The Cure for Dreaming(2)
A cloud of white smoke crept across the floorboards from both sides of the stage. Genevieve’s playing intensified, and the mist grew and billowed into a wall of burning orange that blurred the girl from view. The air tasted like my parlor whenever Father lit the fire in the hearth but forgot to open the flue. Those in the first few rows coughed into their gloves. The rising music warned that something was about to happen—something horrifying. The stage was about to erupt in flames. We’d all burn up on Halloween night!
“Are you all right?” whispered Frannie.
“Yes.” I nodded with a laugh. “It’s just better than I imagined.”
The song reached its climax, racing, rising, climbing, higher and higher.
Smoke stung my nose.
I braced myself for fire.
But, no—instead, a young man stepped out of the clouds onto the apron, and the audience drew a collective gasp. A woman in the front row actually screamed. I gripped the armrests with all my might, for the boy looked like the devil—I swear, he resembled Lucifer himself with his black suit and crimson vest and his face shining red in the pumpkins’ lights.
“Good evening, mesdames et messieurs,” said the boy in an accent that sounded French and dangerous and deliciously sophisticated. “I am Monsieur Reverie.” He gave a deep bow with his hand pressed flat against his stomach.
Silence greeted him. Our brains took several moments to absorb the fact that this was our entertainer for the night—Henri Reverie—not the ruler of hell. Weak applause trickled across the theater, but it gained speed and volume as everyone roused from their stupors. Relieved laughter boomed through the crowd. I settled back in my seat, eased my viselike grip upon the armrests, and clapped along with everyone else.
“Merci. Thank you.” The young man turned toward the reemerging pipe organ and stretched his arm toward the girl at the bench. “Isn’t my sister astounding? Please, won’t you give a warm round of applause for Mademoiselle Genevieve Reverie.”
We all applauded Genevieve’s performance, which far surpassed the uninspiring efforts of an amateur organist like myself. Genevieve panted as if she might collapse, and her golden ringlets uncoiled and wilted across her shoulders like limp strands of seaweed. Oh, how I envied her passion.
The applause dissipated, as well as the smoke, and the theater collectively exhaled a calming breath. The stage settled back to normal. Henri Reverie’s skin faded to a less-diabolical shade without the orange smoke rising around him, and his short hair, a bit mussed on top and parted on the right, revealed itself as dark blond, a tad lighter than the hue of fresh honey. He was attractive, I suppose, with red lips and a rosy blush of health in his cheeks.
He stepped closer to us and spoke again. “Merci. Thank you for coming here today. My name is Henri”—he pronounced his name On-ree —“Reverie, and I have been studying the arts of mesmerism and hypnotism with my uncle ever since I was twelve. I use a combination of techniques from the great masters, including animal magnetism, deep relaxation, and the remarkable power of suggestion.”
Genevieve played a hushed rendition of “Beautiful Dreamer.”
“In a moment”—Henri strolled across the stage, his hard soles clicking against floorboards—“I am going to invite my first volunteer to come onto the stage with me.” He placed his hands behind his back, which pulled his coat farther open, allowing the crimson silk of his vest to wink at us in the footlights. “There is no need to be afraid of what you will encounter with me. I am going to temporarily take you away from your worries. You will submerge yourself in a depth of relaxation such as you have never experienced before, and you will awake feeling better than you have felt in your entire life. All your troubles will dissolve into nothingness the moment you let me guide you into the beautiful world of hypnosis.”
Despite my previous fear that Henri Reverie was the devil, his words melted in my ears like spun sugar. I needed a temporary escape from life. Yet I wasn’t brave enough to say so.
“Is there a young lady in the audience who would like to be my first volunteer?”
A dozen hands flew into the air. And then at least two dozen more. Silhouettes squirmed and arms flailed throughout the darkened audience.
“Let me see—how should I choose?” Henri grinned and scratched his smooth chin. “Tell me, is anyone here tonight for a special occasion? A birthday, perhaps?”
Next to Frannie, Kate shot her hand into the air and shouted, “My good friend over here is celebrating a birthday.”
Henri Reverie pivoted our way. Fear stabbed at my heart.
Kate stood and urged me to my feet by tugging on my hand. “She’s turning seventeen today.”
Murmurs of disappointment over not being chosen rumbled through the crowd. Frannie took my other hand and said, “Do it, Olivia. Don’t be afraid. It might be fun.”
Henri strutted closer to us. “You have a Halloween birthday, mademoiselle?” he called down to me.
I cleared my throat and answered in an ugly, croaking voice, “Yes.”
The hypnotist smiled with those red lips of his. “Then legend says you are a charmed individual. You can read dreams and possess lifelong protection against the spirits. Come up here with me, and let us see how you fare with hypnosis.”
“Go on, Livie. Don’t be shy.” Kate steered me toward the aisle as if she were herding a lost sheep into a pen. She then clapped her hands together, which triggered yet another thundering round of applause.