoulder and pulled her in close. ¡°Beauuuutiful! Give us a big smile¡ªsay ¡®Cheers.¡¯¡± ¡°Cheers!¡± Sam said, showing his teeth. ¡°Four weeks,¡± Evie said, gritting hers. ¡°That was ducky,¡± Mr. Phillips said a few minutes later, pumping Sam¡¯s hand after he and Evie had posed for several more pictures with the WGI letters featured prominently above their heads. ¡°Just ducky!¡± ¡°Wasn¡¯t it, though?¡± Sam agreed. Behind Mr. Phillips, Evie glared at Sam. ¡°Go home and rest up before your big date tonight,¡± Mr. Phillips said on his way out. ¡°You lovebirds will be out every night. Oh, and of course you¡¯ll be sure to mention WGI.¡± ¡°Every chance I get,¡± Sam promised. ¡°Evie, I like this young man of yours,¡± Mr. Phillips said, his parting shot. Evie gave her boss a bright smile, which faded as soon as he was gone. ¡°¡®Every chance I get¡¯?¡± Sam shrugged. ¡°People are like puppies. You just have to know how to scratch their tummies. Speaking of¡­¡± Evie cut her eyes at him. ¡°You¡¯re not getting near my tummy.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry. My ticklers are put away. I need to speak to you. Privately.¡± ¡°Follow me,¡± Evie said with a heavy sigh. Sam let out a whistle as Evie led him down the gilded halls of WGI. ¡°This is some place.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t get too sentimental about it. You have a limited engagement here.¡± Evie smiled sweetly at the coat-check girl. ¡°Mildred, darling, do you mind if we borrow the shop for a few minutes?¡± ¡°Of course not,¡± Mildred said, slipping out through the half door. ¡°Anything for you two lovebirds.¡± Evie hung the BACK IN FIVE MINUTES sign outside the door and shut both halves. She leaned against the rack of coats with her arms folded across her chest. ¡°You have two minutes, Sam.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll dispense with the charm, then.¡± ¡°That was charm? Ha!¡± ¡°I¡¯ve brought you a present, future Mrs. Lloyd.¡± ¡°Future Mrs. Lloyd,¡± Evie scoffed. ¡°Gee, now I kinda hope you brought me cyanide.¡± ¡°I hear that¡¯s the first-anniversary present. Here.¡± He handed Evie the envelope. ¡°Whaddaya make of this?¡± She turned it upside down, confused. ¡°It¡¯s empty, Sam.¡± ¡°No kidding. Turn it over. That particular empty envelope is addressed to my mother. Sent by Will¡¯s dead lover.¡± Evie frowned. ¡°Where did you find this?¡± ¡°Here¡¯s where it gets interesting. I found it in a dusty old crate pulled up from the cellar of your uncle¡¯s museum.¡± ¡°On the level, Sam?¡± ¡°My right hand to God.¡± ¡°Why would Unc¡ªwhy would Will have this?¡± ¡°That was my question. I need your reading services, Sheba.¡± ¡°Oh, Sam. Now?¡± ¡°A deal¡¯s a deal, Lamb Chop,¡± Sam said pointedly. Evie closed her eyes and pressed the envelope between her palms. The envelope was old and hadn¡¯t been touched by anyone other than Sam for some time. To dig into its secret past, she¡¯d really need to work at it, and Evie didn¡¯t feel like having a throbbing headache for the next hour. ¡°Sorry, Sam. Nothing¡¯s coming up.¡± ¡°Try harder.¡± ¡°I did try!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t give me that wad of chewing gum. You barely broke a sweat.¡± ¡°There¡¯s something defective about your objects, Sam. It¡¯s just like when I tried to read the postcard in your jacket¡ª¡± Evie clapped a hand over her mouth as she remembered a second too late that she had never told Sam about that. ¡°You what?¡± Sam¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°First you take my jacket, then you read my postcard? Why, you little¡ª¡± ¡°I was curious!¡± ¡°That was my private property, sister!¡± ¡°YOU STOLE MY TWENTY DOLLARS!¡± Evie yelled. The coat-check girl¡¯s voice came from the other side of the closed door. ¡°Everything copacetic in there?¡± ¡°Just ducky!¡± Sam shouted back. To Evie, he said, ¡°So you couldn¡¯t get a read from my mother¡¯s postcard?¡± ¡°I just told you that, didn¡¯t I?¡± The muscles at Sam¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°Look here: I¡¯m gonna ignore the business with the postcard. But you owe me a good read on this one.¡± Page 71 ¡°Yes, but Sam¡ª¡± ¡°We have a deal, Evie.¡± Evie narrowed her eyes. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t marry you if you were the last man on earth.¡± ¡°If I were the last man on earth it¡¯d be because you drove the other poor suckers to early graves. Read.¡± With a grunt at Sam, Evie closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and employed the tricks she¡¯d learned on her radio show over the past two months when an object¡¯s history proved elusive. She pressed the flat of her palm against Rotke¡¯s handwriting, personal as a thumbprint, hoping it would provide an opening. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn¡¯t get much there¡ªjust frustrating blips of memory that wouldn¡¯t stay. Undaunted, she concentrated on the scrawled Return to Sender message, rubbing her thumb back and forth as if she were reading Braille. A spark of the past flared promisingly, then began to burn down. ¡°Oh, no, you don¡¯t,¡± Evie whispered, kneading harder with the pads of her fingers. The wobbly vision steadied on the front window of a kosher butcher shop hung with thick rations of marbled beef. The door opened and an unfamiliar woman came out. The vision seemed to want to stay with her. ¡°I¡¯ve got something,¡± Evie said, a little dreamily. ¡°Does your mother have reddish hair?¡± ¡°No. Dark, like me.¡± Sweat beaded on Evie¡¯s forehead as she pressed deeper. The red-haired woman ambled down a crowded street bordered by pushcarts piled high with various wares. Several women draped in sashes reading VOTES FOR WOMEN stood on the sidewalk, and Evie could feel a hint of the red-haired woman¡¯s disapproval of the suffragettes, just as she could feel that the disapproval masked a deeper desire to join them. Evie stayed with the woman as she moved past two men unloading a steaming block of ice from the back of a truck with huge tongs. ¡°I-I can¡¯t get a place yet,¡± Evie said, moving her thumb along the envelope. ¡°O-R-C-H¡­ Orchard Street!¡± A man in a yarmulke and butcher¡¯s apron trundled after the woman, waving a sheath of letters. ¡°There¡¯s a man. He¡¯s¡­ he¡¯s calling to her. ¡®Anna!¡¯ he¡¯s saying. ¡®Anna, you forgot your mail.¡¯¡± ¡°Anna¡­¡± Sam repeated, trying to place the name. The red-haired woman stopped to leaf through her mail. Some of it was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Itzhak Rosenthal. ¡°Mrs. Rosenthal?¡± Evie mumbled in her trance. ¡°I don¡¯t know a Mrs. Rosenthal,¡± Sam said. Evie kept at it. The red-haired woman leafed through the last two letters. One was addressed to someone named Anna Polotnik. The last letter was the one from Rotke to Miriam. ¡°Got it!¡± Evie came out of her trance. ¡°Who is Anna¡­ P-o-l-o-t-n-i-k?¡± ¡°Anna¡­ Anna¡­¡± Sam snapped his fingers as it came to him. ¡°Of course! Anna Polotnik!¡± ¡°Of course! Dear old Anna,¡± Evie mocked. ¡°She was our neighbor when I was a kid,¡± Sam explained. ¡°Came over on the same ship with my parents. Nice lady. When she made borscht, the entire building smelled like cabbage for days. The borscht was good, too. Now I remember¡ªshe used to go around with a fella named Rosenthal, Itzhak Rosenthal. She musta married him. Did you see anything else¡ªanything about my mother?¡± ¡°No. But Anna didn¡¯t look too happy about this letter, Sam. She seemed angry or worried.¡± The aftereffects of going so deep caught up to Evie. Her knees buckled, and Sam helped her to Mildred¡¯s chair. ¡°You okay, Sheba?¡± Sam took out his handkerchief and blotted at her forehead. ¡°You¡¯ll take all my paint off,¡± Evie said, angling her face away. The dreaded headache had started. ¡°I don¡¯t understand why Will had this letter. He told you he didn¡¯t know your mother.¡± ¡°Maybe he didn¡¯t,¡± Sam said. ¡°This was in a collection of Rotke¡¯s books. Maybe she was the one who knew my mother. I just hope Anna Polotnik can supply the answers. Once I find her.¡± Sam tucked the envelope back into his pocket, along with the handkerchief. ¡°One more thing¡ªnow that you¡¯ve got two nights a week on the radio, it sure would be swell if you could talk up the Diviners exhibit.¡± ¡°WGI and Pears soap don¡¯t pay me to shill for the Creepy Crawly, Sam.¡± ¡°Just work it into the act: ¡®All ghosts swear by Pears! The cleanest ghosts in town will be attending the Diviners exhibit at the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult!¡¯¡± ¡°Sam, how is it that you can take a perfectly ordinary day and turn it crossways?¡± Evie asked, rubbing her temples. Page 72 Sam grinned and spread his hands wide. ¡°Everybody¡¯s got a talent, kid.¡± Mildred knocked again. ¡°Miss O¡¯Neill? Will you be much longer?¡± ¡°That¡¯s your cue to leave,¡± Evie said, pushing Sam toward the door. ¡°Don¡¯t forget about our date tonight¡ªthe party at the Pierre Hotel hosted by some rich Texan who made all his money in oil. He¡¯s swimming in it¡ªmoney, not oil. It¡¯s good press.¡± Sam winked. ¡°Well. As long as it¡¯s good press. See you tonight, doll.¡± ¡°Lucky me,¡± Evie said, and for a second Sam couldn¡¯t tell whether she was serious or not. Sam turned up Fifty-seventh Street toward the Second Avenue El. As he walked, he examined the mysterious envelope again. It was his first big break in some time. Hopefully, Anna Polotnik would know something that would lead Sam to his mother. But first, he had to find Anna. An open-air touring car draped in advertising bunting for Morton¡¯s Miracle Health Elixir advanced slowly. A man stood holding on to the windshield, calling out to people on the street over a bullhorn: ¡°Protect yourself from exotic disease with Morton¡¯s Miracle Health Elixir¡ªevery bottle made with the goodness of real radium for radiant health! Do not allow your loved ones to fall to the Chinese Sleeping Sickness! Purchase Morton¡¯s Miracle Health Elixir today!¡± Sam shook his head. Nothing made a man richer than exploiting another man¡¯s fears. For a second, Sam considered finding a mark and using his powers to lift the fella¡¯s wallet, but he decided against it. Right now, his luck was good. And if there was anything his superstitious mother had taught him, it was not to press your luck. Feeling hopeful, Sam climbed the stairs to wait for the train. He¡¯d never noticed the brown sedan that had trailed him for several blocks. The hush of the Bowery Mission was interrupted only slightly by the occasional whimper from bed number eighteen as Chauncey Miller dreamed of a war that never stopped. Bullets screamed overhead as two medics struggled to carry Chauncey¡¯s stretcher across a muddy, smoke-shrouded battlefield. A soldier with a choirboy face lay slumped against barbed wire, staring up at the unforgiving sky, his hands resting prayerlike on the guts spilling from the jagged hole in his stomach. ¡°Stay with me, old bo¡ª¡± The medic¡¯s words died on his lips as a bullet found its home in his head, and he dropped like a storm-felled sapling. Around Chauncey, the tat-tat-tat-tat-tat of machine guns echoed through war-mangled trees while dying men keened for help, for forgiveness, for death. ¡°Help! Please help me,¡± Chauncey cried out. He couldn¡¯t move. When he lifted his head, he could see the bloody, frayed ends of skin and bone where his legs had been. Every night, Chauncey prayed that he¡¯d wake with both legs, back home in Poughkeepsie, and find that the past nine years of his life had been nothing but a terrible dream. Instead, he woke screaming, his face sweaty and his eyes wet with tears. But not tonight. Just under the cacophonous symphony of gunfire and screaming, Chauncey heard something else¡ªthe sad, creaking tune of an old music box. Off to his right, the mission doors appeared between two barren trees. When they opened, the song drifted out from them, erasing the din of war. Chauncey sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His legs! With a small cry, Chauncey rested his hands on his knees, then moved them down the sides of his calves, feeling skin and muscle and bone. He flexed his feet, rejoicing in that small victory of motion. He stepped through the doors and plodded down the darkened corridor of the mission, past the beds of lost souls traveling in their own dreams: pushing a plow on the family farm, making love to the girl left behind, diving into a sun-dappled swimming hole in summer. He looked back at his bed, where what was left of his broken body slept on. That was what waited for him when he woke, so he pushed further into his dream until he came to an old subway station. It was quite beautiful here; an amber glow suffused the entire place, warming the fancy brass sconces and floral oilcloth wall covering, making the tracks gleam. But if Chauncey turned his head just so, the whole picture seemed unstable, as if this lovely, warm scene were trying to write itself across a dark, decaying canvas that peeked through in spots. Chauncey could swear that he heard sounds deep inside the vast dark of the tunnel¡ªsharp clicking noises and thready, low growls made by some nightmare beast he could not name or imagine. But then, just as he had the impulse to turn back, a voice whispered sweetly to him in overlapping waves, ¡°Dream with me.¡­¡± ¡°Yes,¡± he answered. ¡°All right.¡± Page 73 ¡°Promise.¡± ¡°I promise.¡± He stepped into the tunnel and found himself outside Le Bon Reve in rural France. He and his mates had gone drinking there one September evening before they¡¯d been lost to the trenches along the Western Front. The saloon¡¯s windows were alight. Chauncey put his face to the glass, but he couldn¡¯t see anything. Hearty laughter erupted on the other side of the saloon door. And then a chorus of drunken voices took up a song that had been popular during the war. Chauncey could still remember the words. ¡°Over there! Over there!¡± came a strong tenor. That was Clem Kutz singing! He¡¯d know that voice anywhere. Somehow, his old pal Clem was here. Chauncey pushed through the door and went inside. Seated around a long, rustic farmhouse table were all the friends Chauncey had lost during the war. Why, there was Teddy Roberts! Poor Teddy, whose mask had sprung a leak and he¡¯d choked on mustard gas, dying with eyes bulged out, a hideous, unnatural grin stretching across his thin face. There was Bertie Skovron from Buffalo, who¡¯d taken a bellyful of shrapnel and bled out, one hand still gripping the field telephone. Medic Roland Carey¡ªfunny old Rolly, who¡¯d tell you a right filthy joke as he checked your gums for scurvy or poured stinging alcohol over a nasty cut. The same Rolly, cut down by influenza, was sitting right in front of him. And Joe Weinberger was there, too. Joe, who¡¯d made it back home to Poughkeepsie after the war with a bad case of shell shock. He¡¯d lasted eight months before he went into the barn on a fresh spring morning, threw a rope over a rafter, and hung himself. All of Chauncey¡¯s friends were here, alive and young and whole. Brothers. They had their whole lives ahead of them, and the dreams they¡¯d nurtured before the war¡ªto be husbands, fathers, businessmen, heroes worshipped by a grateful nation¡ªwere still untouched and waiting to be used. Clem sang out, ¡°Johnny get your gun, get your gun, get your gun / Take it on the run, on the run, on the run.¡­¡± The other fellas joined in. ¡°Hear them calling you and me, every son of Liberty.¡­¡± ¡°Over there, over there¡­ Hoist the flag and let her fly, Yankee Doodle, do or die,¡± Chauncey said, though he¡¯d gotten the verse and chorus mixed up. He sniffed back happy tears. ¡°You¡¯re here. How are you here?¡± His mates welcomed him with smiles. ¡°Dream with us.¡± Chauncey laughed. ¡°All right, then. All right.¡± He took a seat at the table, which had been laid out with an enormous feast: boiled eggs and slabs of bread and butter on silver platters, a roast pig surrounded by shiny apples, beer, and cake. Those cold nights when they¡¯d burrowed into trenches in France, their bellies rumbling with hunger and their heads itchy with lice, they¡¯d talked incessantly of the food they¡¯d eat when they returned. ¡°Who are we fighting this war for?¡± Teddy had asked once under a cold, starless sky as they passed a lone cigarette among the unit. ¡°What are we doing here?¡± ¡°Defending democracy,¡± Chauncey had answered. Teddy had let the next question out with his smoke. ¡°Whose democracy?¡± That had been long ago. They¡¯d died, horribly, all of them. All his friends. But somehow, they were here now, healthy and smiling, as if the war had been a dream and this was truth. Chauncey felt drunk on gratitude and profound relief. Even though just last week the doctors had told him there was something wrong with his liver, and he might want to get his affairs in order¡ªas if he had any affairs to put in order! Well, they were wrong. His liver wasn¡¯t failing. He was being granted a second chance at life. Chauncey imagined getting married in the church where his parents had been married, raising a passel of rambunctious kids who liked to fish in the creek. And if anyone asked his future sons to fight a war, he¡¯d tell them to go to hell. Clem patted his arm and made a funny face. ¡°Sick,¡± he said. ¡°Not much life. Bad dreams.¡± Chauncey smiled. ¡°Clem, old boy, this is the best dream yet.¡± The food looked delicious, and even though the past few weeks his appetite had been flagging, Chauncey found that he was eager to eat. ¡°Bad dreams,¡± Rolly said, and for just a moment, the dream wavered. ¡°Cheers, boys!¡± Chauncey said, willing the dream to continue. He spooned potatoes into his mouth and spat them out again just as quickly. The potatoes tasted bitter and dry, like eating a mouthful of sawdust. He looked more closely at the lump. It was moving. Maggots. They were maggots. ¡°My god,¡± Chauncey said, gagging into his napkin. He wiped furiously at his mouth. ¡°Say, wh-what sort of joke is this, fellas?¡± Page 74 His friends were unbothered. They had abandoned their utensils and scooped up handfuls of food, shoveling it in faster and faster, with desperate strokes, gorging themselves, too fast to chew and swallow. Bertie choked, vomiting up what he¡¯d just eaten, then started in again. ¡°Slow down there, Bertie,¡± Chauncey warned, but Bertie kept gorging. Teddy smiled at Chauncey. There was something off about it. Like looking at a picture where another picture is trying to break through, and the image breaking through was of Teddy¡¯s mustard-gas rictus grin. A thread of fear tightened around Chauncey¡¯s guts. Clem cocked his head, listening. His fingers were slick with egg and saliva. ¡°Still hungry,¡± he said in a raw, croaking voice. The others¡¯ heads snapped up. Food scraps hung from their wet mouths. Chauncey¡¯s heartbeat accelerated. Around him, the French saloon began to unravel, revealing the dark, cold brick of the tunnel. ¡°Hungry,¡± they chanted, showing rows of pointed teeth in oily mouths. Soulless eyes stared out of cracked, pallid skin. Chauncey backed away. These were not his brothers. Not Clem or Rolly or Joe and definitely not sweet Teddy. What were these things? ¡°Hungry for dreams with us hungry dream with us dream dream hungry dream¡­¡± they chorused. The tunnel crackled with pulses of light that reminded Chauncey of gunfire on the battlefield. There were more of them hiding there in the dark. Dear god. They squeezed out of holes and slithered down the brick, nails click-click-clicking in the gloom, beasts waking from slumber. Their hungry growls and screeches echoed in his head, turning his blood cold. Wake up, he told himself. Wake up, old boy. Wake now! Then, suddenly, there was a train! Chauncey threw himself against its doors. ¡°Open up! Open up! For the love of god, please open!¡± The doors hissed apart and Chauncey fell in and pushed the doors shut. Outside, the shining wraiths clawed at the window, mouths snapping. As the train sped away, their angry howls resounded in the tunnel. Chauncey put his hands over his ears. He just wanted to wake up now. Tomorrow, he¡¯d talk to the mission director about a job. Maybe he¡¯d even go home to Poughkeepsie, find a kindhearted girl. He¡¯d give up the drink and then his liver would be all right again. Anything. Anything but this. Slowly, he became aware that something was on the train with him. An eerie stillness descended. It was like the time during the war when he turned a blind corner in the trench only to come face-to-face with a German soldier. For a second, the two of them had stared, neither knowing what to do. And then Chauncey had pummeled the soldier with his fists, beating and beating until the soldier¡¯s head was as pulpy as a dropped melon. Afterward, he¡¯d gone through the boy¡¯s pockets with shaking fingers. All he¡¯d found was a picture of the boy with his mother and a sweet-faced dog. Swallowing down his fear, Chauncey turned his head in the direction of the figure. It wasn¡¯t a German soldier or one of those wretched spirits riding with him, but a woman. She wore a high-necked gown of the sort worn once upon a time. A veil covered her face. ¡°P-please. Please help me,¡± Chauncey said. He barely recognized the voice as his own. ¡°This world will break your heart. Stay with me, inside the dream.¡± The woman rose from her seat, and he saw the bloodstains blossoming across the front of her gown. Her mummified hands clasped his face. Her nails were sharp. Through the veil¡¯s fine netting, Chauncey could see the woman¡¯s dark eyes, set in a leathery face. A skeletal mouth showed double rows of pointed teeth. ¡°Such a pretty dream we are building. We must all keep it going. There¡¯s not much life in you. Still. It will do. We must keep building. The dream needs you.¡± Chauncey¡¯s cry thinned to a quavering whisper. ¡°Please. Please just let me wake up.¡± ¡°You promised. To break a promise is dishonorable.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t understand.¡± ¡°Then I will make you see the world in all its horror.¡± The train fell away. The battlefield returned¡ªsoldiers blown apart, blood-drenched mud flying up, the sky crying tears of terrible light. But this time, Chauncey lay on a table in the middle of it all, his arms and legs gone. And around him, there were men riding into the night with burning crosses. And there were bedazzled people bathing in tubs of Wall Street money while other people dug in the frost-hard ground for sustenance. And there were slaves sold on auction blocks and starving tribes marched away from their homes and witches pressed under the weight of stones. And there was a gray-faced man in a feathered coat and a tall hat who laughed and laughed. Page 75 ¡°Hungry!¡± Chauncey¡¯s soldier friends dug into his belly with forks as he screamed. ¡°Enough!¡± he cried. The nightmare vanished. Chauncey was back in the train station. The too-bright things waited in the tunnel, watching. ¡°This land is so full of dreams. I feel all your longing. So much longing. Dream with me¡­¡± the woman said. ¡°Y-yes,¡± Chauncey managed to say. She lifted her veil, and her beauty was a terror to behold, a vengeful angel. Her sharp mouth hovered above his face. A glint of metal shimmied through the air. Pain speared Chauncey¡¯s chest. Then she put her lips to his, and her dream poured into him, pushing through Chauncey¡¯s veins, making his body twitch, robbing his mind of the will to fight. She breathed her dream into his lungs until their dream was the same and it was all he could see, all he would ever see, forever. ¡°Not enough,¡± the veiled woman said as the station glowed. ¡°More.¡± Clipboard in hand, the mission nurse made her nightly rounds. When she came to Chauncey Miller¡¯s bed, she drew closer. His sweat-drenched face wore the oddest expression, something between pain and ecstasy, and his eyes moved frantically beneath his closed lids. It made her uneasy to look at him. ¡°Mr. Miller? Mr. Miller!¡± She couldn¡¯t wake him. That was when she saw the angry red patches bubbling up on his skin like radiation burns. In the bed beside Chauncey¡¯s, an old wino named Joe Wilson moaned. His forehead was slick with sweat and his eyelids twitched with fevered dreaming. ¡°Mr. Wilson?¡± ¡°Dream¡­ with¡­ me¡­¡± he gasped. ¡°Mr. Wilson!¡± The nurse nudged him, then tugged on his arms, to no avail. The room filled with whispers uttered in sleep, ¡°Dream with me¡­ dream with me¡­ dream¡­¡± The frantic nurse moved quickly from bedside to bedside. Of the twenty men on the ward, twelve of them would not wake. Her clipboard clattered to the floor as she ran to inform the doctor that they¡¯d better call the health inspector straightaway. The sleeping sickness had come to the mission. Damp wind gusted against Mabel as she hurried along Central Park West ahead of the rain. She kept one hand on her hat and the other on her nervous stomach as she practiced what she¡¯d say when she knocked at the museum. ¡°Good afternoon, Jericho! I was just passing by.¡± ¡°Oh, Jericho, are you hungry? There¡¯s a swell diner down on Broadway.¡± ¡°Jericho! Fancy meeting you here. At the museum. Where you work. Every. Day.¡± Mabel growled. She was lousy at this sort of coy game-playing. If only she could say what she really wanted to say, flat out. ¡°Kiss me, you fool!¡± Mabel exclaimed, lifting her arms skyward. A passing postman tipped his hat and gave her a hopeful smile, and a horrified Mabel shoved her hands deep into her coat and marched up the sidewalk, muttering to herself the whole way. As Mabel approached the museum, she slowed, noticing the two men in the brown sedan. A life on the front lines of the labor movement had trained Mabel to keep alert for oddities, and something about these men seemed off. They were just sitting, watching the museum. Well, they weren¡¯t the only ones who knew how to watch. Mabel stopped beside the driver¡¯s-side window and tapped gently on the glass. The driver rolled down the window, scowling just slightly before correcting his expression with a smile. ¡°Yes, Miss?¡± Mabel smiled. ¡°I beg your pardon. Could you tell me the time, please?¡± She made sure to get a good look at the two of them, as her parents had taught her: Gray suits. Dark hats. Curious matching lapel pins¡ªan eye with a lightning bolt. ¡°It¡¯s just past one, Miss.¡± ¡°Thank you very much,¡± Mabel said and crossed the street, letting herself into the museum. ¡°Steady, Mabel,¡± she whispered before pasting on a smile and blowing into the museum¡¯s grand library with a cheery, ¡°Hello! Anybody home? Jericho?¡± She dropped her coat and hat on the outstretched paw of the giant stuffed bear. Jericho¡¯s blond head poked up from behind the stacks of dusty boxes cluttering the top of the long library table. ¡°Mabel. What brings you here?¡± Mabel¡¯s throat felt tight. On the front lines, she had faced hostile union-breakers, men with guns. Why was talking to this one boy so terrifying? ¡°I was just hungry and passing by. Oh! Not that I thought you¡¯d have food here,¡± she said, wincing at her bungle. Quickly, she gestured to the table. ¡°Gee, it¡¯s like something vomited paper in here.¡± Page 76 Jericho raised an eyebrow. ¡°That¡¯s certainly descriptive.¡± Strike two. ¡°Sorry,¡± Mabel said. ¡°What is all of this?¡± ¡°Will¡¯s notes from his paranormal-researcher days. We found them in the cellar. I¡¯ve been going through them for the past hour. Did you know there¡¯s mention of Diviners since the dawn of this country?¡± Jericho paused, and Mabel wanted to respond with something clever. But being this close to Jericho made her antsy. ¡°Huh-uh.¡± ¡°John Smith writes about a Powhatan brave¡ªa healer and mystic¡ªwho visited Jamestown. A Diviner servant in George Washington¡¯s household had a vision that helped Washington narrowly avoid capture by the British. And there¡¯s evidence that a few of the witches at Salem were actually Diviners. But this is when it gets really interesting.¡± Jericho jumped up from the table. From behind a bookcase, he rolled out a large chalkboard. Mabel could just make out the faint remaining chalk lines of Evie¡¯s notes from the Pentacle Murders investigation. Quickly, Jericho swiped the eraser across the surface, eradicating the last traces of her presence from the museum. He wrote the date September 1901 on the chalkboard. ¡°All right. I¡¯ll bite,¡± Mabel prompted. ¡°What happens in September 1901?¡± ¡°The assassination of President McKinley?¡± Jericho chalked McKinley beside 1901. Mabel blushed. ¡°Oh. Oh, of course.¡± ¡°It seems that in August 1901, a Diviner, a former slave named Moses Freedman, tried to warn the president about a possible attempt on his life. But no one believed him. In fact, he was taken into custody under suspicion of being an anarchist agitator, and was questioned for months following McKinley¡¯s assassination. They held him for nearly a year without charging him.¡± ¡°But that¡¯s illegal!¡± Mabel protested. ¡°What about habeas corpus?¡± ¡°Suspended, under the constitutional provision stating that a person can be held without charge if the public safety might require it.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a slippery slope toward fascism,¡± Mabel grumbled. ¡°I¡¯m sure Moses Freedman would have agreed with you.¡± ¡°What happened to him?¡± ¡°In early July 1902,¡± Jericho said, adding that date to the board, ¡°he has a vision about a possible mine explosion in Johnstown, Pennsylvania¡ªanother warning that goes unheeded¡ª¡± ¡°The Rolling Mill Mine Disaster. It was one of the worst mining disasters in American history. It killed more than one hundred men,¡± Mabel blurted. Jericho raised an eyebrow. ¡°Impressive.¡± Mabel shrugged away the compliment. ¡°If your parents were union organizers, you¡¯d know these things, too. Some girls are raised on fairy tales; I was raised on mining disasters.¡± ¡°You had a very interesting childhood.¡± Jericho gave a little half smile, and Mabel felt it deep down. ¡°So,¡± she said, clearing her throat. ¡°Rolling Mill?¡± ¡°Right. Rolling Mill. After that, President Roosevelt sits down with Moses Freedman and determines that he¡¯s telling the truth. And that gives him an idea. In 1904¡±¡ªagain, Jericho scribbled with his chalk¡ª¡°the president creates the U.S. Department of Paranormal to explore the fantastical world. He wants to find and use Diviners to work in the interest of national security. After all, if you¡¯ve got someone whose supernatural abilities can help them see disaster or danger coming, why not use them?¡± ¡°So where does Dr. Fitzgerald fit into all of this?¡± Jericho wiped his hands against his trousers, leaving chalk-dust finger streaks. ¡°He was recruited for the U.S. Department of Paranormal. He traveled the country seeking out Diviners, testing them, hearing their stories, and registering them for the government.¡± Mabel whistled. ¡°You¡¯re right. That really would perk up the Diviners exhibit. But won¡¯t Dr. Fitzgerald be angry that we¡¯re using his private letters and research from that time?¡± ¡°Then he shouldn¡¯t have left it to us to save his museum,¡± Jericho said bitterly. ¡°We¡¯ll only use the letters about Diviners.¡± ¡°How long did you say you have to put this exhibit together?¡± ¡°Ten days.¡± Mabel shook her head. ¡°That won¡¯t be easy.¡± It seemed impossible, in fact. Unless¡­ ¡°Would you like some help?¡± Jericho¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Are you volunteering?¡± ¡°Reporting for duty.¡± He gave her another half smile. ¡°That would be swell. Thanks.¡± Page 77 ¡°Well, then,¡± Mabel said, feeling on solid ground for the first time. ¡°Let¡¯s get to work.¡± Mabel riffled through one of the files, pulling out a photograph of five people posed in front of an overgrown crepe myrtle. ¡°Is that¡­ Dr. Fitzgerald?¡± Jericho nodded. ¡°He looks so young. Oh, not that he¡¯s old now! He just looks¡­ not quite so worried as he usually does.¡± A handsome, dark-haired man with a bold smile stood beside Will, one arm thrown across Will¡¯s shoulder as if they were brothers. Mabel gasped. ¡°Is that who I think it is?¡± ¡°Jake Marlowe. He and Will were friends. Once,¡± Jericho said. Mabel felt it would be impolite to press Jericho on that point, so she left it alone. Jericho hoisted a strange, dusty contraption from a crate. It was a small wooden box, roughly the size of a cracker tin. A hand crank stuck out from its right side, and in its center was a long glass tube with a pencil-thin, two-pronged filament inside. Just below the filament was a numbered meter that counted in tens from zero to eighty. Jericho dropped the odd device onto the table. He and Mabel cocked their heads in unison. Mabel tried the rusty crank. It squeaked its displeasure. ¡°I give up. What on earth is that?¡± ¡°Not sure yet. I¡¯m hoping one of these letters will give us some clue. Here. You take this crate and I¡¯ll take that one. Put aside anything that has to do with Diviners.¡± For the better part of an hour, Jericho and Mabel sorted through and made stacks of what seemed promising. Plenty of it was just junk¡ªbooks gone to pulp, water-damaged photographs, a shopping list or postcard with a banal inscription: The flowers are in bloom. Lovely. Jericho turned his attention toward a small cache of letters nestled deep inside his crate. Every single one was addressed to Cornelius from Will. There were none from Cornelius back to Will. Jericho pulled the first letter from its envelope. Hopeful Harbor, New York February 11, 1906 Dear Cornelius, Jake is most intrigued by the discovery that these Diviners seem to emit much greater radiation than the average person, similar to the ghost readings we¡¯ve gotten, and that Diviners have the capacity to disrupt electromagnetic fields. He speculates that these properties could be applied toward any number of advances, from medicine to industry to our nation¡¯s defense. Dear Cornelius, believe me when I tell you that these discoveries are as exciting to our merry band of explorers as the sighting of this verdant land must have been to the earliest travelers to these shores. We stand on the precipice of a new world, a new America, and I am certain that Diviners are the key to her extraordinary future. Fondly, Will At the bottom of the page, Will had drawn a sketch of an eye-and-lightning-bolt symbol. ¡°Hey! I think I may have found the name of our mysterious machine!¡± Mabel said, waving a piece of aged paper. ¡°It¡¯s called the Metaphysickometer.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a mouthful,¡± Jericho said, coming to stand beside Mabel and read over her shoulder. ¡°Yes. Um. It is. Uh¡­ anyway. Will refers to it in this letter,¡± Mabel said. New Orleans, Louisiana February 23, 1906 Dear Cornelius, This evening, I attended a ritual led by Mama Thibault, sixty-two years of age, born in Haiti, now resident priestess of a voudon shop on Dumaine Street. Locals come to her for help with any number of complaints, from physical ailments to spells for true love or the lifting of imagined curses. A hospitable woman with twelve grandchildren to her name, all of whom dote upon her, Mama Thibault said she¡¯d been able to speak to the dead since the age of twelve. ¡°The dead do not frighten me. Takes the living to do that,¡± she claimed. After consulting with the lwas, and extracting a fee of five cents for her services, she allowed us to test Jake¡¯s Metaphysickometer during her ritual. As she slipped into her spiritual trance, the needle jumped to forty, then fifty, indicating the increased electromagnetic activity we¡¯ve come to associate with the presence of ghosts. Interestingly, Mama Thibault herself seemed also to vibrate at a slightly higher frequency, interfering with the operating of much of our machinery. Jake was baffled but intrigued by this finding. Margaret and Rotke have gathered samples. I hope you are well. Spring shall come soon enough. Fondly, Will Mabel patted the strange box of wires and gears and needles. ¡°Well, hello there, Metaphysickometer! Pleased to meet you. Gee, an early Jake Marlowe invention! Might be valuable. I wonder why he never touts this one like he does everything else?¡± Page 78 ¡°He doesn¡¯t like to talk about his failures,¡± Jericho said, stepping over to examine the machine. Mabel¡¯s brows came together in a V. ¡°You don¡¯t like him much, do you?¡± ¡°I admire what he¡¯s accomplished. I respect his achievements. But he¡¯s not a man who thinks about the cost of those achievements.¡± Jericho paused. ¡°Or so I¡¯ve heard.¡± ¡°Sure would be great if we could include a demonstration of this beauty in the exhibit. I wonder how you make it work.¡± ¡°Will¡¯s letter said it measures some sort of ghostly electromagnetic radiation. So I suppose if there are no Diviners and no ghosts, you get a quiet machine.¡± ¡°Suppose. Of course, it¡¯s been living in the cellar all these years. It might not work at all,¡± Mabel said, thumping the glass. The needle didn¡¯t budge. ¡°Oh! I found some photographs, too. Here. This one is of Mama Thibault. Let¡¯s put her picture with her letter. Perhaps we can find other pictures and pair them all up. Did you find anything useful?¡± ¡°Um¡­ here. This one was promising,¡± Jericho said, grabbing a letter from a stack he¡¯d put aside. St. Eloysius, Louisiana June 21, 1906 Dear Cornelius, I do not know whether or not the fires of hell actually exist, but I can tell you that, if so, the cotton fields of Louisiana on a hot summer¡¯s day are good practice for those torments. ¡°Ha!¡± Mabel said. ¡°The professor has a sense of humor. Or he did once. Sorry. Go on.¡± Today we met with a young sharecropper, Guillaume ¡°Big Bill¡± Johnson, who has the extraordinary ability to hasten a peaceful death for ailing animals. While we watched, he entwined his fingers in the mane of a horse with a broken leg. ¡°Shhh, now. Don¡¯t fuss, Clara. Be over soon,¡± he murmured sweetly. The horse trembled mightily for a count of three, and then she slipped into death as if going to sleep. The effort took the wind out of young Guillaume, too. Though barely nineteen, he stands well over six feet and possesses an intimidating strength but a gentle nature. He seemed rather enamored of Margaret and consented to a sample. I do hope New York¡¯s stifling heat hasn¡¯t inconvenienced you much. Fondly, Will ¡°Guillaume Johnson¡­ Hmm. No picture of Mr. Johnson, I¡¯m afraid. I¡¯ll keep looking. What are these samples he keeps referring to?¡± Mabel asked, leaning back in her chair by the fire. ¡°It¡¯s mentioned in quite a few of Dr. Fitzgerald¡¯s letters.¡± ¡°I noticed that, too,¡± Jericho said, sitting across from her. ¡°Hopefully one of the other letters will make it clear.¡± Mabel glanced at Jericho shyly. It made him nervous, like he was supposed to do something, but he had no idea what that was. ¡°Right. Back to it. I¡¯ll be upstairs if you need me,¡± he said, carrying his crate up the spiral staircase to the second-floor balcony. From behind the stacks, Jericho watched Mabel at work. Her blue dress was smudged with dust, but she hadn¡¯t made a fuss about it. Of course she wouldn¡¯t. Mabel Rebecca Rose was too solid for that. Her only crime was being sweet on him. Why couldn¡¯t he return her affections in the same way? She was certainly smart and clever. How many girls knew about mining disasters and labor strikes? The bedeviling thing about Mabel was that she always seemed to do what other people expected of her. She was the very definition of a perfectly decent girl¡ªearnest and helpful, with an unshakable faith in her constructed belief that people were, at heart, good. Jericho wasn¡¯t sure he shared that sentiment. Since the night Evie had ended their brief romance, Jericho had resented Mabel. If not for Mabel, he¡¯d told himself, he and Evie might¡¯ve had a chance. But now he wondered: Had Mabel just been a convenient excuse? Had it been Sam all along? Mabel caught him looking. She patted her hair self-consciously. ¡°Did you need something?¡± ¡°No,¡± Jericho said, and quickly turned back to Will¡¯s letters, coming to one that intrigued him. October 1, 1907 Hopeful Harbor, New York Dear Cornelius, It has been quite a time here. Earlier this week, members of the Founders Club, a private eugenics society, visited as invited guests of Jake¡¯s. They were quite interested in our findings about Diviners, and over dinner, there was much spirited debate. The gentlemen of the Founders Club argue that we can create the strongest, most exceptional America through the careful selection of superior traits, as one would with livestock. They believe Diviners are this superior stock. But only white Diviners. No Negroes, Italians, Sioux, Irish, Chinese, or Jews need apply. They argue that these people lack the correct moral, physical, mental, and intellectual properties to advance our nation and make her the shining city on the hill. Page 79 I have never seen Margaret so angry before: ¡°We are a democracy, sir, and Diviners are evidence of that democracy and of the proof that all men and women are created equal. For these gifts have been given in equal measure to people of all races and creeds, regardless of sex, whether rich or poor.¡± The great debate escalated far beyond the polite decorum of a dinner table, and we adjourned before dessert so that a cordial spirit could be maintained. In the privacy of our offices, Rotke made her position quite clear¡ª¡°I won¡¯t be part of it. Not as a scientist. Not as a Jew. Not as an American.¡± I agreed that their position was nonsense. Margaret was much more frank in her rebuke. I shan¡¯t repeat her words here. We were resolute: We would thank the Founders Club for their time and interest and send them on their way. Through it all, Jake remained quiet. At last, he rose from his seat and crossed the floor. Even in this simple action, he demanded our attention. ¡°Don¡¯t you see? We can take their money without telling them what we¡¯re really doing. We¡¯ll continue to conduct our own research on Diviners. Here and there, we¡¯ll trot out a little something to keep the old men happy in their eugenics quest, parade a Diviner or two before them. Simple.¡± ¡°You¡¯re wrong, Jake. They¡¯ll come to own us in time,¡± Margaret insisted. ¡°Mark my words.¡± Jake shook his head and let out a peeved sigh, which did not settle well with Margaret, I can assure you. ¡°Margaret, you¡¯re too suspicious,¡± he insisted. ¡°You don¡¯t trust anyone.¡± ¡°If your people came to this country in chains, Mr. Marlowe, you might have the same mistrust,¡± Margaret responded evenly, but her eyes¡ªhard, alight¡ªtold the true story of her emotions. Next, Jake appealed to me, man-to-man. He threw an arm around my shoulders like a brother and squeezed. ¡°William, surely you¡¯re on board?¡± ¡°Well¡­¡± I began but said no more. It was cowardly, but my feelings on the matter are quite confusing. I don¡¯t care for the Founders Club and their sham science of eugenics. But I don¡¯t want to stop our research into those mysteries that lie beyond this world, either. It has become my whole world. At last, Jake made his way to Rotke and put his hands on her shoulders. ¡°Darling, we need their funding. What we receive from Washington isn¡¯t enough, and I¡¯ve used nearly all of my trust.¡± ¡°Even if you can see that money comes from a terrible place?¡± Rotke challenged. ¡°Just don¡¯t look in that direction.¡± Then Jake took Rotke¡¯s face in his hands, the hands that will shape this new America through steel and the atom and whatever we uncover of the supernatural world. ¡°Trust me,¡± he said as he bent her face toward him so that he could kiss her gently on the forehead. I heeded Jake¡¯s advice and did not look in their direction anymore. ¡°I¡¯ll smooth things over with the old coots. Stay and enjoy the fire,¡± Jake assured us. And with that, our brave son, our golden boy, sailed off with a bottle of his family¡¯s best brandy and a fistful of cigars to secure our future. But I fear the damage is done with Margaret. She and Jake will never be friends after this. As for Rotke, she and Jake are to be engaged, I hear. A better man would be happy for them. After all, Jake has been my closest friend for six years. But I am not a better man, and I am not happy. This afternoon, Rotke came to me. I could see by her eyes that she had been crying. She asked me to walk with her for a spell. We strolled the woods beyond the manicured hedges of Hopeful Harbor. I begged Rotke to tell me what was troubling her. ¡°It¡¯s Jake,¡± she said, wiping away tears. ¡°We quarreled. He doesn¡¯t want me to tell anyone I¡¯m Jewish. Not his family, certainly not those eugenics idiots. ¡®Darling, no one even knows you¡¯re Jewish,¡¯ he told me. ¡®They don¡¯t have to know. You don¡¯t look it.¡¯¡± I asked Rotke the question in my heart then. ¡°Does being Jewish matter so much if you don¡¯t believe in God?¡± For as you know, Cornelius, I¡¯ve never understood this obsession with where we are from that we Americans seem to have. We are from here, are we not? Sometimes I find this clannishness, these ties to old homelands, ancient traditions, and familial bloodlines, to be nothing more than fear¡ªthe same fear that keeps us praying to an absent God. If anything, I hope that our research into the great unknown of Diviners and the supernatural world proves that we are all one, joined by the same spark of energy that owes nothing to countries or religion, good and evil, or any other man-made divisions. We create our history as we go. Page 80 Rotke sees it differently. ¡°It matters to me, William. It is a part of all that I am. A reminder of my parents and my grandparents. I can¡¯t dismiss them and their struggles so easily. If I marry Jake, I¡¯m afraid I shall be erased.¡± She began to cry again, softly. I didn¡¯t know what to do. I am not adept with crying women, especially crying women whom I secretly love. Before I knew it, I was kissing her. Yes, I kissed my closest friend¡¯s fianc¨¦e. It was not the gentlemanly thing to do, Cornelius. I know you do not approve. I wish that I could say I regret it. I do not. Rotke broke away from me, pink-cheeked from more than just the cold. Naturally, I apologized profusely until she had recovered enough to say, simply, ¡°I believe we should go back now.¡± You warned that my passions would get the better of me, Cornelius. Jake greeted us upon our return. He was in grand spirits, practically boyish. ¡°We have our money,¡± he said, waltzing Rotke around. I looked away. Once you¡¯ve learned how, it gets easier to do. Jake clapped me on the back. ¡°This is the start of everything. And you needn¡¯t worry: I¡¯ll handle all the affairs. You won¡¯t have to engage with the Founders Club at all. I¡¯ve ordered champagne to be sent up to the drawing room. See if you can find Margaret, and meet me there.¡± Jake wants money for his experiments and inventions in his quest to build an exceptional, unassailable America. Margaret, the victim of this country¡¯s less shining side, wants to prove that all men and women are created equal. Rotke wants to understand the realm beyond this one as well as her own gifts. As for me, my ambitions are great but without form. I don¡¯t know what I want, save for the one woman I cannot have. This is far too immodest a letter, Cornelius. The champagne was a fine vintage, and I am quite drunk. It doesn¡¯t matter a whit. You won¡¯t respond to this letter, as you¡¯ve not responded to any of my entreaties. Likely, you won¡¯t even read this. I hear from Lucretia, whom Margaret saw in the market when she visited the city last week, that you¡¯ve had a troubling cough. I do hope your health improves. Fondly, Your prodigal son, Will Dumbfounded, Jericho put the letter down. Why had they never talked about any of this? After Jericho¡¯s illness crippled him and his parents had abandoned him to the state, it was Will who¡¯d stepped in as guardian. He had sheltered Jericho, fed and clothed him, and taught his ward what he could about running the museum and about Diviners. For that, Jericho supposed he owed him a debt. But Will hadn¡¯t given Jericho the parts that mattered most. He hadn¡¯t given himself. The two of them had never gone fishing in a cold stream early on a summer¡¯s day and shared their thoughts on love and life while they watched the sun draw the curling morning mist from the water. They¡¯d never discussed how to find one¡¯s place in the world, never talked of fathers and sons, or what makes someone a man. No. He and Will spoke in newspaper articles about ghosts. They conversed through the careful curation of supernatural knickknacks. And Jericho couldn¡¯t help but feel cheated at how little he¡¯d gotten when he¡¯d needed so much more. Why was there so much silence between men? ¡°Jericho?¡± Mabel called, bringing Jericho back to the present. ¡°Sorry, but I have to head home now.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be right down,¡± Jericho said, pushing the letters to the side. As he did, an odd scrap of paper fluttered to the floor. It was a very brief note in Will¡¯s handwriting. There was no date. It read, simply: Dear Cornelius, You were right. I was wrong. I am so very sorry. Sincerely, Will ¡°Thanks for your help today,¡± Jericho said, easing Mabel into her coat. ¡°It was a nice change. I¡¯m used to working with Sam. Or rather, working around Sam.¡± Mabel shifted from one foot to the other and back again. ¡°I could come back and help you some more. If you want me to,¡± she said, agreeable to the end. The way she looked at him just then, with a mixture of curiosity, affection, and admiration, was rather nice. Maybe it would be nice to be adored for once. ¡°That¡¯s okay. I can manage,¡± Jericho said after a pause. ¡°Oh. Sure,¡± Mabel said, trying to hide her disappointment. ¡°I suppose you¡¯ve heard the news about Evie and Sam,¡± Mabel said as they walked the long hallway. ¡°I had no idea she and Sam were engaged. She never said a word. Did Sam say anything to you?¡± ¡°No,¡± Jericho growled. Mabel knew she shouldn¡¯t have brought up the topic of Evie. But now that she had, it was like a scab she couldn¡¯t stop picking. ¡°Well. I suppose we should be happy for them.¡± Page 81 ¡°Why?¡± Jericho asked. ¡°Because¡­¡± Mabel let the rest of the sentence die on the vine. Outside, the street lamps winked on, trying to do battle against the gentle gray of the late afternoon. A few snowflakes swirled in the blustery air. Mabel shivered as she stood uncertainly on the top step, wondering what she could say to prolong the moment. A Model T shuddered down the street, and Mabel remembered her earlier strange encounter. ¡°Oh! I nearly forgot to tell you. I noticed something odd on my way in today. There were these two men in a brown car just sitting, watching the museum.¡± Jericho craned his neck, looking up and down the street. He shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t see anybody now.¡± He crossed his arms, pensive. ¡°I suppose they could be taxmen.¡± Mabel shook her head. ¡°Those fellows don¡¯t sit quietly in cars. They come right up to your door and turn out your pockets. These men reminded me more of Pinkertons, or Bureau of Investigation.¡± Mabel shoved her hands back into her coat pockets. ¡°Well, see you at the Bennington.¡± ¡°Yeah. See you at the Bennington,¡± Jericho said, watching Mabel walking away in her deliberate fashion. Why was he still pining for a girl he couldn¡¯t have? Evie certainly wasn¡¯t sitting around sighing over him. Apparently, she was out every night with Sam, having the time of her life. It was high time he did the same. If he¡¯d learned one thing reading through Will¡¯s letters today, it was that there was a whole world out there waiting to be explored, and Jericho was tired of caution. ¡°Mabel!¡± Jericho bounded down the steps after her. ¡°Would you like to go to dinner or to the pictures sometime?¡± Mabel¡¯s face quicksilvered from shock to barely suppressed giddiness. ¡°I¡¯d love to. When?¡± ¡°Oh. Um. How¡¯s tomorrow?¡± Mabel grinned. ¡°Tomorrow¡¯s perfect.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll come for you at eight o¡¯clock, if that¡¯s agreeable.¡± ¡°Very, very agreeable.¡± Back in the quiet of the library, Jericho congratulated himself. ¡°I have a date,¡± he said to the empty room. A date. That was good, wasn¡¯t it? It was progress. He gave the Metaphysickometer a gentle thump and set about tidying up the papers nearby. Under the glass, the needle gave a tiny jump. Freshly shaved and smelling of soap, Memphis stood in front of the small mirror over the chest of drawers in the room he shared with Isaiah, buttoning his starched collar onto his crisp white shirt while Isaiah sat in his bed, drawing. ¡°Memphis, what does ¡®P-NEU-MA-TIC¡¯ mean?¡± Isaiah asked. Memphis thought for a second. ¡°You mean pneumatic?¡± ¡°¡¯At¡¯s what I said.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t pronounce the P.¡± ¡°Still don¡¯t know what it means,¡± Isaiah grumbled. ¡°Here.¡± Memphis handed him the dictionary that had been a present from his parents on his tenth birthday and sat on the bed to lace up his best oxfords. ¡°Look it up.¡± Isaiah made a face. ¡°Why can¡¯t you just tell me? You got all those words in your head already.¡± ¡°That¡¯s right. And you know how they got there? I looked ¡¯em up. Where¡¯d you hear that word? School?¡± ¡°Saw it in a dream. Where you going?¡± Isaiah asked. He sounded like Octavia. Like accusation. ¡°That¡¯s my business.¡± ¡°You going off with that Theta,¡± Isaiah groused. ¡°Don¡¯t like her.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t even know her.¡± ¡°Why you wanna go with some girl, anyhow?¡± ¡°Because someday, I aim to get married and have my own house. With my own wife. No bumpy-headed brothers running around.¡± Memphis expected Isaiah to protest the bumpy-head comment with a righteous ¡°Hey!¡± He didn¡¯t expect to hear sniffling, or to turn and see tears trickling down his brother¡¯s face, over trembling lips. ¡°Ice Man? What¡¯s the matter?¡± Isaiah wrapped his arms around his knees and drew them to his chest. He wouldn¡¯t speak, and Memphis knew he was trying hard not to break down into a full-on cry. He waited him out, and after a minute Isaiah said in a soft, strangled voice, ¡°You gonna go and leave me, too, aren¡¯t ya?¡± ¡°Aww, Ice Man.¡± Memphis moved to the bed and pulled Isaiah into a hug. ¡°Everybody¡¯s always leaving me behind.¡± ¡°Shhh, now. That¡¯s not true.¡± Isaiah¡¯s head shot up. His teary eyes were equal parts pleading and challenge. ¡°Promise me. Promise me we¡¯ll always be together. Like Mama said.¡± Page 82 Memphis¡¯s heart tightened. There was no question that he loved his brother. But Memphis was nearly eighteen, with dreams of his own. Dreams he kept having to push into smaller drawers inside himself under a label of ¡°tomorrow.¡± He worried that he¡¯d never see any of them realized: never set foot inside A¡¯Lelia Walker¡¯s grand town house with the likes of Langston Hughes and Countee Cullen and Zora Neale Hurston, never see a book of his poems in the front window of a bookseller¡¯s shop, never see the world outside Harlem. How could he ever get away when there was always some undertow of obligation pulling him back? ¡°We¡¯ll always be together,¡± Memphis said. He held Isaiah a little tighter, as if he could will his love to overcome his resentment. ¡°It¡¯s late. You oughta be asleep.¡± ¡°Not tired.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not what your eyes are telling me.¡± Isaiah laced his fingers through Memphis¡¯s. His anger was gone. He seemed frightened. ¡°What¡¯s the matter, Ice Man?¡± ¡°I see things in my dreams.¡± ¡°What kinds of things?¡± ¡°Monsters,¡± Isaiah whispered. ¡°They¡¯re just dreams, Isaiah. Dreams can¡¯t get you. Only I can!¡± Memphis tickled Isaiah, who giggled, crying, ¡°Stop! Stop!¡± happy as any ten-year-old. ¡°Ice Man,¡± Memphis asked as he tucked the blanket under Isaiah¡¯s chin, ¡°what do you remember from before you had your seizure?¡± Isaiah blinked up at the ceiling, remembering. ¡°Mr. Johnson was walking me home. He had a shortcut he wanted to take so I wouldn¡¯t be late and get Octavia sore at me.¡± Isaiah paused for a second. ¡°And I remember I was sad about Mama being dead and Daddy being gone to Chicago.¡± Memphis felt the squeezing in his chest again. He hated knowing that Isaiah was sad. ¡°What else you remember?¡± Memphis said, more gently. ¡°Mr. Johnson told me he could take that sad right out of my head if I wanted him to.¡± ¡°How was he gonna do that?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t know. He was teasing me, I think.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± ¡°And then I had my fit. It was like I was underwater. I saw¡­¡± It was right there on a high shelf of Isaiah¡¯s mind, just out of reach. He had a glimpse of a strange man. But then the face became Bill Johnson¡¯s, and then it was gone. Isaiah shook his head. ¡°I can¡¯t remember nothing else.¡± Memphis took a deep breath. He stared at the floor. ¡°And when you were asleep after your fit, did you know I was right by your bedside?¡± Could Isaiah remember Memphis¡¯s healing hands on his arm? ¡°Huh-uh.¡± ¡°But after you woke up, you¡­ you felt all right. Didn¡¯t you?¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t feel sick or anything? Just felt like your old shrimpy self.¡± ¡°Ain¡¯t shrimpy! Gonna be taller¡¯n you!¡± Isaiah said, play-hitting Memphis. ¡°Sister Walker said I¡¯d prob¡¯ly be taller than Daddy.¡± ¡°Well, now. Guess we¡¯ll have to see on that.¡± Isaiah¡¯s lightness evaporated quickly. ¡°Memphis. I miss going to Sister Walker¡¯s house.¡± ¡°I know.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think she¡¯s bad. She was too nice to be bad.¡± ¡°Lots of folks can seem nice,¡± Memphis said, but in truth, he¡¯d always liked Sister, too. There was no proof that the work Isaiah had been doing with her, developing his powers, had anything to do with his fit. Otherwise, why wouldn¡¯t he have had more of them? It troubled Memphis. ¡°She made me feel special,¡± Isaiah said. ¡°But I guess I¡¯m not special after all.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t say that. That isn¡¯t true,¡± Memphis said, putting his face near his brother¡¯s like they used to on Christmas Eve when they¡¯d try to stay up and catch Santa Claus, reasoning that he¡¯d have to come to Harlem first; after all, Harlem even had a St. Nicholas Avenue. ¡°Memphis? Will you tell me a story? To help me sleep?¡± ¡°All right, then,¡± Memphis said quietly. ¡°Once upon a time, there were two brothers, and they were close as close can be.¡­¡± Isaiah reached out a hand and placed it on his brother¡¯s arm while Memphis cocooned him with words, wrapping him tightly in the magic of a story well told. Just before he fell asleep, Isaiah murmured to Memphis. ¡°I ¡¯member something else from when I was sick. There was a man. A man in a tall hat¡­¡± Isaiah muttered, trailing off into sleep at last. Page 83 Memphis wondered if these nightmares were the toll that not using his gifts was taking on Isaiah¡ªall that energy bottled up till it had to come out somewhere. Octavia might¡¯ve believed that it was the Devil¡¯s business, not the Lord¡¯s, but it seemed to Memphis that if there was a God, it would be downright cruel of him to bestow people with certain talents and then expect them not to use those talents. People had to be who they were. And if that was true, why shouldn¡¯t Memphis use his healing gift again? Why was he so afraid to explore his own power? The truth was, Memphis had liked healing. He¡¯d enjoyed the shine it had given him in Harlem, the way the women at church praised him as ¡°God¡¯s special angel¡± and made sure he had the best piece of cake at their after-services suppers. He had basked in the silent approval of the men, who nodded and patted his back and told him he was setting a fine example for other young men, and who welcomed him to say the blessing at their various lodge meetings. When the girls fought to sit near him during Bible study or batted their lashes and asked shyly if they could bring him a cup of water, he¡¯d loved that, too. Sometimes, he¡¯d stood in his bathroom and practiced that winning smile of his, saying to himself in the mirror with all the sincerity he could muster, ¡°Why, thank you, sister. And may God bless you.¡± It was only Octavia who¡¯d made Memphis doubt, the way she stared at him through narrowed eyes when she would come to sew with his mother some evenings. ¡°You trying to draw Memphis¡¯s face in your mind, sister?¡± his mother scolded. They were sitting on the front stoop under a summer night filled with stars while a block party took place, all their neighbors dancing and singing and laughing, the good times bathed in the hopeful, buttery light of the brownstones lining 145th Street. ¡°Just keeping an eye on him,¡± Octavia said. ¡°He¡¯s my angel.¡± Memphis¡¯s mother had smiled at him like he was the only boy in the world. ¡°Sometimes angels fall,¡± Octavia said meaningfully. Memphis¡¯s mother stopped smiling. ¡°God made my boy special, Tavie. You questioning the Lord now?¡± Octavia turned her head slowly toward her sister. ¡°Was it God you made a bargain with, Viola? Or somebody else?¡± His mother¡¯s eyes went mean. ¡°Maybe you need to make your own children so you can quit telling me about mine,¡± she had fired back, slamming the door on her way inside. ¡°Pride goeth before a fall,¡± Octavia had whispered as she kept her eyes on the impressionistic street carnival to hide the injury Viola¡¯s comment had inflicted, a wound Memphis knew that even he couldn¡¯t heal. Memphis had been plenty proud. And his fall, when it came, was as spectacular as the Light Bringer¡¯s. From Harlem Healer to numbers runner and bookie. He¡¯d lost his mother, his father, his home, his healing powers, and his faith. And now that his healing power was coming back, for reasons he couldn¡¯t begin to understand, he didn¡¯t want to make the same mistakes. ¡°Well, well, well. Smells like somebody got himself a date,¡± Blind Bill Johnson called out from his perch on the couch in the parlor as Memphis entered. ¡°Evenin¡¯, Mr. Johnson.¡± Memphis wanted to like Blind Bill. The old man was a real help with Isaiah, offering to walk him home from school most days. But the way Bill sat on Octavia¡¯s prized couch just now, like he owned it, gave Memphis pause. Looking at Bill, Memphis could almost see the outline of the powerful young man he must¡¯ve been. Those stooped shoulders had once been broad and thickly muscled, and his veined hands were still plenty big enough to crush an orange to pulp. Bill was fifty-five, maybe even sixty if he was a day. But lately, he seemed stronger, more virile, and Memphis wondered if it was Octavia¡¯s attention that gave him a younger man¡¯s shine. Octavia came into the room carrying a plate of meat loaf. She¡¯d done up her hair even though Bill wouldn¡¯t see it, and she smelled of Shalimar, which she usually only wore to church. She gave Memphis a pursed-lip appraisal. ¡°Where you going dressed like that?¡± Where you think you¡¯re going dressed like that? Memphis wanted to say back. ¡°To the pictures with Alma,¡± he lied. ¡°Hmph. That Alma gets up to no good,¡± Octavia started, and Memphis sagged, bracing himself for the lecture to come. ¡°¡¯Scuse me, Miss Octavia,¡± Bill Johnson interrupted. ¡°Nobody in this world could raise these boys better¡¯n you doin¡¯. But, if you¡¯ll pardon an old man¡¯s opinion, a young man¡¯s gotta be about a young man¡¯s business. Gotta be a man in the world,¡± Bill said with just enough humility to settle Octavia. He smiled and bowed his head slightly. ¡°I don¡¯t mean no disrespect, ma¡¯am. I know I¡¯m not the boy¡¯s kin.¡± Page 84 Octavia looked over at Memphis with a bit more kindness. ¡°I expect you¡¯re right, Mr. Johnson.¡± ¡°Bill, please.¡± ¡°Bill,¡± Octavia said, preening. ¡°Go on, then, Memphis. Bill, let me get you some milk to go with that meat loaf.¡± Octavia turned toward the kitchen but snapped back one last time, a finger pointed at Memphis like an arrow set to fly. ¡°You better live at the foot of the cross and do right, Memphis John.¡± ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± Memphis said. He didn¡¯t feel like ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am¡±ing his aunt, but he recognized a reprieve when he heard one and knew it was the wise choice. ¡°Thank you, Mr. Johnson,¡± he said softly once Octavia had left the room. Bill¡¯s smile was a half-formed thing. ¡°That¡¯s all right, son. Old Bill is always happy to do a favor for a friend. After all, a man never knows when he might need to ask for a favor in return,¡± Bill answered, his smile finally unleashed. ¡°Memphis, where are you taking me?¡± Theta gasped as they traipsed through Fort Washington Park, dodging a sudden cascade of late-straggler leaves shaken down by the wind. ¡°Almost there, baby. I promise!¡± They¡¯d spent the evening dancing at the Hotsy Totsy, but Memphis had wanted to be alone, promising Theta that he¡¯d take her straight to the top tonight. The booze had made them a little loose, and they laughed happily as they kicked at the piles of dead leaves, jogging tipsily past amused bystanders and grouchy old-timers clucking that that ¡°wasn¡¯t how you do.¡± Finally, they came to the very edge of the park, where it dead-ended at the stripe of gray that was the Hudson River and the small red lighthouse that sat perched at the tip of Manhattan. ¡°That?¡± Theta asked, her breath coming out in a chilly puff. ¡°Didn¡¯t I say I¡¯d take you straight to the top? Just so happens I know the password for that joint.¡± When they reached the lighthouse door, Memphis drew a wrench from his pocket and hit at the lock till it fell open. He grinned. ¡°Told ya I knew the password.¡± He led Theta up the narrow iron steps, around and around, until they came out in the lighthouse¡¯s lantern room. Theta gasped when she saw the water lapping at the bumpy shoreline of Manhattan, the distant, twinkling shore of New Jersey, and the dark river in between, aglow with the occasional sweep of the lighthouse¡¯s far reach. It was just a lighthouse, but it felt like the top of the world. ¡°They say they¡¯re gonna build a big bridge right here, going from Manhattan over to New Jersey,¡± Memphis said. ¡°So we oughta enjoy the view while we can.¡± Memphis stood behind Theta and wrapped his arms around her, resting his head beside hers. ¡°Watch the light now,¡± he said, and they held their breath while the bright beam shone out a welcome into the world, guiding ships confidently up the river. It seemed for a moment as if the light were coming from the two of them, as if they¡¯d already steered themselves to a safe place. ¡°A mighty river ribbons through the light / Sing hey to the nightingale, sweet song of night / Sing hey to the tower that shines so bright / Sing hey to the stars and she who mourns their light.¡± ¡°Gee, that¡¯s pretty. Who wrote that?¡± ¡°I guess I did. I said light too many times, though.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t notice,¡± Theta said. ¡°I sent some of my poems to the Crisis today,¡± Memphis said, handing Theta his flask. She took a sip, wincing as the alcohol burned her throat, then handed it back to Memphis. ¡°What¡¯s the Crisis?¡± ¡°Just the most important journal in Harlem. It¡¯s edited by Mr. W.E.B. Du Bois himself. Lots of people have had their work published there¡ªLangston Hughes, Countee Cullen, Zora Neale Hurston.¡± ¡°Memphis Campbell,¡± Theta said, grinning. ¡°Maybe,¡± Memphis said wistfully. ¡°May¡­ be.¡± ¡°You found anything new on that crazy eye symbol?¡± Theta asked. ¡°Nothing yet. I swear, I¡¯ve searched every book I can find about symbols and eyes. I don¡¯t know where it comes from, but it¡¯s got to have an origin. Everything comes from somewhere, and somewhere is everywhere. Everything is connected, my mama used to say,¡± Memphis quoted, imitating the gentle rise and fall of his mother¡¯s musical Caribbean accent. ¡°Gonna take you back to my homeland sometime, and then you¡¯ll know. You¡¯ll see the thread that stretches across the ocean.¡± ¡°Did she ever take you?¡± Theta asked. Memphis stopped smiling. ¡°Naw. But she used to tell Isaiah and me all sorts of tales about Haiti¡¯s history and all kinds of African folklore, about our family and where we¡¯d come from and how we got here. Origin stories. I tell you, my mother had a story for everything.¡± Page 85 Theta hugged her knees to her chest. ¡°You miss her?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Memphis said, keeping his eyes on the shadowy hills. He drank from the flask. ¡°Yes, I surely do.¡± ¡°You got a lot of nice stories,¡± Theta said softly. ¡°I don¡¯t have that. I don¡¯t have an origin story. Just fuzzy memories and this one dream that¡¯s like a memory, but I can¡¯t really see it, not all the way.¡± ¡°Tell me what you do see, then.¡± Memphis offered Theta the flask again, but she shook her head. ¡°It¡¯s white, like¡­ like miles of snow. And there are funny red flowers in the snow, spreading everywhere. I hear screaming and horses whinnying and there¡¯s smoke and then there¡¯s nothing. I wake up.¡± She shrugged. ¡°That¡¯s the only story I got.¡± ¡°We could make our own stories,¡± Memphis said. ¡°You and me.¡± For a week, Memphis had been rehearsing this speech in the bathroom mirror. But now all his words failed him. So he took Theta¡¯s hands in his, watching the light sweep across the room. ¡°Theta¡­¡± He cleared his throat, started over. ¡°Theta, I love you.¡± Theta¡¯s smile vanished. She didn¡¯t answer. ¡°That wasn¡¯t quite the response I was hoping for,¡± Memphis joked, but his stomach was as tight as piano wire. ¡°Gee, Poet. I just¡­ I didn¡¯t expect that.¡± ¡°Theta,¡± Memphis said, ¡°I feel I need to warn you: In about five seconds, I¡¯m going to tell you that I love you. There. Now you know to expect it.¡± Theta still wasn¡¯t smiling. ¡°The last fella who told me that¡­ it didn¡¯t go so well.¡± ¡°Well, I¡¯m not the last fella. I¡¯m the right fella.¡± There are things you don¡¯t know about me, Theta wanted to say. Things that might change how you feel about me. She didn¡¯t think she could bear that disappointment. Theta bit her lip. She ran a finger across the back of Memphis¡¯s hand, an idea forming. ¡°When you heal people¡ª¡± ¡°Used to. Haven¡¯t tried it since Isaiah.¡± ¡°Sure. But when you used to do it at the church, could you heal anything?¡± ¡°Most things, I suppose. I couldn¡¯t help my mother,¡± Memphis said, and Theta gave his hand a gentle squeeze. She looked up into Memphis¡¯s face. ¡°Can you take something away with your healing?¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± Theta didn¡¯t know how to say it without telling Memphis everything. ¡°What if somebody had something about them that wasn¡¯t a disease, exactly, more like a¡­¡± Theta searched for the right words. ¡°Like a bad Diviner power. The opposite of healing. Something that could harm.¡± Memphis laughed. ¡°I never met anybody like that at the Miracle Mission.¡± ¡°No. No, I guess you wouldn¡¯t.¡± ¡°What¡¯s all this about, Theta?¡± Theta forced a smile. Inside, she could feel herself drifting further away. Who could love somebody like her? ¡°Just curious, Poet. That¡¯s all.¡± She should leave him. That was the noble thing to do. Before he got hurt. Memphis kissed her on the temple, soft and sweet, and Theta knew she was far from noble, because she didn¡¯t have the strength to give him up. ¡°I love you,¡± he said again. ¡°I love you, too, Memphis,¡± Theta whispered. ¡°You just made me the happiest man in Harlem.¡± Memphis grinned. ¡°Now you got more than one story, Princess. This lighthouse, this moment¡ªI reckon it¡¯s our origin story.¡± ¡°Guess so,¡± she said. She hoped everything would be okay. Memphis kissed her then, and Theta kissed back. Their kiss was warm. It traveled through Theta¡¯s body and made her want more. They sank to the floor of the lighthouse. Memphis moved on top of her just slightly. She could feel him against her stomach and it made her go liquid inside. Without warning, Theta¡¯s thoughts flashed back to Roy. It was Roy she saw on top of her, holding her down on the bed that last terrible night in Kansas. The uninvited memory raced through her like a swift fever. Heat pooled in her palms. It shot out to her fingers like the survival mechanism of a frightened animal, as if in that moment her body couldn¡¯t tell the difference between Memphis and Roy, love and violence. Terrified, Theta pushed Memphis away and sat up abruptly, breathing heavily. She tucked her hands under her thighs, feeling the warmth begin to subside. ¡°I do something wrong, Princess?¡± Memphis asked, confused and concerned. Page 86 Theta gulped down air. ¡°No. No, I just¡­ I just wanna slow down, Poet.¡± ¡°All right. Okay. We can be slow as you like,¡± Memphis said. His gentleness made Theta want to cry. ¡°Can we¡­ can we just lie here?¡± ¡°If you like.¡± They lay side by side on the floor of the lighthouse, and Theta rested her head on Memphis¡¯s chest, where she could hear his heart thumping. More than anything, she wanted to keep kissing him. But in her mind, she heard Roy¡¯s screams, saw the curls of black smoke rising from under his fingers as he clutched at his face and the room caught fire. ¡°Everything copacetic, Princess?¡± Memphis asked. Just tell him. He¡¯s not gonna run. Tell him. Tell him.¡­ ¡°Sure. Everything¡¯s jake,¡± she managed to say, and they watched the bright light sweeping back and forth, promising safety. The moon poured through the flimsy curtains in Isaiah¡¯s bedroom as he half woke and rose slowly from his bed, crossing to Memphis¡¯s desk. His eyes tipped back in their sockets and his mouth mumbled old words. He grabbed the pencil and began to draw. In a back room of a smoky gambling hall, Blind Bill bargained with two men who didn¡¯t take well to bargains. ¡°Tell Mr. Schultz I¡¯ll get him his money. I promise,¡± Bill said. ¡°Mr. Schultz expects interest. Or he takes his own kind of interest, if you get my meaning,¡± one of the men said, and he kicked at Bill¡¯s cane just to make the point clear. ¡°Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,¡± Bill said. He grumbled a curse at them on his way out. They were bad men. But Bill had met much worse. The sort of men who might pay handsomely for information about truly gifted people, if it came to that. Jericho yawned as he read over an account from Will¡¯s early days investigating Diviners who sensed danger coming and issued warnings that mostly went unheeded. He looked out his window at the neon night and wondered where Evie was now, and if she ever thought of him, and he hated himself for caring. Elsewhere in the city, the bright young things danced to feverish jazz in the speakeasies while others stumbled home to sleep off the gin. They went to bed humming songs they were sure had been written just for them, songs they believed they would sing that happily for the rest of their lives. They slept and they dreamed: Sweethearts who¡¯d fallen asleep wrapped in each other¡¯s arms. Bricklayers and bridge builders whose lives were lived in the shadows of the monuments they built to the greatness of others. Newcomers to America whose tongues still struggled with the texture of English words. Midwestern boys who¡¯d set off for the big city to make their fortunes. Teenage girls in cramped apartments who longed to feel beautiful and adored and seen. They traveled deep into the corridors of sleep, following the music-box song, desperate to join the dream that called to them, a great migration to its promising shores. They heard a voice whispering, ¡°Dream with me.¡­¡± Some said no. They drifted into other, less satisfying dreams from which they woke in the morning with a feeling of great loss, as if they¡¯d been offered a fortune of happiness and had squandered it. Some answered yes. They chased after their elusive desires, ignoring the terrible sounds in the dark, until they realized their mistake. And by then it was too late. There was no leaving now. They would dream until all that remained was the phantom presence of their insatiable desires. Hungry ghosts, still dreaming. In a basement speakeasy on West Twenty-fourth Street, two flappers slept with their Marcel Wave heads pressed together, lost to dreaming. At Vesuvio¡¯s Bakery on Prince Street, the CLOSED sign hung on the door and the lingering scent of yeast and flour wasn¡¯t enough to wake the three young men in baker¡¯s aprons who lay sprawled in their wooden chairs, mouths agape, one worker still clutching the broom from last night¡¯s sweeping in his hand. Near the Brooklyn Bridge, in the rumble seat of a car whose windows were fogged with frost, a young couple had stopped their heavy petting. Now it was only their eyes that moved feverishly behind their lids as they dreamed and dreamed and could not stop. On the top floor of a five-story walk-up, across the street from a rival gambling den, one of Lucky Luciano¡¯s hired goons slept beside his Tommy gun while his intended target walked free. Lucky would be furious about the botched job, but it didn¡¯t matter to the assassin, because he would never wake again. Deep below the city, the long metal snakes of the IRT rattled through the dark tunnels, while on the mud-rutted back roads of Connecticut, Sister Walker¡¯s car rumbled toward the dark horizon. They¡¯d been driving for miles, following up on leads. Gray strands of stars stretched out above the sleeping towns and quiet farms they passed. Page 87 ¡°Here we are. Just like old times,¡± Sister Walker murmured. The car¡¯s headlights bounced off the eyes of a rabbit that sprinted through the winter-dead grass. Will kept a hand on the folder of newspaper clippings in his lap. ¡°Not quite,¡± he said at last and kept his eyes on the road ahead. Just before bed, Ling set her alarm, said her prayers, lit some incense, and slid George¡¯s track medal under her pillow, resting her fingers on top in the hope that she¡¯d be able to make contact with him in the dream world. She kept her eyes on the ticking second hand of the clock, letting it lull her into a hypnotic trance. A moment later she woke, gasping, inside the dream world. Henry was there, doubled over, breathing heavily. ¡°Fancy meeting you here.¡± ¡°Are you all right?¡± Ling asked. ¡°Sure¡­ just need a minute to catch my breath. I¡¯m¡­ not used to doing so much dream walking. Need to get my sea legs under me.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you carry any jade for protection?¡± Ling asked. ¡°I¡¯m plenty jaded all on my own.¡± Ling rolled her eyes. ¡°You¡¯re an idiot. Find some jade. It helps me.¡± While Henry caught his breath, Ling searched for any hint of George, but she didn¡¯t see him anywhere. ¡°George?¡± she whispered. ¡°George Huang. George, are you here?¡± ¡°What are you doing?¡± Henry asked, coming to her side. Ling whirled around. ¡°Nothing. I thought I saw a friend, but I was mistaken.¡± The fog lifted on the streets of the old-fashioned dream-jumble city, and the familiar scene started up like a clockwork show: The fighting men falling out of the saloon doors. The children chasing the rolling hoop, shouting, ¡°Anthony Orange Cross!¡± The ghostly wagon and driver clopping by¡ª¡°Beware, beware, Paradise Square!¡± ¡°Huh. It¡¯s exactly the same scene,¡± Henry said. ¡°So?¡± ¡°Well, it¡¯s curious, isn¡¯t it? I¡¯ve had a recurring dream before, but there¡¯s always something a bit different each time¡ªthe scarecrow in the cornfield has a different hat, or the house that¡¯s supposed to be your house has unfamiliar rooms. But this has been the same sequence of events in precisely the same order each time we¡¯ve come here. If I¡¯m correct, any second now, there should be fireworks right over¡­ there.¡± Henry pointed, and the night sky exploded with pops of light. ¡°You see? And now¡­¡± Henry gestured like a circus barker. ¡°The man in the vest, please.¡± Like an old vaudevillian respectful of timing, the man appeared, a glimmering in the haze. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen! Come one, come all, for a ride on Alfred Beach¡¯s pneumatic train. See this marvel for yourselves and be amazed, ladies and gentlemen¡ªthe future of travel, beneath these very streets!¡± ¡°It¡¯s like a loop of dream time that¡¯s stuck for some reason,¡± Henry said. A shriek reverberated throughout the foggy city, and then: ¡°Murder! Murder! Oh, murder!¡± Henry and Ling crowded together. ¡°Here¡­ she¡­ comes,¡± Henry said. Right on schedule, the ghostly veiled woman in the blood-smeared dress emerged from the fog and ran past them and through the wall of Devlin¡¯s Clothing Store. The shimmering portal opened once more. ¡°C¡¯mon!¡± Henry said, and he and Ling darted down the steps into the dark underworld of the dream. As they waited in the train station, Henry told Ling about what happened after they¡¯d been separated, how he¡¯d followed the path to the cabin and Louis. ¡°But what happened to you afterward?¡± Henry asked as he sat at the old Chickering, marveling once more that there was a piano he could play inside a dream. ¡°I met another dream walker last night. Her name is Wai-Mae,¡± Ling said. ¡°She talks too much. Even more than you do.¡± Henry smiled at the jibe. ¡°So there are three of us? It¡¯s getting mighty crowded in this dream world. Tell me,¡± he said, picking out a melody, ¡°what do you do when you¡¯re not talking to the dead or leading wayward musicians into magical train stations, Miss Chan?¡± ¡°I help my parents in the restaurant,¡± she said, sitting on the edge of the fountain to watch the goldfish darting about. ¡°But I want to go to college and study science.¡± ¡°Ah. That stack of books you had with you.¡± ¡°I remember the first time I read about Jake Marlowe¡¯s experiments with the atom. It made me think of dreams.¡± Page 88 ¡°Naturally,¡± Henry deadpanned. Ling trailed her fingers in the cool water of the fountain. ¡°What are these quantized bits of energy we see inside dreams? When I talk to the dead, where do they come from? Where do they go? Can we change the shape of our dreams? I can feel the Qi all around me. If I could understand this energy, this power, perhaps I could turn it into a scientific discovery in the physical world.¡± ¡°Sometimes I can change what people dream,¡± Henry said. Ling whirled around. ¡°You can? How? In what way?¡± ¡°Well, don¡¯t get too excited. I can¡¯t change the dream directly. I can only give the dreamer a suggestion.¡± ¡°Oh. Is that all?¡± Ling said. She stuck her fingers back into the fountain, smiling as the goldfish nibbled at her fingertips. ¡°I¡¯m wounded,¡± Henry drawled. ¡°It can be useful, though. If it looks as if the person¡¯s having a bad dream, I can help them out. I¡¯ll say something like, ¡®Why don¡¯t you dream about something more pleasant¡ªpuppies or hot air balloons or top hats¡ª¡¯¡± ¡°Top hats? No one wants to dream of top hats.¡± ¡°How do you know? Perhaps they¡¯re very formal dreams,¡± Henry said, smiling. ¡°Anyhow, I give suggestions, and sometimes that¡¯s enough to steer the person away from a nightmare.¡± He played around with a new melody. ¡°Were you afraid the first time you walked in a dream?¡± ¡°A little. I didn¡¯t know what was happening to me. I thought maybe I¡¯d died and woken up in the afterlife.¡± ¡°And then you were sorry you hadn¡¯t worn a top hat.¡± Ling ignored Henry¡¯s joke. ¡°What about your first time?¡± ¡°I thought I¡¯d gone mad. Just like my mother.¡± ¡°Your mother is crazy?¡± Henry shrugged. ¡°Oh, you mean to tell me it isn¡¯t perfectly normal for mothers to spend all day in the family cemetery talking to statues of saints? Why, don¡¯t you know, Miss Chan? The DuBois family is very respectable!¡± ¡°Has she always been mad?¡± ¡°No. Sometimes she¡¯s just peeved.¡± ¡°It isn¡¯t funny.¡± ¡°Oh, yes, it is. It¡¯s terribly, terribly funny,¡± Henry said. He was used to delivering this patter to the jaded theater crowd, who liked to keep things light and entertaining, with no embarrassing sentiment to force them into pretending to care. Over the years, Henry had gotten pretty good at his act: ¡°My parents?¡± he¡¯d say, perched at the piano. ¡°Tragic, tragic story. They were circus performers eaten by their own tigers just after a rousing performance of ¡®Blow the Man Down.¡¯ Poor Maman and Papa, gone with a roar and a belch and a half-finished chorus.¡± But he realized how silly it was to pretend with Ling here inside a dream where everything you kept inside could suddenly show itself without warning. Lying about your emotions, putting on a happy face when you didn¡¯t feel it, was exhausting. Henry kept his fingers moving, testing various chord progressions. ¡°My mother tried to kill herself. She sent the servants into town, found my father¡¯s straight razor, crawled into the bath, and cut her wrists. But she¡¯d forgotten that I was home. I found her. There was blood everywhere. I slipped and fell in it.¡± ¡°That¡¯s awful,¡± Ling said when she found her voice again. ¡°It was awful. I loved those pants.¡± ¡°Your father must have been grateful that you found her.¡± Henry scowled. ¡°My father has never used my name and grateful in the same sentence.¡± He glanced at Ling, ready with another quip. She was looking at him. Really looking. It made him uncomfortable. ¡°I¡¯ve grown a second head inside this dream, haven¡¯t I? Be honest. I can take it.¡± ¡°Your family has its own cemetery? You must be loaded,¡± Ling said. Henry laughed. ¡°Oh, yes, darlin¡¯. We are, indeed, loaded.¡± He played a jazzy riff. ¡°We¡¯ve got a family crypt! Inscribed with nonsense Latin! Generations of the DuBois bourgeoisie lined up as a feast for the worms!¡± Ling allowed a smile, then went serious again. ¡°Generations. Your family¡¯s been here a long time. My parents struggled to get here. I¡¯ve never even met my grandparents. How did you find the courage to leave home?¡± Henry had thought himself a coward for running away. It was strange to hear Ling call it courage. ¡°My father was angry with me over my friendship with Louis.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°He thought it was¡­¡± Henry searched for the right word. ¡°Unhealthy.¡± He could sense Ling preparing a follow-up question that he wasn¡¯t prepared to answer just yet, so he rushed on. ¡°And he didn¡¯t approve of my music. He forbade me to follow my passion. The old man wanted me to become a lawyer. Can you imagine me as a lawyer?¡± Page 89 ¡°You¡¯d make an awful lawyer. Absolutely terrible.¡± Henry grinned. ¡°Thank you for your confidence in me.¡± ¡°Terrible,¡± Ling said again. ¡°Yes, we¡¯ve covered that sufficiently, I believe. Anyway, when he decided to send me to military school, I packed my suitcase and left. I suppose you think I¡¯m an ungrateful son.¡± ¡°No,¡± Ling said, considering Henry¡¯s reasons. ¡°But I could never leave my parents.¡± Henry tried to imagine the sort of filial duty Ling felt. If anything, he saw his parents as a burden to be endured. When people talked about ¡°family¡± as something special, a place where you belonged, a dull anger nipped at Henry, a feeling that he¡¯d been cheated of this basic comfort. Instead, Henry had made his own family with Theta, with his friends in the speakeasies and backstage at the Follies. He imagined that one day he¡¯d hear that his parents were gone and feel only a vague sense of loss. How could you mourn something you¡¯d never really had? ¡°Well,¡± Henry said wistfully, ¡°it must be nice to be so loved.¡± ¡°Yes, I suppose it is,¡± Ling said, letting the subject drop. To her surprise, she found that she liked talking with Henry, especially about dreams. Sure, he told too many jokes for her taste. But he was easy and loose, like a gentle stream that carried her along. For a moment, she considered telling Henry about her plan to look for George tonight. But she decided it was best to keep quiet; that was her mission, not his. ¡°You asked me if I was afraid the first time I walked in a dream. But what I¡¯m most afraid of is not being able to do it,¡± Ling said quietly. ¡°Here, I¡¯m completely free. I can be myself. I can do anything.¡± Henry nodded. ¡°I know just what you mean. When I¡¯m here, if someone is having a bad dream, with a word, I can help them have a better dream. I can do something. In the waking world, I can¡¯t even get my songs published!¡± ¡°Are you sure you¡¯re working hard enough?¡± Henry raised both eyebrows. ¡°You are quite possibly the rudest person I have ever met. And I work in show business, so that¡¯s saying something.¡± ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll be the judge. Play me a song,¡± Ling said. ¡°Heaven help me,¡± Henry said on a sigh. He played one of his numbers for Ling, a fun little ditty that quite a few of the chorines liked dancing to after hours. ¡°Well? Did you like it?¡± he asked. Ling shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s all right. Sounds like every other song.¡± ¡°Ouch,¡± Henry said. ¡°You asked.¡± ¡°It just so happens they¡¯re gonna put a song of mine in the Follies.¡± ¡°Then why do you care what I think?¡± Ling asked. ¡°Because¡­¡± Henry started. It wasn¡¯t really about Ling. There was something about the song that didn¡¯t feel right to him, but he couldn¡¯t tell what it was anymore. He¡¯d been trying for so long to make other people happy with his music that he¡¯d lost his internal compass. ¡°Here¡¯s one for you. Just wrote it,¡± Henry said. He broke into a big ragtime number. ¡°I¡¯ve got a yeaahn to walk with Miss Chan¡ª¡± ¡°Awful.¡± ¡°Again and agaaain, round the gleaahnn, at half past teaahn¡ª¡± ¡°Corny and awful.¡± ¡°See you theaahn! If you¡¯ve a keaahn! Dear! Miss! Chaaaannnnnn!¡± The lights flickered wildly for a moment. From somewhere came a strange, gurgling, high-pitched whine, like a distant swarm of cicadas. Henry jumped up from the piano. ¡°I told you that song was bad,¡± Ling said, her heart beating wildly. But then the train¡¯s lamp glowed in the tunnel. It lit up the station as the train came to a stop. The doors opened, and Henry and Ling raced inside. Wai-Mae was waiting for them in the forest. Seeing Ling, she broke into a grin. ¡°You¡¯ve come back! I knew you would!¡± ¡°Wai-Mae, this is Henry, the other dream walker I told you about,¡± Ling said, nodding to Henry. ¡°Henry, this is Wai-Mae.¡± Henry bowed courteously. ¡°Pleased to meet you, Miss Wai-Mae.¡± ¡°He is very handsome, Ling. He would make a nice husband,¡± Wai-Mae said in a whisper that was not a whisper at all. Ling¡¯s face went hot. Henry cleared his throat and said, with a formal bow, ¡°Well, if you ladies will kindly excuse me, I¡¯m off to meet a friend. I wish you sweet dreams.¡± He turned and walked down the path until he disappeared into the fog. Page 90 ¡°I have a surprise for you,¡± Wai-Mae announced. ¡°I hate surprises,¡± Ling said. ¡°You will like this one.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what people always say.¡± ¡°Come, sister,¡± Wai-Mae said, and Ling stiffened as Wai-Mae linked arms with her, just like the schoolgirls who often passed by the Tea House¡¯s front windows, talking and laughing. But Ling had never been terribly girlish or giggly or affectionate. ¡°You¡¯re not much for a cuddle, are you, my girl?¡± her mother would say with a wan smile, and Ling couldn¡¯t help feeling that she was letting her mother down by being the sort of daughter who enjoyed atoms and molecules and ideas instead of hugs and hair ribbons. Her mother would probably love Wai-Mae. Wai-Mae¡¯s mouth didn¡¯t stop the entire walk. ¡°¡­ and you can be Mu Guiying, who broke the Heavenly Gate Formation. I will be the beautiful, beloved Liang Hongyu, the perfect wife of Han Shizhong, a general. She helped to lead an army against the Jurchens and was buried with the highest honor, a proper funeral befitting the Noble Lady of Yang.¡­¡± All of Wai-Mae¡¯s stories were romances. Oh, so you¡¯re one of those, Ling thought, the girls who see the world as hearts and flowers and noble sacrifice. Wai-Mae led Ling deeper into the forest, and while Wai-Mae chattered away about opera, Ling noticed that the dreamscape was even more vibrant than it had been the night before. The crude sketches of trees had been filled in with rich detail. Ling ran her palm over scalloped bark. It was rough against her hand, and she couldn¡¯t help but touch it again and again, grinning. A sprig of pine needles hung invitingly from a branch. Ling pulled and a handful of needles came away. She brought them to her nose, inhaling, then examined her fingers. No resin, no smell, she noted. ¡°We¡¯re almost there!¡± Wai-Mae chirped. ¡°Close your eyes, Little Warrior,¡± Wai-Mae insisted, and Ling did as she was told. ¡°Now. Open.¡± Ling gasped. Golden light bled through the breaks in the line of gray trees. Here and there, mutated pink blooms sprang up. Red-capped mushrooms poked their fat heads above the patchy tufts of grass that tumbled down into a verdant meadow rippling with colorful flowers. In the distance, a rolling line of purple mountains brushstroked with hints of pink rose tall behind an old-fashioned village of Chinese houses whose pitched tile roofs tilted into smiles. So much color! It was the most beautiful thing Ling had ever seen inside a dream¡ªeven more beautiful than the train station. ¡°Where are we? Whose dream is this?¡± Ling asked. ¡°It doesn¡¯t belong to anyone but us,¡± Wai-Mae said. ¡°It¡¯s our private dream world. Our kingdom.¡± ¡°But it had to come from somewhere.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Wai-Mae smiled as she tapped her forehead. ¡°From here. I made it. Just as I did the slippers.¡± ¡°All of this?¡± Ling asked. Wai-Mae nodded. Ling couldn¡¯t imagine how much time and energy it must¡¯ve taken. This was more than transmutation. This was creation. ¡°There¡¯s something magical about this place. We can make new dreams. We can make everything beautiful.¡± Wai-Mae bit her lip. ¡°Would you like to learn how?¡± ¡°Show me,¡± Ling said. ¡°Show me everything.¡± Wai-Mae marched to a puny, half-formed tree at the top of a hill. ¡°Here. Like this. Watch.¡± Wai-Mae threaded her fingers through the wispy leaves, holding tight. She closed her eyes, concentrating. The bark moved like melting candle wax, and then, with a great groaning, the trunk shot up several feet. Massive branches reached out in every direction, bursting with pinkish-white flowers. Wai-Mae fell back with a gasp. ¡°There you are,¡± she said, wiping a hand across her brow. Dogwood blossoms drifted down toward the girls. One landed in Ling¡¯s hair. She pulled it free, rubbing the velvety petal between her thumb and forefinger, feeling something primal in its core, some great electrical connection to all living things. If she¡¯d been a true scientist, she would have shouted ¡°Aha!¡± or ¡°Eureka!¡± or even ¡°Holy smokes!¡± But there were no words that she could summon to communicate the magic of the moment. ¡°Now it is your turn.¡± Wai-Mae twisted her mouth to one side, thinking. ¡°We will need places to sit for our opera. Try changing this rock into a chair.¡± It was as if Wai-Mae had asked Ling to grab the moon and put it under glass. ¡°But how?¡± ¡°Start by putting your hands on the rock.¡± Ling did as she was told. The rock was cold and dull, like clay awaiting the artist¡¯s hands. Page 91 ¡°Think only of the chair, not the rock. See it in your mind. Like a dream. Do you see it?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Ling said. ¡°What does it look like?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a red-and-gold throne fit for a queen.¡± ¡°I cannot wait to sit there,¡± Wai-Mae said, excited. ¡°Now see the chair and concentrate.¡± Ling kept her thoughts on the chair, but the harder she tried, the more it seemed to elude her. Shift, she thought, and Transform and Chair. But the rock remained a rock. Finally, Ling fell back in the grass, exhausted and angry. ¡°I can¡¯t do it.¡± ¡°Yes, you can.¡± ¡°No, I can¡¯t!¡± She pushed herself up and stalked off toward the forest. Behind her, Wai-Mae¡¯s voice took on a steely resolve. ¡°Little Warrior: You can do this. I believe you can.¡± ¡°Just because you believe something can change doesn¡¯t mean it will,¡± Ling snapped, feeling ashamed of her outburst but helpless to stop it. Wai-Mae came to her side, offering a moth-eaten dandelion. ¡°Here. Try something smaller. Turn this into a cricket.¡± Ling glanced from the dandelion to the magnificent flowering dogwood Wai-Mae had managed to create. ¡°This is hopeless,¡± she grumbled, but she took the dandelion from Wai-Mae anyway. ¡°Concentrate. You are too tight! You want too much control.¡± ¡°I do not!¡± ¡°You do too. Let it become something else. Allow the Qi to move through you like a breath. Think of the dandelion changing from the inside.¡± ¡°Atoms¡­¡± Ling murmured. Ling took a deep breath and let it out. She did this twice more, and on the third time, she felt a small fluttering at the tips of her fingers that strengthened into a stronger, buzzing current that coursed up her arm and along her neck all the way to the top of her head. Frightened, Ling dropped the dandelion. But as she watched, the dandelion fluctuated wildly between two states, weed and insect, before settling back to dandelion. ¡°I almost did it,¡± Ling said, astonished. ¡°It started to change.¡± Wai-Mae grinned. ¡°You see? Here, we are like Pangu, creating the heavens and earth, but even better, for we can make it as we wish it to be. My powers have gotten stronger each night I¡¯ve been coming here. Perhaps if you come back tomorrow night and keep coming back as I have, then your power will grow, too.¡± ¡°Can you bring physical objects into this place?¡± Ling asked, excited. ¡°Can you take something out of this dream world? Have you noticed anything interesting when the transformation occurs¡ªa smell or a temperature change? Have you experimented?¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t it enough that this world exists? That we can be everything here that we can¡¯t be when we are awake?¡± Wai-Mae asked. ¡°No,¡± Ling said. ¡°I want to know how it works.¡± ¡°I just want to be happy,¡± Wai-Mae said. Three quick surges of light shot across the sky. Another, smaller spark rippled through the treetops, robbing the leaves there of color. Ling heard that same skin-crawling whine that had frightened her back in the station. The whine devolved into a death-rattle growl, then stopped. ¡°What was that?¡± Ling asked. ¡°Birds, perhaps?¡± Wai-Mae suggested. ¡°Didn¡¯t sound like birds. Come on. I want to find out where it¡¯s coming from.¡± ¡°Wait! Where are you going, Little Warrior?¡± Wai-Mae called, scrambling after Ling as she ran through the forest, searching for the source of the light and sound. At the entrance to the tunnel, Ling stopped. The vast dark crackled with motes of staticky brightness. ¡°It¡¯s coming from there.¡± Ling took a step forward. Wai-Mae grabbed her arm. Her eyes were wide. ¡°You mustn¡¯t go in there.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°That part of the dream isn¡¯t safe.¡± ¡°What do you mean? Not safe how?¡± Ling asked. ¡°Can¡¯t you feel it?¡± Wai-Mae backed away, trembling. ¡°Ghosts.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve spoken to plenty of ghosts on my walks. There¡¯s nothing frightening about them.¡± ¡°You¡¯re wrong.¡± Wai-Mae reached the fingers of one hand toward the tunnel, as if drawn to it. ¡°I can feel this one sometimes in there. She¡­ cries.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°A broken promise. A very bad death,¡± Wai-Mae whispered, still staring into the dark. With a shudder, she turned away, hugging herself. ¡°I¡¯m frightened of that wicked place. If we do not trouble her, she won¡¯t trouble us.¡± Page 92 ¡°But what if I could help?¡± Wai-Mae shook her head vehemently. ¡°We must stay away from there. Promise me, Little Warrior. Promise you won¡¯t go near it. You must warn Henry, too.¡± One last bit of light flared like a dying firefly, and then the tunnel was still. Wai-Mae tugged gently on Ling¡¯s sleeve, drawing her away. ¡°Come, Little Warrior. Let the ghosts rest.¡± Once they were back on the path through the forest, Wai-Mae¡¯s earlier fear seemed to have gone, and she was her usual garrulous self. But Ling was preoccupied. ¡°Wai-Mae¡­¡± Ling started. ¡°Have you heard any talk on the ship about the sleeping sickness in Chinatown?¡± Wai-Mae frowned. ¡°No. Is it serious?¡± Ling nodded. ¡°People go to sleep and they can¡¯t wake up. They¡¯re dying from it.¡± Ling took a deep breath. ¡°My friend George Huang is sick from it. His sister let me take his track medal in the hope that I could find him in the dream world tonight.¡± ¡°Do you think that¡¯s wise if he¡¯s sick?¡± ¡°I had to try. Unfortunately, I didn¡¯t have any luck. Whatever dreams he¡¯s having are out of my reach. Have you had any walks lately that seemed as if the person dreaming was ill somehow?¡± ¡°No. All my dreams have been beautiful. But I will pray for your friend, George Huang.¡± Wai-Mae gave Ling a shy sideways glance. ¡°And you and I are becoming friends, too, aren¡¯t we?¡± Ling wasn¡¯t sure that you could call someone you¡¯d only met inside a dream a true friend. But Wai-Mae was on her way to New York, and for a moment, Ling imagined how fun it would be to parade past Lee Fan and Gracie with Wai-Mae, knowing that they shared an incredible secret all their own, something far beyond Gracie¡¯s and Lee Fan¡¯s limited comprehension. ¡°Yes,¡± Ling answered. ¡°I suppose we are.¡± Wai-Mae smiled. ¡°I am so happy! What would you like to do now, friend?¡± Ling took in the wide, sparkling streets of the village, the misty forest, and the purple mountains just beyond it all. It was all there waiting for her to explore, to claim, as if there were no limits. For just a little while, she wanted to be free. ¡°Let¡¯s run,¡± she said. On the path, Henry smelled gardenia and woodsmoke. He heard Gaspard barking, and that was enough to make him run the rest of the way. Splinters of summer-gold sunshine pierced the soft white flesh of the clouds above the bayou, shining down on Louis, who waved from the front porch, a fishing pole hoisted onto his shoulder, Gaspard at his feet. ¡°Henri!¡± He grinned. ¡°Hurry up! Fish are bitin¡¯!¡± The old blue rowboat bobbed on the water. Another fishing pole leaned against the side, along with a battered metal pail knotted with a length of thick rope. Henry took a seat on one side, and Louis sat opposite him, paddling them down the river. When they came to a shady spot, he and Henry cast their lines and waited. ¡°Just like old times,¡± Henry said. The rowboat rocked gently on the current as Henry told Louis about meeting Theta and their life at the Bennington and with the Ziegfeld Follies, the songs Henry was writing and trying to publish, the nightclubs and the parties. ¡°Maybe you got yourself a fancy New York fella now,¡± Louis said, keeping his eyes on the fishing pole. There had been other boys, definitely. But none of them was Louis. ¡°Louis, I want to see you,¡± Henry said. ¡°Come to New York. You¡¯d love it! I¡¯d take you to the Follies and up to Harlem to the jazz clubs. And Louis, there are places for fellows like us. Places where we can be together, where we can hold hands and dance and kiss without hiding. It isn¡¯t like Louisiana.¡± ¡°Always did want to see the big city. It true they got alligators in the sewers?¡± ¡°No.¡± Henry laughed. ¡°But the swells have got alligator bags at the parties.¡± ¡°Well, I surely would like to see that.¡± Henry¡¯s grin was short-lived. ¡°But where should I send the train ticket? If my letters didn¡¯t reach you at Celeste¡¯s, then there¡¯s no guarantee we can trust somebody to deliver it.¡± Louis rubbed his chin, thinking. ¡°Got a cousin¡ªJohnny Babineaux¡ªworks over at the post office in Lafayette Square. You can send it care o¡¯ him there.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll buy the ticket tomorrow, first thing!¡± Tears welled up in Henry¡¯s eyes. ¡°I was afraid I¡¯d never see you again.¡± ¡°Well, I guess you got to pick something else to be afraid of, then,¡± Louis said. Page 93 More than anything, Henry wanted to hold Louis. Two years was a very long time. He couldn¡¯t stand another minute of separation. He reached for Louis¡¯s hand, and this time, nothing stood between them. Louis¡¯s fingers, which Henry hadn¡¯t felt in far too long, were still wet and cold from the river. Fighting the ache in the back of his throat, Henry ran a finger across Louis¡¯s cheeks and nose, resting it against his full lips. ¡°Kiss me, cher,¡± Louis whispered. Henry leaned forward and kissed him. Louis¡¯s lips were warm and soft. Henry had been telling himself, This is not real. It¡¯s only a dream. But now he stopped telling himself that. It felt real enough. And if dreams could be like this, well, he wasn¡¯t sure he wanted to wake up. Henry kissed Louis again, harder this time, and the sky lit up with a strange sort of lightning. The tops of the trees unraveled slightly; the sun flickered like a lamp with a short. ¡°What was that?¡± Henry said, breaking away. ¡°Don¡¯t know. You¡¯re the dream man,¡± Louis said. But then Louis was pulling Henry down into the bottom of the rowboat, where they lay in each other¡¯s arms, lulled into contentment by the sun and the breeze and the gentle lapping of the river. ¡°I won¡¯t ever leave you again, Louis,¡± Henry said. When the dream walk neared its end, Henry could barely stand to wrench himself away from Louis. ¡°I¡¯ll be here every night until you¡¯re in New York,¡± he promised. Gaspard barked happily and trotted up to Henry, his tail wagging like a flyswatter, and poked his wet nose into Henry¡¯s hand. Henry rubbed at the dog¡¯s floppy ears, enjoying the familiar softness of them. Gaspard¡¯s slobbery tongue slicked Henry¡¯s cheek. ¡°Everybody wants to kiss you,¡± Louis said, laughing, and Henry¡¯s throat tightened again. It was just like Louis to dream of his dog. Gaspard tore away, sniffing ahead of them on the path. The hound tensed near a climbing wall of flowering morning glories, growling and barking at the purplish buds. ¡°Gaspard! C¡¯mon, boy! Come away from there,¡± Louis said sharply. ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡± Henry asked. ¡°I don¡¯t want him in those flowers. Don¡¯t like ¡¯em.¡± Henry thought perhaps Louis was joking, but one look at his face said he wasn¡¯t. ¡°They¡¯re just flowers,¡± Henry said. ¡°Gaspard, c¡¯mon, boy!¡± Louis whistled, and the dog came running. Louis dropped down and nuzzled his face into the dog¡¯s fur. ¡°Good boy.¡± ¡°Are you sure you¡¯re okay?¡± Henry asked. Louis replaced his frown with a smile. ¡°Fine as morning. Kiss me once for luck, cher. And twice for love. And three times means we¡¯ll meet again.¡± Henry kissed him till he lost count. In her bed, Ling groaned with pain and exhaustion. Her eyes fluttered open long enough for her to feel the terrible ache deep in her bones. She slid her hand under her pillow, her fingers just touching the cold edge of George¡¯s track medal as she fell into a deep sleep. Ling stood in Columbus Park. Clouds roiled overhead in anticipation of some storm. A heartbeat thrummed in her ears, insistent as a drum. Every post and tree she saw had the same sign: MISSING. MISSING. MISSING. George Huang pulsed in the gloom, a ghostly heartbeat. His pale skin was fissured like broken pottery glued back together, and red blisters shone on his neck. When he lifted his threadbare hand, his bones showed through like an X-ray. George spread his arms, and the scene shifted back and forth, as if they were cards being pushed and pulled quickly through a stereoscope. One minute, it was the familiar pathways, trees, and pavilion of the park; the next, the park was gone, and in its place were ominous tenements, shacks with rotting shutters, and filthy streets piled with garbage. The dream changed. Now Ling found herself in City Hall Park. George floated just above a metal grate beside a drinking fountain. He pointed to a row of buildings behind her. Ling turned back to George, and he fell like rain through the bars of the grate. She crawled onto the grate to look for him and it gave way, plunging her down and down into the darkness. She was inside the train station. The old sign was there¡ªBEACH PNEUMATIC TRANSIT COMPANY¡ªbut rot raced along the walls, the decay taking over, devouring the dream¡¯s beauty. Light trembled against the velvety dark of the tunnel like a handful of firecrackers tossed up on Chinese New Year, and in those brief flashes, Ling saw pale blots of form. Eyes. Ravenous mouths. Sharp teeth. There was an ominous insectlike chorus, growing louder. Page 94 George¡¯s glow was unsteady now, as if he were a Christmas light winking out. He moved his lips as if trying to speak. It seemed to require a tremendous effort. Each time he tried, more sores appeared on his body. Behind him, the dark crackled and crawled with faulty radiance, and the filthy hole filled with animalistic shrieks and growls and broken ends of words, a great roaring wave of terrifying sound curling up into an obliterating crest. Ling¡¯s legs shook with terror. She could not move. In a strobe of light, the veiled woman appeared, her dress dripping with blood as she walked. She was coming up behind George, and Ling wanted to warn him about the things in the dark and the woman, but she could only choke on her fear. George Huang stood his ground even as the sores multiplied, spreading across his chest and up his neck, burning his skin down to the bone in spots. He fought the pain. And just before the crawling, hungry wave reached him, George choked out his words at last: ¡°Ling Chan¡ªWake. Up.¡± Ling woke in her bed. Desperately, she swallowed down air. On the other side of her window, the winter moon was full and bright. The only sound she heard now was her pulse thumping wildly in her head. She was safe. She was fine. It had just been a bad dream. Only when Ling settled back against the pillow did she realize that she clutched George¡¯s prized track medal. The crowded bus was standing room only as it lurched down Fifth Avenue across steaming manhole covers, dodging New Yorkers bundled up against the stiff winter wind, but Henry was jolly. He gripped the hand loop and whistled ¡°Rivi¨¨re Rouge¡± to the amusement of two young girls giggling in the seats below him, and to the annoyance of the driver, who barked that he could either whistle or walk, his choice. ¡°I can hum it, if you¡¯d prefer,¡± Henry answered merrily. ¡°Out!¡± the driver said, stopping the bus ten blocks shy of Henry¡¯s destination. ¡°You¡¯ll be sorry when I¡¯m famous,¡± Henry said. He waved to the still-giggling girls at the window and carried on. Nothing could dampen his good mood, not even the long wait for the ticket agent at Grand Central Terminal. As he watched the hustle and bustle around him, Henry tried to imagine Louis¡¯s expression as he stood for the first time beside the lighted ball of the Grand Central clock, surrounded by more people than he had ever seen on the riverboats. Louis was finally coming to New York. They could be together. That thought buoyed Henry further as he approached the ticket agent¡¯s window. ¡°I need one ticket from New Orleans, Louisiana, to Grand Central Terminal, please,¡± Henry said. ¡°You want the New York and New Orleans Limited,¡± the ticket agent said. ¡°N¡¯awlins Lim¡¯ted, speed my baby down the track, my love won¡¯t wait till he¡­ she gets back,¡± Henry sang softly, making up the words on the spot. ¡°You want a ticket or a booking agent, kid?¡± Henry handed over the collection of crumpled bills he¡¯d taken from Theta¡¯s coffee-can piano fund. She¡¯d be pretty sore when she found out he¡¯d dipped into it. But he¡¯d promised Louis a ticket, and besides, Theta would want him to be happy. She¡¯d understand. The piano fund could be rebuilt in a few months¡¯ time, and all would be forgiven. ¡°You need a return ticket?¡± the agent asked. Henry smiled. ¡°Not if I¡¯m lucky.¡± At the post office, Henry packed the train ticket, his letter, and a photograph of him in his best suit standing arm in arm with Theta outside the New Amsterdam Theatre into an envelope. His stomach gave a small flip as the postal clerk stamped the words Par Avion on the front of the envelope, inking Henry¡¯s hope into it. He couldn¡¯t wait until tonight, when he could see Louis again and tell him the good news. Still whistling ¡°Rivi¨¨re Rouge,¡± Henry headed home, happier than he¡¯d been in ages. He had a few hours left before Theta¡¯s press conference and the surprise the two of them had cooked up. But on his way through the Bennington lobby, Adelaide Proctor came toward him, calling his name somewhat urgently, and his stomach sank. ¡°Afternoon, Miss Proctor,¡± Henry said, pressing the elevator button. ¡°Please do forgive me. I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m in an awful rush¡ª¡± ¡°Oh, but Mr. DuBois, I¡¯ve been having the most dreadful dreams about you.¡± ¡°I¡¯m very sorry to hear it, Miss Proctor. But as you can see, I¡¯m just fine.¡± ¡°No. No, I don¡¯t believe you are, young man. Don¡¯t you hear the crying? Oh, do be careful, Mr. DuBois!¡± ¡°Adelaide!¡± Miss Lillian called from the other side of the lobby. ¡°We¡¯ll be late!¡± Page 95 The elevator arrived and Henry leaped on, eager to make his escape. ¡°Please don¡¯t worry on my account, Miss Proctor. Good day to you!¡± he said, his thoughts already on his music and Louis and dreams that were all good. ¡°Addie!¡± Miss Lillian shouted again, impatient. But Adelaide Proctor still stood in the lobby looking very afraid. And as the elevator gate closed, she called to Henry one last time: ¡°Mr. DuBois: Anthony Orange Cross. Beware, beware, Paradise Square.¡± A chill prickled along Henry¡¯s neck as the elevator carried him up. Henry got off the elevator with a feeling of unease. How did Adelaide Proctor know about Paradise Square and Anthony Orange Cross? He didn¡¯t recall ever walking in her dreams or seeing her in one of his. When he had more time, he¡¯d stop in and ask. Henry stretched, feeling the tightness in his muscles. They ached a bit, like he¡¯d been exercising all night. In a way, he supposed he had been. Hadn¡¯t he and Louis gone fishing? But it was strange to feel it today in his body. In fact, he was exhausted. And no sooner had Henry sprawled into his favorite chair than his eyelids fluttered closed and he was fast asleep. The dream started in his house back in New Orleans. Henry¡¯s father sat at a long table. He wore the powdered wig of a Puritan judge. ¡°You will never see that boy again,¡± his father said. Henry turned and ran through the cemetery, which was carpeted in morning glories. His mother¡¯s porous saints moved their stone lips in unison: ¡°They never should¡¯ve done it.¡± The morning glories climbed up Henry¡¯s legs, the vines tightening around his muscles. ¡°Let me go!¡± Henry screamed. All at once, he found himself in a squalid room filled with opium smoke where half-dressed men lay about with glassy-eyed prostitutes. Henry heard the jangling tinkle of an old music box. He followed the sound around the corner and saw the veiled woman sitting on a pallet, turning the crank and crying very softly. She was small and delicate and young, not much older than Henry was. He could feel her anguish, and he wished he could take her out of this terrible place. He drew closer. ¡°Miss,¡± Henry suggested, ¡°why don¡¯t you have a different dream? A happy dream?¡± The woman stopped crying. Through the netting, her eyes were dark and hard. ¡°All my dreams are dead,¡± she growled. ¡°You killed them!¡± Serpent-quick, she plunged a dagger into Henry¡¯s chest. Henry woke with a start, breathing heavily, one hand over his heart. ¡°I¡¯m okay. Everything¡¯s jake,¡± he said, letting out a long exhale. He glanced at his watch, saw that it was nearly three, and yelped. ¡°Applesauce!¡± Henry hissed, reaching for his music and his coat, pulling up his suspenders as he went. ¡°Theta¡¯s gonna murder me.¡± Theta was standing in the wings pacing when Henry blew into the theater so fast he nearly toppled over. ¡°Sorry, sorry!¡± he said, kissing her cheek. Theta¡¯s dark eyes flashed. ¡°Cutting it a little close, weren¡¯t ya, Hen?¡± ¡°But I made it,¡± Henry said. ¡°You look like a million bucks.¡± ¡°Yeah, but do I look like Russian nobility?¡± ¡°I¡¯d buy it.¡± ¡°Only if I can sell it.¡± ¡°You¡¯ll be the berries, Theta. You always are.¡± Theta parted the curtain, looking out at the assorted members of the press and the photographer setting up his camera in the aisle, and spied Herbert Allen glad-handing the reporters. His voice drifted up and backstage: ¡°Yes, I¡¯ve written a swell new song for Miss Knight to sing today.¡­¡± Henry peeked over Theta¡¯s shoulder and scowled. ¡°That talentless bastard. Shouldn¡¯t he be off having another bad suit made?¡± ¡°He¡¯s not gonna be too happy about what we¡¯re doing.¡± ¡°Huh. Suddenly I¡¯m filled with pep!¡± Henry joked, but Theta still looked nervous. He held her hand. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. We¡¯re on our way.¡± ¡°Promise?¡± ¡°Promise. Come on. Now, let us to go and razzle-dazzle ze press-ski.¡± Theta¡¯s eyebrows shot up. ¡°Good thing you¡¯re not trying to pass yourself off as Russian royalty.¡± ¡°As we say in my country, I am wounded.¡± Theta squeezed Henry¡¯s hands for luck. ¡°Here goes nothin¡¯.¡± The reporters quieted as Theta swept onto the stage looking every bit the star in a borrowed chinchilla coat, a long strand of knotted pearls swaying against her green silk dress as she sauntered toward the footlights. Page 96 ¡°Holy mackerel,¡± one of the men muttered, captivated. Florenz Ziegfeld beamed. ¡°Gentlemen, may I present the Ziegfeld Follies¡¯ newest star, Miss Theta Knight!¡± Mr. Ziegfeld said, taking Theta¡¯s hand and helping her down the steps and into a front-row seat. ¡°Sorry I¡¯m late. I had to wait for my stockings to dry,¡± Theta purred and glanced over at Henry. Don¡¯t worry, he mouthed from his seat at the piano. A reporter tipped his hat. ¡°Miss Knight?¡± ¡°That¡¯s my name,¡± Theta said, and even that was a lie. ¡°What do you remember about your life in Russia?¡± ¡°It was cold,¡± Theta answered. She dangled her unlit cigarette until a reporter offered a match, and Theta looked up at him with her bedroom eyes. ¡°Even our sables wore sables.¡± The reporters laughed, and Theta relaxed a little. If you kept them entertained, they didn¡¯t get too personal. They asked their questions, and Theta answered each one, making it up as she went along. It seemed to Theta that her entire life had been improvised and reinvented to fit whatever story she needed in order to survive. She knew about lying by omission¡ªhow you could leave out parts of yourself to be filled in by other people who only saw in you what worked for their own reinvented lives. Theta rarely corrected them. What was the point? Most of the stars in Hollywood had phony names given to them by agents and studio heads, and backgrounds invented out of thin air and a desire to sell movie tickets. That was part of the dream factory. Theta stole another glance at Henry. At the piano, he yawned, barely awake. Shadows showed under his eyes, and his face was much paler than usual. Maybe he didn¡¯t see it, but Theta did. ¡°Miss Knight?¡± a reporter prompted her. ¡°Huh?¡± Theta said. ¡°I mean¡±¡ªshe put the husky purr back into her voice, a woman of mystery¡ª¡°yes?¡± ¡°Say something in Russian,¡± a reporter cajoled. ¡°Twenty-three skidoo-ski,¡± Theta deadpanned. ¡°What part of Russia is that from?¡± ¡°The swell part.¡± ¡°Now, boys, go easy. Miss Knight was only a little girl when they smuggled her out of a war-torn country in the dead of night, to be delivered to this great country by loyal servants and raised in an orphanage by kindly nuns,¡± Mr. Ziegfeld said. ¡°It was quite traumatic! The poor girl has amnesia and doesn¡¯t remember much at all. The doctors don¡¯t expect that she ever will.¡± ¡°That true, Miss Knight?¡± Theta blew a plume of smoke in the reporter¡¯s direction, enjoying his cough. ¡°If Mr. Ziegfeld says it¡¯s true, then it¡¯s true.¡± She couldn¡¯t wait for this dog and pony show to be over so she could sing and dance. That¡¯s the act she was good at, not this one. ¡°Hey, honey, are you spooked to perform here after what happened to Daisy Goodwin? Murdered right up there on that stage!¡± Theta paled. If she told them about that night and the secret power that had helped her to escape from Naughty John, the newspaper boys would have a story to wipe Flo¡¯s ¡°Russian princess¡± invention right off the page. ¡°I don¡¯t spook easy,¡± Theta said, letting her answer out on a plume of cigarette smoke. ¡°If I did, I wouldn¡¯t live in Manhattan.¡± ¡°You worried about this sleeping sickness?¡± ¡°Who sleeps? I¡¯m a Follies girl.¡± ¡°Say, Theta, honey¡ªyou wanna give ¡¯em a little song and dance?¡± Wally nudged. ¡°It¡¯s what I live for.¡± Theta dropped her coat on the chair and walked past Henry. ¡°Look alive,¡± she whispered. ¡°We¡¯re on.¡± Theta¡¯s heart beat fast. She avoided looking at Wally. ¡°This is a brand-new song¡­¡± Theta started. In his seat, Herbert Allen preened like a man who expected the world to go his way. ¡°¡­ written by the talented Henry DuBois the Fourth.¡± Theta gestured toward Henry. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Herbie¡¯s face shift from smug to shocked. ¡°It¡¯s called ¡®Slumberland.¡¯ Hit it, Hen!¡± When Theta finished selling Henry¡¯s new song for all she was worth, the news hawks applauded. ¡°Not bad,¡± one of the reporters mused. ¡°Different.¡± ¡°Yeah. A real surprise,¡± Herbie said. There was murder in his eyes. ¡°Gentlemen, I give you the Follies¡¯ newest sensation, Miss Theta Knight,¡± Mr. Ziegfeld crowed. ¡°And her piano player, Henry DuBois the Fourth,¡± Henry mumbled to himself. ¡°Thank you, thank you. Hold your applause, folks.¡± Page 97 ¡°Terrific, Miss Knight. Simply terrific,¡± a smiling reporter said. ¡°They¡¯re going to love this story in Peoria. Why, you¡¯ll be famous everywhere¡ªfrom New York to Hollywood, Florida to Kansas.¡± ¡°Kansas?¡± Theta whispered. ¡°Yeah. Big state in the middle of the country. Fulla corn, Republicans, and Bible salesmen, and not much else?¡± Herbie put his arm around Theta and gave her a squeeze. ¡°Isn¡¯t she terrific? Actually, I¡¯m writing new songs for this little lady myself. A whole show¡¯s worth. She¡¯s my muse!¡± ¡°That so? Is this your beau, Miss Knight?¡± The gossip columnist winked. ¡°No,¡± Theta said, gently shaking Herbie¡¯s hand free. ¡°Well, you must have somebody¡ªbeautiful girl like you.¡± The skin of Theta¡¯s palms crawled with heat like a mess of fire ants. Calm, she told herself. Keep calm. ¡°Come on, give us a little juice for the columns,¡± the columnist persisted. ¡°Uh¡­ sure. I got a fella.¡± The reporters¡¯ pencils were ready to take it all down. ¡°Well, who is he?¡± The heat reached her wrists. ¡°Uncle Sam,¡± Theta shot back. ¡°I¡¯m a real patriot. ¡¯Scuse me, I gotta powder my nose.¡± Quickly, Theta headed for the wings. ¡°She¡¯s something,¡± a reporter said. ¡°She sure is,¡± Herbie said, looking at Theta as if she were a house he¡¯d bought and was just waiting to move into. Theta ran into the washroom and yanked off her gloves. Her hands were the color of hot coals. She shoved them under the cold tap, biting her lip as the curls of steam rose up and fogged the mirror. When they felt cool again, she dried her hands, examining them. They looked perfectly normal. But inside her gloves were faint scorch marks. After the press filed out, Henry and Theta went out the stage door into the alley so Theta could get some air. Henry gave her a big hug. ¡°We did it!¡± ¡°Yeah, we sure did.¡± ¡°If I could only watch one movie for the rest of my life, it would be the look on Herbie Allen¡¯s face when you started singing my song.¡± ¡°That was something, all right.¡± ¡°Hey, what¡¯s the matter? They loved you in there, Czarina Thetakovich!¡± ¡°Did you hear that reporter, Hen? Kansas!¡± Theta said, breaking away and lighting up a cigarette. ¡°What if somebody reads that story and they recognize me? What if they question me about the fire? About Roy?¡± ¡°They won¡¯t. You¡¯re Theta Knight, not Betty Sue Bowers. You don¡¯t even look the same. You¡¯re safe,¡± Henry said, kissing her forehead. ¡°Okay?¡± ¡°Okay,¡± Theta said, feeling a temporary safety with her best friend. ¡°I¡¯ve got some news of my own.¡± Henry grinned wide. ¡°Louis is coming to New York. I sent him the train ticket in the mail today.¡± ¡°Gee. That¡¯s great, Hen. So you got through to that noggin of his after all. How¡¯d you do it? Did you tell him our telephone exchange over and over till he finally woke up and called it?¡± Henry shoved his hands in his pockets and avoided Theta¡¯s gaze. ¡°Not exactly.¡± ¡°So how did you¡­ oh, Hen.¡± Theta sagged against the side of the theater. ¡°Making plans in a dream? That¡¯s no more real than¡­ than me being Russian royalty.¡± ¡°I thought you¡¯d be happy for me,¡± Henry said, hurt. ¡°I am, Hen. But I¡¯m worried about you. It¡¯s like you live more inside that dream world than you do the regular world these days. You¡¯re skinny and beat, and you¡¯re miles away even when¡­¡± Theta stopped suddenly. Her eyes narrowed. ¡°Hen, where¡¯d you get the kale for the train ticket?¡± Henry kept his eyes on the ground. ¡°I¡¯ll pay it back.¡± ¡°Son of a bitch, Henry!¡± Theta barked. A couple passing by on Forty-second Street gave her a disapproving glare. ¡°Breeze, Mrs. Grundy! This ain¡¯t your business,¡± she growled and they hurried on. ¡°You made that fund for me because you wanted me to be happy. Having Louis in New York will make me happy, Theta.¡± Henry had been excited to share the news with Theta. Now it felt like a mistake. ¡°Hen, that piano fund is our piano fund. It¡¯s for our future. You and me. A team. At least I always figured it that way.¡± ¡°I thought you of all people would understand.¡± ¡°That ain¡¯t fair, Hen. You know I¡¯m on your side. Always.¡± Page 98 ¡°Yeah. Sure,¡± Henry said, and he and Theta watched the people walking past on Forty-second Street rendered momentarily insubstantial as they stepped through the steam rising from the city¡¯s manholes. In the alley, he and Theta stood side by side, but they¡¯d never been farther apart. Between his new role as Evie¡¯s pretend fianc¨¦ and putting in more hours at the museum now that Will was gone, Sam had found little time to follow up on his Project Buffalo leads. Finally, he managed to slip away and down to his old neighborhood on the Lower East Side. Many businesses were closed due to the sleeping sickness, and Sam had no luck on Orchard Street until a pickle vendor informed him that the Rosenthals had made good and moved to the Bronx. Now Sam and Evie waited outside the sprawling apartment building on the Grand Concourse, an aspirational Tudor made for Jews who wanted to reinvent themselves once they¡¯d left the crowded tenements of Orchard and Hester Streets¡ªthose tenements themselves a remove from the shtetls and ghettos of Russia, Poland, Romania, and Hungary. Every building had its ghosts, it seemed. ¡°I don¡¯t see why I had to come,¡± Evie groused. Sam put his fingers to his cheeks, making dimples. ¡°Because you¡¯re my darling fianc¨¦e. Everybody loves the Sweetheart Seer!¡± he said sarcastically. ¡°Oh, one more thing¡ªif she asks, you¡¯re converting to Judaism.¡± ¡°What? Sam!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry. Everything¡¯s jake, Baby Vamp. Just follow my lead.¡± ¡°If that¡¯s supposed to be reassuring, it¡¯s not,¡± Evie grumbled. They took the stairs, dodging a handful of merry children running amok, and knocked at Mrs. Rosenthal¡¯s door. Anna Rosenthal was rounder and older than the young woman Evie had seen in her vision. She wore glasses now, and a few threads of gray showed in her dulled red hair, but it was unmistakably the same woman. Mrs. Rosenthal uttered a small cry before crushing Sam into a fierce hug. She stood back, shaking her head affectionately as she assessed him. ¡°Sergei!¡± She spoke to Sam in Russian, and he answered in kind, faltering a little. ¡°Sorry, Mrs. Rosenthal, my Russian¡¯s a little rusty these days.¡± ¡°Everyone forgets,¡± she said, and Sam couldn¡¯t tell if it was said with sadness or gratitude. Evie cleared her throat. ¡°And this,¡± Sam said, hugging her, ¡°is the apple of my eye, my lovely bride-to-be, Evie O¡¯Neill.¡± ¡°Charmed,¡± Evie said, curtsying. ¡°Yes, I read all about it in the papers! But I had no idea the famous Sam Lloyd was our Sergei Lubovitch until you telephoned and told me. But, please¡ªcome in, come in!¡± Mrs. Rosenthal welcomed them into a parlor whose every stick of furniture wore a doily yarmulke. From the kitchen, she brought out a plate of mandelbrodt and a pot of coffee. ¡°Sergei Lubovitch!¡± Mrs. Rosenthal exclaimed, pressing her fingers to her lips. ¡°I haven¡¯t seen you since you were a baby. And here you are, grown. And so handsome.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t look a day older, Mrs. Rosenthal. Why, I¡¯d know you anywhere,¡± Sam said. The charm didn¡¯t fail to work on Mrs. Rosenthal, who laughed and waved away the compliment. ¡°Tell me of your mother and father.¡± ¡°My father runs a fur shop in Chicago. My mother, I¡¯m sorry to say, died many years ago.¡± Mrs. Rosenthal put a hand to her chest and bowed her head. ¡°Such terrible news. Poor Miriam. I remember on the ship coming over, she was so sick with you.¡± Sam had heard this story quite a few times from his parents. The ¡°We Left Everything Behind and Braved a Treacherous Voyage to a New World in Order to Give You the Best Possible Life¡± story. Usually it was leverage to get him to do whatever they needed¡ªstudy the Torah or help his father in the store. He wanted to ask Mrs. Rosenthal about the letter, but he couldn¡¯t rush into this and insult her or she¡¯d know this was more than a social call, so he sipped his coffee and waited for an opening. ¡°The ferries brought us to Ellis Island, and when we see the Statue of Liberty, like an angel in the harbor, we are crying. From joy. From relief. Hope. We had nothing.¡± Mrs. Rosenthal¡¯s voice quavered with emotion. ¡°This country took us in.¡± ¡°God bless America,¡± Sam said. He needed to cut off Anna Rosenthal before she devolved into further sentimentality and, possibly, folk singing, so he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the mysterious envelope. ¡°Mrs. Rosenthal, I came across something of my mother¡¯s that had me scratching my head, and I wondered if you might know anything about it. It¡¯s from someone named Rotke Wasserman.¡± Page 99 Mrs. Rosenthal squinted at the writing on the envelope as Sam handed it over. ¡°Yes, yes, I remember. It came after your mother and father were gone. The Wasserman woman sometimes would come to work with Miriam. Because of her gift,¡± Mrs. Rosenthal said matter-of-factly and sipped her coffee. ¡°Her gift. You mean as a nurse?¡± Sam asked, confused. ¡°Nurse.¡± Mrs. Rosenthal made a tsk sound, as if the word was an insult. ¡°A nurse, yes. In this country. But before? She was the best fortune-teller in Ukraine. People come from everywhere to ask about marriages, babies, if they should open this business or sell that cow. Even the Mad Monk himself, Rasputin¡±¡ªMrs. Rosenthal spat, uttering a curse in Russian¡ª¡°came to see the great Miriam Lubovitch.¡± ¡°I thought my mother was a nurse,¡± was all Sam could seem to say. ¡°On our papers, we had to write occupation. Most write wife, mother, cook, seamstress, maybe. Like that. Your mother puts fortune-teller.¡± Mrs. Rosenthal shook her head. ¡°We¡¯re afraid they won¡¯t like it. It is not a country for superstition. But that woman, Miss Wasserman, speaks Russian. She says, Miriam, will you take a test for me¡ª¡± ¡°What kind of test?¡± Evie interrupted. Mrs. Rosenthal shrugged. ¡°How should I know? I only know she must do well, because they let us all in. They say, don¡¯t worry, don¡¯t worry, you are safe here, and they give her something to feel better. Water. Rest. Meat and vitamins for strength. Soon, she is better. And that is why you are here now, Sergei. An American. For a while, your mother, father, and I settled with cousins of mine on Orchard Street before your parents took their own rooms on Hester. Every now and then, Miss Wasserman would come to see you and your mother.¡± ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡± Sam asked. Again, the woman shrugged. ¡°To see how you were. She would play games with you. She liked you. Who wouldn¡¯t?¡± ¡°The letter,¡± Sam said, drawing her attention back to the yellowed envelope. ¡°You didn¡¯t send it on to them in Chicago?¡± ¡°I should know where they went? For ten years, I hear nothing. I know nothing, till you telephoned,¡± Mrs. Rosenthal said, hurt creeping into her tone. Sam couldn¡¯t imagine why his parents would¡¯ve been so rude. It wasn¡¯t like them at all. ¡°It was those men, I think,¡± Mrs. Rosenthal said suddenly. ¡°They came and frightened your mother. Your parents were gone the next day, like ghosts.¡± ¡°What men?¡± ¡°Some men in dark suits came to see your mother. I walked them up to your apartment.¡± ¡°Who were they?¡± Sam asked. His tapped his fingers frantically. Evie put her hand over his to stop him. Mrs. Rosenthal shook her head. ¡°They say immigration, which makes us nervous. Some anarchists are Jews. What if they think we are anarchists and throw us out of the country? The men, they want me to go away, but your mother says, ¡®Anna must stay.¡¯ She says my English is better¡ªa lie. I could see she was afraid. They ask her questions: Was she getting along all right? How was the neighborhood? Any trouble to report? Fine, fine, all fine, she told them. It was all fine until they ask about you.¡± ¡°Me?¡± ¡°Sam?¡± Evie said at the same time. Mrs. Rosenthal nodded. ¡°How you were, if you were healthy, did you take after your father or were you more like your mother? Were you special?¡± She made a face. ¡°This is a thing you ask a mother? Is her son special? I think your mother will talk for a week about how special you are. But no.¡± Mrs. Rosenthal worried her napkin in her lap. ¡°This, maybe, I shouldn¡¯t say.¡± Sam had given up on charming Anna Rosenthal. ¡°Please, Mrs. Rosenthal,¡± he pleaded. ¡°I need to know what happened.¡± After a deep, weary breath, Mrs. Rosenthal continued. ¡°Your mother tells the men, ¡®That little pisher weakling? He is sick and small, a disappointment. Not like me at all.¡¯¡± Mrs. Rosenthal shook her head. ¡°I was shocked. How could she say such a thing? You were her prince, Sergei. You brought her such naches. This was not the Miriam I knew, I can tell you.¡± From what Sam remembered of his childhood, his mother had always doted on him, taken his side. Protected him. ¡°The next day, your mother and father left Hester Street for good without so much as a good-bye to anyone¡ªonly two weeks before my wedding! I try not to take it personally, but¡­¡± Mrs. Rosenthal trailed off, sipped her coffee. She handed the envelope over to Sam. ¡°When that letter came¡­ psssht, I was angry. I send it back.¡± Page 100 ¡°But you don¡¯t know what the letter said?¡± ¡°Anna Rosenthal does not snoop in private papers. But there is something. Miriam asked me to keep it. Come.¡± From a corner closet, Mrs. Rosenthal took a box down from the shelf. ¡°Just after the men visited, your mother gives something to me. ¡®Anna,¡¯ she tells me, ¡®hide this in your house. I will come later for it.¡¯ But she never did.¡± Mrs. Rosenthal opened the box and retrieved a cookie tin. ¡°It¡¯s right that you should have this now.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t thank you enough, Mrs. Rosenthal,¡± Sam said, taking the tin. It was all he could do not to rip off the lid right there. ¡°Gosh, would ya look at the time? Golly, I wish we could stay longer, Mrs. Rosenthal, but we¡¯ve got to get Lamb Chop here back to the radio station for her show.¡± ¡°But we¡¯ll send you an invitation to the wedding,¡± Evie said cheerily as Sam edged her toward the door. ¡°You¡¯ll come for Shabbos,¡± Mrs. Rosenthal called after them. ¡°We¡¯ll Shabbos as much as possible,¡± Evie said as Sam practically dragged her from the apartment. ¡°How was I supposed to know Shabbos is the Jewish Sabbath?¡± Evie said as she and Sam boarded the nearly empty El back to Manhattan. ¡°And it couldn¡¯t hurt to invite her to a wedding that¡¯ll never happen. Sam, is everything jake? You look like you just got off a roller coaster.¡± ¡°Evie, I didn¡¯t know any of that about my mother,¡± Sam said as he watched the Bronx roll past the train¡¯s windows. Evie shook the tin gently. ¡°I¡¯m guessing it¡¯s not cookies.¡± Evie slid closer to Sam, who pried off the lid. Inside were two items: a file and an old photograph of a woman wearing a long plaid dress and holding a little boy¡¯s hand. ¡°That¡¯s my mother,¡± Sam said, staring at the sweet photo. ¡°And that¡¯s me.¡± Evie giggled. ¡°What¡¯s so funny?¡± Sam asked. ¡°You in short pants. And those are some chubby cheeks!¡± ¡°That¡¯s enough of that,¡± Sam said, yanking the photograph away. He lifted the file, which was just a typed sheet. ¡°Looks like a report.¡± U.S. Department of Paranormal Office B-130 New York, New York Date: September 8, 1908 Name: Miriam Lubovitch Race: Jewish Age: 20 Country of Origin: Ukraine Address: 122 Hester Street, New York, New York. Subject has passed all tests. In good health. Recommended candidate: Project Buffalo. Across the bottom, the page was stamped: APPROVED. Sam¡¯s insides buzzed. ¡°You know what I¡¯m gonna ask, don¡¯t you?¡± Evie nodded. ¡°A deal¡¯s a deal.¡± ¡°You know, at times like these, I¡¯d consider making an honest woman of you, future Mrs. Lloyd.¡± ¡°I said I¡¯d read it. There¡¯s no need to torture me, Sam.¡± Evie took the file between her palms and pressed down. But no matter how hard she tried, nothing flared. ¡°Gee, I¡¯m sorry, Sam. I can¡¯t get a thing from this report. Honest, I can¡¯t,¡± she said, feeling rather put out about it. For her to decide not to read an object was one thing. It was entirely another for a read to feel beyond her capabilities. ¡°Well, thanks for trying, anyway,¡± Sam said. Evie examined the file again. ¡°Office B-130. But there¡¯s no address. That office could be anywhere.¡± ¡°I know.¡± Sam sighed. ¡°Every time we get one answer it leaves us with twelve new questions.¡± ¡°What about your creepy man?¡± ¡°Do you mean my contact?¡± Evie waved his words away. ¡°Contact, creepy man¡­¡± ¡°Last time I saw him, he told me he thought he was being watched.¡± ¡°By whom? Gangsters?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t know. He just told me to stay away. But this is too important. I gotta try.¡± ¡°Sam, did you ever think of asking a reporter to look into this story?¡± ¡°Are you crackers? Bring one of those shiny-suit-wearing newshounds into this?¡± ¡°But why not? Put one of those dogs on the scent! They¡¯ll find the goods soon enough.¡± ¡°Nothing doing. I work alone. With occasional company,¡± he acknowledged. ¡°But no reporters. Got it?¡± Evie put her hands up. ¡°Forget I mentioned it. Oh,¡± she said, wincing. ¡°What a skull-banger.¡± She rested her throbbing head against the train window as the El rattled through city canyons. The last rays of sunlight brightened rooftops and glinted off office windows, reluctant to say good-bye. Down below, the afternoon gloom bathed the bustling city streets in deepening shadows of loneliness. Sam laced his fingers through Evie¡¯s and held fast. It was a small gesture, but Evie felt it everywhere at once.